Schlump

by Hans Herbert Grimm

  Schlump stopped listening to the fool dressed in black and stared with shining eyes at these marvellous pictures. A wonderful landscape emerged between the blue mountains. In a colourful meadow, unbelievably beautiful young people played. An old man with magnificent shining eyes came up to him, took him by the hand, and led him affably into the golden meadow. It seemed as if the boys and girls were competing as to who could infuse the most beauty into their movements. ‘You see,’ the friendly old man said, ‘only those souls who abhor evil are allowed here. And as we live off the air, none of us has any need to do another harm.’ Schlump breathed in this wonderful air, spiced with the most splendid fragrances. Sometimes a light wind blew, bringing with it indescribably sweet music.

  Schlump looked around and noticed, on top of a gentle hill, a temple built in a strange style, like nothing he’d ever seen on earth. ‘That is the home of music; we are currently in the Vale of Beauty, where our souls practise refining their bodies, creating beautiful shapes and movements. Let us go on. That is where the artists live who magic the noblest figures from their materials.’ And Schlump saw that they were working from the living models romping around the meadow. They passed the most magnificent gardens, where children were being taught. ‘Here they learn how to think,’ the old man said. ‘We aim to educate the soul in three fields: goodness, beauty and knowledge. For if they wish to achieve harmony they must learn the laws of the world in which they live. There you see the adults’ school. But I cannot take you there, for your eyes would never be able to stand the light.’ Schlump couldn’t get enough of the delightful flowers, the wonderful colours in the distance, and the young people’s charming game. ‘Well now I must take you back to your world,’ the old man said, returning him to his bench.

  Again Schlump saw the man in black standing by the screen and tapping with his baton. ‘Slowly the visions sank, night came forth, and the magic fiddle softly faded out. Michael was allowed to look at the mountains his bow had conjured up . . .’

  It was light once more. Schlump looked around. He was sitting all alone in the bare room. Even Monsieur Doby had gone from beside him.

  •

  Schlump continued to dream. In front of him an inscription appeared, then came a wild, heroic landscape. A wide river rushed past fertile fields. The far bank rose steeply, bearing a solid town that stooped down into the cliffs. Behind this stretched out a broad high plain where he could see German soldiers marching. In the far distance a rugged dark-blue mountain range loomed menacingly. The astrologer in black started to declaim once more: ‘The iron rhythm of the wheels had died out, the final whistle stifled behind the city. The horses beat their tiny hooves against the hard earth. Company, halt! The horses panted. Soldiers lay on the road, in trenches, feet thudding. Onwards! March, march! The sun scorched with its flaming arrows. Heads bowed, the soldiers marched grimly on. The air roasted them unforgivingly, threatening to suffocate the poor men. The mountains on the left held their breath. A single cloud on the horizon! Nature threatening, stifling. The company bivouacked in shallow, pitiful tents on the high plain. The sky rapidly turned black. An eerie silence. Mysterious glowing shapes bubble up from the surface and lurk around the soldiers. And there, on the brightly smouldering horizon, trees bend, their tops lashing the earth, no sound . . . Suddenly a boom, thunder, the storm! Tents take off into the black sky, rain whistles down like bullets, lightning flashes, roaring thunder, hail, light, dark, light, dark, soldiers washed into the mud like fallen leaves, hailing, raging.

  ‘Michael sped out, driven by the storm; yelling, whooping, laughing madly, he raced up and hid behind the mountains . . . There, where the weather is calm, he wanders freely, playing his fiddle. It sings with the birds in the green trees, and the weighty rocks gleam with happiness. Michael fiddles, the meadows bloom beneath his feet and the flowers shine. Far above, the sky is blue and bright little clouds flutter on the colourful rainbow. Michael continues to wander and night falls, singing with him its silent song. Morning comes and he wanders further. In the evening he descends into the valley, down to the large rivers below on the plain. Beside him wild spray splashes up from icy waters fleeing from the last valleys.

