The Fantastical Adventures of Leutenlieb of the House of Munchausen

by Shlomo Kalo

  Before I took my leave of Sheikh Iftheriverdries Imatap, that most generous and hospitable of hosts, and the place with its magnificent scenery and unassuming inhabitants, a banquet was held in my honor, all about the purity of glass. Served up here, catering for all appetites, were appetizing vitreous flavors of various kinds, from the succulent and more common brands to those created with real artistry, the rarest of the rare, destined for those of sensitive palate and sophisticated taste. All members of the glass-eating fraternity were in attendance. Impassioned sermons were delivered in silence, along with blessings from the heart, and illuminating quotations from the Lore, that work of refinement, pure and unsullied as virgin glass, the gospel of salvation according to the glass-eaters. My host and mentor, the honorable Sheikh Iftheriverdries Imatap, confided in me that from a genealogical point of view, Mullah Mustafa Imatap was a cousin on the side of his father’s fourteenth wife, the mother who bore him, and their family-tree could be traced back to Al-Ghazali, the most renowned of all Muslim mystics who declared in the Book of Fourty Parts: "The highest level of asceticism is – rising above the approach to anything which is other than God, through elevation of the soul and contempt for anything which is other than God!" And he goes on to state in Jewels of the Koran: "The foundations of the way are two – perseverance and suppression of perverse instinct; perseverance is the constant invocation of God, and perverse instinct is anything which distracts the mind from God."

  "These words," my host and mentor observed in all humility, "are deeply engraved in the pure heart of everyone who truly believes, whose soul yearns for his God and for his God alone, as it is written: As the hart longs for the water-brooks, so my soul longs for you, O God."

  I won’t deny that the words quoted touched my heart and I was close to making a solemn oath that I would do everything in my power, exert all my heart and might to spread this message so sublime in its truth and so limpid in its substance. But the Sheikh, to whom my thoughts were like an open book, stopped me in time and declared:

  "You are still young in years, especially young in all that relates to the heights of the Lore, which emanates from the Heavens and aspires to them. You have to go on studying, learning and doing, until you find yourself on the road of light and freedom and stand on the side of God – in whatever befalls you your destiny is bound to Him!"

  These pellucid words, I admit without shame, so moved me that a few recalcitrant tears sprang from my eyes, though I managed to halt the flow in time.

  "You are allowed to cry, Leutenlieb!" the Sheikh turned to me in the manner of a friend and more than a friend – a kinsman, like a long-lost brother who returns and surprises you with delight beyond measure – "Because your tears are pure and their source is the light of the heart, embracing the world with pure love! Go on your way and be successful, and may God be with you, whichever way you turn!

  BOOK TWO

  URGENT CALL TO THE COLORS

  The war broke out, which in time would come to be known as the Second World War, to distinguish it from the previous one, the First World War. This simplistic numerical sequence calls to mind the succession of Popes – Paul the First, Second etc., or of kings – Henry the First, Second, Fifth, Eighth etc. or – Louis the First, Second etc., down to that Louis who was claimed by the guillotine, losing his head but not his number; this simplistic numerical sequence will make the task of historians easier when they are required to fit suitable names to wars of the future – Third World War, Fourth and Fifth and so on, instead of becoming entangled in tiresome nomenclatures of the order of "Holy War", "Hundred Years War", "Wars of the Roses", which tax the memory of students and teachers of history alike.

  Immediately after the outbreak of this war I received an urgent conscription order by way of the consul-general in Karkamello, a sugar-cane republic on the edge of the Indian Ocean. The good-natured consul, serving simultaneously as representative of 18 "civilized states" as he called them, distributed call-up notices with a generous hand to the citizens of nations which were officially at war with one another. Because of the equable temperament of the consul and the conciliatory atmosphere which always prevailed in his consulate, no violence erupted while the orders were being distributed – neither fisticuffs nor slanderous exchanges. The lone Portuguese ship which had anchored for a whole month at the narrow jetty of Karkamello, the "Patience", en route to Lisbon, took all of us on board, "enemies" and "allies" alike, and transported us to Lisbon, the capital city, whence we all of us went our separate ways.

