We went along together; the woman said that her name was Meier; but her first name was Mieze. She lived with relatives; they employed a doorman. In addition, she sang in a chorus.
The woman was neither beautiful nor young, but she seemed approachable. I had no reason to be shy.
In front of the house in which the woman lived we stopped.
I suggested that we look for a hotel. The woman was not averse; she said: "No-" I said: "Why?" The woman said: "Papa" I said: "The you don"t want--" A smile came over the woman"s face. She looked at a street lamp--
Siegmund Simon
Nine doctors claim that Samuel Simon is suffering from delusions. I am of the same opinion.
For 29 years I have been in the mental inst.i.tute. They are friendly to me. I can do what I want. When it"s warm, I go into the garden and listen to the hours die. When it is cold, I sit at the window and let my mind drift towards the sky. Often I watch the people, when they call or work or are sad... I am glad that I am far away.
I do not miss life. I am glad if no one does anything to me or wants anything from me. I don"t envy people.
Nine times a year my pale wife brings me flowers. My son Siegmund never comes. The last time I saw him was when I was buried. On my 49th birthday-I lay in a plain wooden coffin. I was placed on a wagon-like catafalque. Nine pall-bearers dressed in black walked beside me. Behind me was the pastor, Leopold Lehmann, and at his side my wife Frieda and my nineteen-year-old son Siegmund. Behind them were a few relatives, who were contented, and were speaking about the plague of caterpillars.
The sun cast warm light. Wind blew from time to time. It crawled over the gravel, tickling the women"s b.r.e.a.s.t.s and calves. We stopped before the open grave. The coffin was lowered, and a few formalities and
prayers were taken care of. Then the pastor, Leopold Lehmann, began, at the behest and at the expense of my wife, to deliver a memorial speech. He said:
"Dear sisters and brothers! Once again a kindly fate has robbed us of the life of a dear person. In grief we stand at the grave of the departed and remember him sadly."
My son Siegmund bit his lips. The pastor said:
"The earth, which has singled out the body so that it might lead its own life for a short while, has taken it back into the bosom of the mother. A n.o.ble man has gone home--"
A fit of laughter overcame my son Siegmund. His face became red and serious... He laughed until he was gasping.
My wife shrieked.
A pall-bearer dropped a bottle of whiskey, which broke on the coffin.
The pall-bearer regretfully cast his eyes down.
The relatives were outraged. They were ashamed of my son Siegmund.
Some women cried into genuine lace handkerchiefs.
I was completely still.
The pastor said:
"If one does not how to behave, he should not come to a burial--Amen."
He threw some sand over the broken bottle of whisky. And left.
Proud. Offended. The pastor. Leopold Lehmann.
My son Siegmund cleaned his fingernails.
The Friend
I love the dead days. They have no glow; they are colorless and filled with yearning. The houses stand like scenery before the grey clouds; the people move as though in a film: in the evening they move no differently from the way they moved in the morning. All things are more ponderous. And my room seems as though someone has died in it.
Whenever these days occur, a mindless desire to work grows irresistibly in me. I carry out my daily tasks as though as I were performing a ma.s.s. And I lose myself while doing so. Almost the way dreamers have lost themselves. But sometimes I notice that I have become motionless and inwardly rigid.
Then I become very alert, and I can no longer do tasks. I go to the window, where I have wonderful thoughts. But usually they occured only at night.
I feel out of place in all matters. They press upon me as though they don"t know me: the streets and the people and the doors to the houses and the thousand movements. Wherever I look I become confused.
My little death torments me; there were many, greater deaths. And that I am alone. And that everywhere something inconceivable is threatening. And that I do not find my way.. And all the remaining sadnesses, for which there is no doctor, and which should not be revealed. Each must submit to them alone, and in his own way.
Talking about them is ridiculous, but many die of them. I am afraid that I am so at odds with myself and so powerless. Until memories come. Unbidden. But kind. From somewhere. They numb me.
I smile when I find a child crying or the mother"s death, which was hideous and is unspeakable, or the other b.l.o.o.d.y delights, dear things.
I smile when the eyes of my friend suddenly come to life in the silky shadows, that they shine as though out of a haze, and they reveal their most inner secrets. No one has said it to me, and you will call me a fool... but I know that his death has always been in the eyes, the way for someone else it is in the lungs or in the spinal cord...
His eyes were miserable and lost and painfully hopeless, so that people laughed when he looked at them. He was ashamed of his eyes, as if they betrayed sinful adventures, and he hid them under yellowed lids. But he felt how he was stared at when he entered someplace where he was not expected. Or he sat down where his presence needed no explanation. He watched in an exaggerated manner, like a pet.i.tioner. Coughed and held his hand in front of his mouth, drew his cheeks in and pushed one of them outward with his tongue. Was embarra.s.sed. Unhappy. Would have preferred to have been alone... in the dark.
Children bent their heads when his gaze caught their eyes. And turned red. And grinned shyly and silently. Women giggled, and looked innocuous, and slapped each other on the thigh or on the bare shoulders and kissed their ravaged men. In the night they lay awake and their thoughts were white hot. But the young girls avoided him.
Konrad Krause
Not once during the night do I have rest here. Often a hand or a word tears me from sleep. Because everything is dark, I often do not know in the morning who was with me.
I must get up early, to clean the clothes and polish the boots. My legs are heavy, and my eyes are still very weary. But the young masters are hard when I neglect something, and cruel. But at night they are friendly and caress me as though I were a grand lady.
Only old Mr. Konrad Krause is good during the day as well. When he wants something, he speaks without humiliating me; and something in the sound of his voice makes me happy. He does not permit anything nasty to be said about me in his presence. I like him very much.
Recently I had a laugh over him. I was awoken by noise coming from the corridor outside my room. It was a conversation. I detected two voices: I missed much of what one said, for it whispered; what I caught was young and rough. One I caught without trying; clear as if it were a body. I felt that it was too fat and had wrinkles.
From the rough voice I heard: "Do you also want to go to her, father?"
From the fat voice I heard, "Go first, my son--"
When Mr. Heinz came into the room, he made a frightened sound, because I was laughing so much. And then he had to sneeze...
But I will soon forget this. I can no longer even remember when the old Mr. Konrad Krause said he liked me. That was still nicer.
I only remember that the writing-table at which he sat was already dark when I brought the tea. He asked who was in the house; I said: "No one"--and wanted to pour the tea.. But he pointed to his thigh and said: "sit down"--I said: "If I may"--and I sat down. He said: "Put the teapot on the writing-table." I did that. And then we looked at each other ardently, but I was very bashful. Suddenly he took my hand and pressed it to his stomach. He said: "Beloved."
We trembled violently.