  ‘Michael strode through the forest. Patches of jet-black burned his feet in the moss. The leaves interlocked without a sound, hatching mysterious blobs of moon that squinted as they inched up the fissured tree trunks. No chirping of birds sweetened the air, but snakes rattled venomous glances. Icy air stuck to his body, exhaling poisonous breaths into the tough foliage. His fiddle resounded only seldom. Behind him the forest vanished; before him the evening fled far towards the horizon. He trotted down into the village. Pointed gables thrust upwards into dark treetops, touching the sky, which stretched black and tight over the earth. Michael stood in the centre of the village, where the dark water was silent, beside the beech tree. He grabbed his bow, tore shrill notes from the night, hurled them at poisonous black walls, clawed the will-o’-the-wisp out of dark holes, dashed all the roofs with blue flames, where they blazed away as if possessed.

  ‘Out of the gate stole a young woman, her eyes closed, her hands clasped behind her neck, and danced, danced in front of Michael, who fiddled wistfully.

  ‘Slowly the night passed. The woman lay at Michael’s feet. Slowly he stole out of the village, to move on . . .’

  The light came on again. The mad actor toyed with the cone on his head. Schlump used the opportunity to tiptoe to the door. Outside he could hear the music from the fairground. The man in black leapt over to him, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and dragged him back to his bench. Then he picked up his baton and continued.

  In his dream, Schlump was amazed that he was dreaming about such bizarre things; he was desperate to wake up so that he could escape this lunatic. But his eyelids pressed down too heavily, and he could not lift them. The man in black continued his lecture: ‘The river bore his songs into the city. Michael loiters on the confused bridges, makes friends with the colourful lights that have been swimming in the river. His fiddle murmurs the dark melodies with the heavy water that gurgles in the canals. He thrusts himself down murky alleys, where the houses hang above his shoulders; he stoops down into cold, gloomy, mouldy cellars. He plays a note on the bottom string, low and sombre, creeps up the broken steps, crushes his bones, plays a note on the bottom string, low and sombre. Pitiful light flits wretchedly over horrendous filth. Moaning and groaning, a woman has given birth in the putrid straw. She stares at him with dying eyes. A naked worm slithers under the table, watching him with hollow eyes. Hunger sits cruelly by the dim lamp, licking out the stinking oil.

  ‘Michael plays a note on the bottom string, low and sombre, crawls through the districts of misery; death perches on the steps, whoring with affliction. Michael lies in wait for the morning, which steals up, cold, dark and windy; he plays a note on the bottom string of his fiddle into the frightful whistling that announces work. It chases stooped figures out of hovels, large heads on weak torsos. The daily grind of the multitude echoes off the greenish walls, which crumble as they pass. Michael whips a sound from his fiddle on the bottom string, catching the momentum of the machines, playing in time with the wheels, on the bottom string, whipping it higher, whipping it through all the limbs, all the beams and walls of misery, playing it menacingly to the rich, who blanch at their tables, playing it in exquisitely gilded halls, letting it fall, jangling, into temples, playing it before the altars of love, frightening lust from its pillows, playing, playing, day and night into hissing lamps which burn horrific wounds into the nights, whipping a note on the top string, higher and higher. Everything screams from his fiddle, work, lamps, wheels, machines, gigantic heads on weak torsos, the naked worm with hollow eyes . . . and they rush out, tearing out the stones from the streets, building up barricades with stones, ladders; lamps gyrate fiery wheels, walls collapse, bullets caterwaul, blood spatters on the ruins of houses, screaming, raging, Michael plays a note, hideous and hounding, women rip apart li
ving bodies, destruction, destruction, bloody yarns, limbs and people. Michael steps on battered limbs, plays a note, plays a note, rafters, beams come crashing down, all-consuming fire . . .

  ‘A woman moves steadily amongst the rubble and flames, looking with her eyes for her beloved. Spying him, she sinks with joy, exhausted, into his arms. It’s her, who danced before him in the village! Michael carries her away from the rubble and misery, steps through narrow gates, carries her out, towards the mountains that shine so blue in the distance.