  SAVAGE BEASTS IN THE SERVICE OF "THE BITER"

  About two months later I presented myself before the one who had called me to the colors.

  This was one of those classic field-marshals who pose a serious and almost insoluble problem for their tailors. His body, bulging at every indefinable corner and spreading in all conceivable directions, called to mind a great dollop of thin stew poured onto an uneven surface which is slanting at continuously changing angles. Admittedly, someone had been found who could stitch a uniform together for him, from shiny Hottentot material and thus, somehow, give him a reasonably fashionable shape that could easily be defined – the shape of a gigantic toad, freckled and ageless, poised to pounce at any moment on a fly which – so it seems to him – is trying to make a fool out of him.

  "Baron!" cried the toad in the Hottentot uniform of a field-marshal, "From this moment onward, consider yourself under arrest!" The words were barely out of his mouth when from the dark corners of the extensive office, which could have served as a most agreeable swamp for the rearing of toads, two figures emerged, armed with rifles and fixed bayonets, and took up positions beside me, one on each side, while those hands that were not required for the holding of weapons gripped my arms firmly, as if I were a drunk, liable at any moment to collapse in a heap.

  I smiled a decidedly friendly smile at the uniformed men and tried to reassure them that my body was still upright and in the full bloom of its strength, and I was an avowed enemy of alcohol, whatever the label on the bottle, and their chivalrous concern for me was unnecessary… But they paid no heed to my words and did not relax their grip, and for a moment the thought occurred to me that they might be deaf-mutes, since the expression on their faces was utterly frozen, and it seemed there was no force in the world that could change them by so much as a hair’s breadth.. In the meantime their grip on my arms was tightening, and from this I drew the logical and self-evident conclusion that they were not so much holding me as holding on to me and I was the one supporting them and not vice versa.

  Anyway, I displayed no resistance and continued to serve, willingly and in full awareness, as a reliable support to the two unenviable riflemen.

  The toad went on to croak:

  "According to your family-tree, you are related to that Semitic race which I shall not defile my tongue by naming, and the sling of one of those people is still preserved in your family museum, somewhat tenuous testimony in support of that previous assertion of mine. If you admit to this – you will be thrown into one of the concentration camps designed specifically for all hook-noses, Semites and the like… If you give your word of honor as a Hottentot of noble birth, as one who detests the bespectacled and black-bearded race, and sign a statement in the presence of two witnesses, declaring that this is nothing more than a slanderous lie, a sinister Semitic plot, and you have never belonged to that tribe or suffered from the notorious and virulent Semitic strain of laryngitis, and the whole of this Semitic myth was merely a hoax on the part of your ancestor, the celebrated Baron Hieronymus, the frivolous and licentious jester and detestable prankster, invented for the purpose of deceiving upright people like ourselves and impairing the sublime patriotic sensibilities of all the Hottentots – you will be released from custody immediately, and simultaneously drafted into the illustrious Hottentot army, which will sweep away before it like a typhoon from the east every hook-nose and every soul that is not a Hottentot soul and has in it some clear vestige of humanity.
Your rank will be restored to you in an ancient Hottentot ceremony accompanied by a performance of the new anthem by an orchestra of woodwind instruments, violins and chorus, bells, carpets and torches, the anthem of the leader who is neither man nor god…"

  "What is he then?" I couldn’t resist my impulse and I interrupted him, all of me curiosity and a demand not to be withstood, to know, finally, what, according to the terms of Hottentot science, was the definition of that implausible creature who had risen to lead the whole Hottentot nation, having in the previous world war achieved a kind of renown as the "Biter" of his battalion.

  The field-marshal stemmed the flow of his words, scanned me with a toadishly arrogant look, cold and severe, and uttered a croak of unequivocal meaning:

  "A savage beast!" – and strange though it sounds this exceptional croak was suffused with a considerable degree of delight, satisfaction and enthusiasm drawn from invisible sources, so intense they were capable of breaking through the soft façade of the toad and putting an end to his existence.

  Without any doubt, concern for the life of the toad was reflected in my eyes. He realized this and reined himself in, although without much in the way of restraint; on the contrary, he piled up croak upon croak, sometimes swallowing whole syllables, and leaving words which would never have been deciphered had they not, fortunately, been heard by one eminently gifted individual, by myself in fact, your obedient servant.

  "And we’re all with him!" the field-marshal toad went on to say – "Savage beasts are what we are, lethal and proud of our origin! Thus he writes in that work of genius, My Mania, in which a comprehensive plan in set out, detailed and precise, for saving the world from its shameful decline, lit by the soft light of poetry, art, progress, culture, wisdom, values and lofty ideals, effeminate stuff by any standards, and securing its victorious emergence into the darkness of manly and celebrated lunacy, which since time immemorial has served as an ideal for the proud Hottentot people, fighting a war of annihilation against every flicker, however faint, of debilitating light. There is no place in this book for black-bearded Semitic subtleties! Everything in it is open and plain to see: pungent, acute, incisive and insane to the furthest limit of consummate insanity! We, the giants of the generation, the ‘savage beasts’, shall conquer the world and all that is in it, and sow in it ruin and destruction, sublime psychosis and blessed darkness and we shall prove, once and for all, with unequivocal proof, that the savage beast is superior to mankind!" – and here he pounded the polished desk and his eyes gleamed. I laughed a laugh which could definitely be described as good-natured, not at all venomous and not arrogant in any way, but it was this gentle and affable laugh which drove the field-marshal toad out of his wits.

  "Shut your mouth!" he croaked hysterically, "And leave out the sophisticated Semitic grins. Either you sign" – he strained his throat in a desperate attempt to imbue his voice with some manic sounds – "or else…" and in the elderly toad-hand, mottled and shaking, an automatic pistol gleamed.

  The two soldiers, who up until this point had been clinging to my arms for support, took a pace away from me on either side, without relaxing their grip.

  Without erasing my smile, which, as stated above, was a decidedly gentlemanly one, I began by saying:

  "I am proud to belong to that family, the soles of whose shoes – whose servants’ shoes even – all the toads in the world are unfit to lick…"

  His bulging eyes revolved in their sockets in a manner that suggested more than mere despair. He returned the destructive weapon in his hand to its holster hanging somewhere behind him and screeched:

  "Will you sign or not?" And in a somewhat plaintive tone he continued: "You are being given an opportunity to repent and become a member of the proud family of savage beasts…" and he offered me a pen and held out to me a sheet of typed paper.

  The two men whom I was supporting relaxed their grip on me, hinting that they would not stand in my way if I did indeed decide to pick up the pen and sign the proffered sheet. Discreetly I liberated my arms from the clutch of their robotic hands and suggested to them, in pure pantomime, that they should move away from me, since it was my intention to take the pen and address the printed form. I was not a little surprised when the rude mechanicals took the hint and without a word, withdrew to their respective dark corners, bayoneted rifles still ready in their hands.

  So I approached the desk of the field-marshal toad, took the printed sheet and studied it thoroughly, turned and took the pen offered to me. My movements suffused the mottled features of the one holding out the pen with a toadfish expression of repressed delight, ease and contentment, such as we observe when the fly, habitual teaser of the toad, is caught on the long and sticky tongue, soon to be drawn into the cavernous recesses of the hungry mouth, with remarkable toadish agility.

  So I wrote what was in my mind to write, held out the completed form to the high-ranking one and also returned to him, with all due courtesy, his thick pen.

  The self-satisfied smile on the field-marshal’s face broadened. His finger skimmed lightly over the tiny letters and he was on the point of expressing profound contentment

  He picked up the paper with one of his hands, the shorter, freckled one which was constantly shaking, and after putting the pen down wherever it was he put it down, he raised his other hand, saluted me smugly and said:

  "Jawohl Herr General!" – promoting me there and then to the rank of general – and then he withdrew his saluting hand, turned and glanced at the signed paper…

  All at once the soft, toadish face, with its hanging chins, wobbling in various directions, changed color – from a tasteful shade of pink to the ugly green complexion of someone dangerously close to a heart-attack.