  ‘He holds his woman in his arms, enters the autumn burned with such ecstasy, drinks the colours of the joyful autumn; a blue sky smiles golden and shines. The two of them climb into the broad expanses, look far and wide at the thousand lands. She puts her arm around his waist; he fiddles blissfully . . . In the distance the blue mountains shine, and they descend into the valleys. They stop by the farm and pledge hard work and fidelity to each other.

  ‘Michael kept to his promise. He didn’t wait for the cock to wake him, but roused himself even before the morning dawned, led his horse through the cold fog, drove in stakes for the animal enclosures, swinging the hammer with both arms, while the sun ignited the mountains. His axe rang out through the forest as he felled the hard maple, waking the cuckoo. He dug with determination for the earth’s blessing, he dammed the lively stream that gushed from the mountains, he heaved the enormous round stones, and watered the thirsty meadows.

  ‘A commotion echoed from the farm, driving him back through the valley. The stalls were rattling: the bull is loose! It raged amongst cows and calves, which bellowed in fear. The woman wailed, holding her hand over her blessed belly. Michael laughed, strode into the stalls, grabbed the bull by the horns with Herculean strength, harnessed him under the yoke next to the ox, cracked the whip, hurtled out into the field, and ploughed the hissing clods of earth till evening. He drove the steaming beasts back to their rest and kissed his wife, who laughed with joy.

  ‘Outside, the night sang, the fire cast flecks of red light on to the floor and ceiling, painting Michael’s shirt with flickering colour, and pitching flames into the woman’s hair. Michael stood by the stove, his trousers tied at the ankles and kept up by a belt, playing his fiddle, playing and pouring peace and joy over his wife, who swayed gently to the music . . .’

  Schlump woke up. He was in the powerful arms of Sister Sophie, who was carrying him to his bed. She was as tall, as blonde and as powerful as Germania, and she put him to bed as a mother does a newborn after its first bath. ‘Well now, my little boy,’ she said, ‘it’s time you had a good sleep. You’re a restless so-and-so, all that nonsense you were dreaming!’

  Without replying, Schlump dropped off and slept for the first time in ages without being awoken after two hours. Without any dreams, he slept soundly, sleeping the happy sleep of youth.

  BOOK THREE

  The nurse brought him letters from home. Three of them. They had been sent first to his regiment and then followed him to the hospital. He looked for his mother’s handwriting, opened the letter and read:

  My dear child,

  Three weeks have passed since I last heard from you. We live in terrible fear. I pray to God most days and nights that you may be spared. Dreadful rumours are circulating that our regiment has suffered heavy casualties. I wonder what you’re going through at this very moment. I have no peace, I wake up at night and have to say a prayer for you. This makes me feel a little better. Hopefully you’ll be out of danger soon, and then please write as soon as you can, my child. Oh, if only the war were over and you could work again, and I could see your happy, smiling face every day! The very thought of it fills me with joy. Father is still working in the factory. May the Lord protect you, my dear boy, and preserve you in the face of every danger. I hope we’ll get a letter from you soon, and I hope the war is over soon.

  With all our love,

  Your mother

  Schlump could feel his mother’s heart; he sensed that she was trying her best to hide her fear, so as not to make his life any more difficult. He immediately requested some paper and ink, and wrote a letter:

  Dear parents,

  You need not worry. I’m in hospital but I’m fine. They’ve operated on me, but couldn’t find the splinter from the shell, which is lodged somewhere in my right shoulder. The operation was fine. It didn’t hurt, and I had the loveliest dreams. I hope I can come to see you soon, because it won’t be long before I’m better again. The doctors have discovered a wonderful medicine called iodine. It cures you if you rub it all over your body. In the bed next to mine is a man with catarrh of the stomach and intestines. He’ll be well again in three weeks, the doctor says. They paint this iodine on his belly. And on the other side of me is someone who developed consumption from a shot to his lung. His whole body is being pasted with iodine. The doctor says he’ll be better in eight weeks. They’re putting some iodine between my shoulders, but I still can’t move my arm yet. Otherwise I’m fine, although I wish we didn’t get soup every day.