  At the bottom of the typed page, written in clear, cursive script, legible even to the eyes of toads, were the words: Down with the Biter!

  Instantly the upmarket toadish automatic gleamed in the freckled, short and flaccid hand, and uttered its fusillade of coughs, while emitting greenish, delicate and aesthetically appealing flames from its black barrel.

  The effects of the shooting completely deranged the last remaining vestiges of intellect in the mind of the field-marshal toad. I was quite willing to explain to him, in a reasonable manner devoid of any trace of hatred, resentment or arrogance, and least of all, vengefulness or derision – that I had been granted immunity from bullets for a period of twenty-five successive years, time which had not yet elapsed, and this on account of purity of heart, proven in practice among the Indians of the tribe of Bat-Feather, wisest and most generous Chief who ever lived. But he would not let me say a word.

  "Konzentrations-lager!" croaked the field-marshal, an utterly abject kind of croak which filled my heart with compassion for him, so much so that I couldn’t resist the impulse, and before being escorted from his office I gave him some decidedly friendly advice:

  "Drink more water!"

  And sure enough, the field-marshal took my advice, an action accompanied by an irritable wave of the hand, instructing his soldiers to get me out of there and out of his sight and without delay, before he exploded once and for all.

  MUSIC FOR PICKPOCKETS

  I was transported from one police station to another, from one Hottentot barrack room to another, from one dark cell to another even darker. After 21 days of unremitting and bruising travel, by train, tram and cart, I arrived with a large group of prisoners at my destination – the "Savage Beast" concentration camp. The Hottentot address was displayed above the tall and wide gate, inscribed in black iron letters on a pine-wood board that had lost its original shine.

  We were greeted by an orchestra of inmates playing Hottentot marches, Viennese waltzes and operas for habitual criminals composed by that most notorious of pickpockets, Richard Wagner. We marched in procession to a desolate yard, and on reaching a certain point we were ordered to strip to our birthday suits, thereby resembling, if only superficially, our ancient ancestors Adam and Eve, whose descendants, s
o we are given to believe, we all are, Hottentots and non-Hottentots, brothers by choice and brothers by necessity.

  Anyway, the return to Adam-style dressing did not give us back the lost Garden of Eden, but on the contrary, we were crammed into long shacks built of crude planks, unmatching and unplaned, alive with all the native species that healthy flesh and fresh blood can nourish – bugs, fleas, lice, mosquitoes and gnats, and here and there a fat spider, accompanied by a slim and dapper hornet.

  In the shacks we put on striped uniforms like pajamas for all seasons – working clothes and Sunday-best all rolled into one. The Egyptian whistle which I was given by that architect, expert on ancient Egyptian construction methods, I kept out of the hands of the Hottentots by concealing it well in a clenched fist. No one among the camp personnel took any notice of my clenched fist. Later I went back to hanging it around my neck as before.

  Without ceremony or sermons we were sent to work in the giant factory, the only one in the whole of the continent, for the manufacture of glass and glass products, under the slogan "Glass clears the mind".

  I soon became accustomed to the long working day beside the blazing furnaces, and unlike my brothers in adversity – I was not at all down-hearted, but on the contrary – I radiated solid optimism and unassailable freshness and my influence encouraged those around me more than ever, and this is to be attributed to the unique properties of the ancient Indian liturgical hymn which I used to hum constantly and which Chief Bat-Feather passed on to me secretly, before members of his tribe attached me to their "drum". It is a known and publicized fact, proved by meticulous scientific research, that this hymn confers on the one singing it a special extra-sensory elevation and helps him to endure torments, however cruel they may be, and diffuses depression, anxiety, confusion, despair and fatigue. And feeling compassion for my comrades and partners in destiny, I taught them the tune and the words of the hymn – obviously, having sworn them to the strictest secrecy. 23,421 glass-workers learned the words of the hymn and its enchanting melody by heart, and hummed it between tight lips and enjoyed the benefits of its astounding properties, but as a result of the constant and persistent use of the hymn – our faces began to resemble the face of Indians and even the skin that barely covered our increasingly protuberant bones was turning red in typically Indian style.