  Love to you both,

  Schlump

  Then he picked up the second letter, which was addressed in a wholly unfamiliar script. He opened it and read:

  Dear Schlump,

  You’ll wonder who is writing you this letter, and yet you know who I am, because it’s me you kissed beneath the chestnut trees when the war broke out. You said you’d dance with me in the Reichsadler, but you didn’t come. But I haven’t been able to forget you. I often came to the factory when you finished work and I would walk behind you. And when you signed up, I’d come to the barracks and peer through the fence where you were doing drill. I loved seeing you in uniform, and I wept when the band accompanied you to the railway station. Since then I’ve kept going back to the road where you live, to see your mother. I can tell from her expression if you’re all right or not.

  But for the last fortnight I’ve had no peace. I’ve a dreadful feeling that you’re in serious danger, that you’re going through hell. I’ve been up to your parents’ house three times, and on each occasion I’ve had my hand on the door handle, but haven’t dared go in. Terrified, I’ve gone back home and sobbed, because I’m at my wits’ end. A few days ago I bumped into your mother, who looked so worried. Maybe she hasn’t heard from you in a while. I couldn’t stand it any longer so I got hold of the address (from the postman who brings your letters). Now I’m writing to you and I beg you just to let me know you’re still alive, just a word to tell me you’re all right. You don’t need to write anything else. You can do what you want, just let me know you’re alive, then I’ll leave you in peace and you won’t hear from me again.

  Johanna

  Below was her address. Her name was Johanna Schlicht. Schlump could picture her clearly: her beautiful teeth, rosy cheeks and merry brown eyes. He was delighted by the letter, but was in a real dilemma as to what to reply. He put the letter away and decided to wait a few days. But then his conscience told him that she might be worried, so he wrote her a postcard, brief and to the point:

  Dear Johanna,

  I’m well and in good spirits, and am in hospital.

  Yours,

  Schlump

  The third letter came from sweet little Nelly, whose happy news has already been told. Straight away Schlump took pen and ink and congratulated her on her wedding and the child’s christening. Then he gobbled down the package that she had made for him.

  •

  When his mother held his letter, her hands were shaking. She could barely tear open the envelope, and tears streamed down her cheeks as she read. Her knees started to wobble and she had to sit down. She laughed with joy and cried and prayed all at the same time, feeling as if she’d been gifted an inconceivable stroke of luck. Then she grabbed a scarf, threw it over her shoulders, and hurried out without locking up behind her. She ran through the streets to the factory where her husband worked. And it wasn’t until she’d told him the good news that she was able to digest her happiness. She returned home in a st
ate of calm, looking neither left nor right. She spoke quietly to herself: ‘It can’t be much longer now. He might be back in a fortnight. And the war must be over before he’s fully recovered.’

  When she arrived back home, she immediately took a brush and started scrubbing, brushing, washing and dusting, as if she’d be ashamed if her son didn’t find every nook and cranny and curtain spanking clean. She got hold of a railway timetable and gave her husband a pencil and his spectacles, so that he could write down the times of every train on which her son might return from France. And then she went to the station every day, staying well into the evening, inspecting the brown face of every soldier who alighted, to check whether one of them might be the young man who was the dearest to her in the whole world. Each time she failed to discover what she was looking for, she was neither sad nor disappointed, because, she told herself, it can’t be much longer now; he must come soon.

  Schlump’s right arm was in a sling. He was allowed to get up and walk around as he pleased. The hospital was overcrowded and every day he waited for his transport back home. And every day new casualties arrived in droves. His two neighbours had been taken away long ago. In one bed now lay a pilot wrapped head to toe in bandages, in which they’d left two holes for the eyes and a small opening for the mouth. On the other side was a drunken Tommy, whose face, hands and back had been badly disfigured by hand grenades. He only woke from his stupor on the second day and he moaned terribly. Soldiers suffering from gas poisoning were delivered with ashen faces and blue hands, wheezing and gasping for air in immense pain. Every day Schlump would ask several times whether there were any hospital trains to bring them home.