Before the Feast (14 page)

The boy never admitted it. He did admit that he'd have liked to take a look under Frau Rebe's coat, yes. And that on the night of the crime, it was the night before the Feast back then, too, he'd asked if he could look. He'd really just wanted to look, not touch. Under her beautiful coat. But she wouldn't let him. In the end they both went their separate ways. There wasn't any more to admit, he said.

Herr Schramm whistles, and Herr Schramm puts the pistol to his temple, but he raises his head from the steering wheel, so that when he's dead he won't look like one of those dead drivers at the wheel in
Crime Scene
. He even tries to slip down between the seats, so as to make quite sure, but there is a knocking on the pane. A young woman is standing there, making the gesture that means: wind down the window, although even Schramm's old Golf has windows that go down automatically.

18 MARCH 1927. INCIDENT HAS FATAL OUTCOME
.

A Chinaman peddling his wares from door to door without an official permit was stopped by Police Sergeant Polster. The Chinaman spoke angrily to Polster and attacked him violently, so that the Sergeant was obliged to make use of his sword. When the Chinaman wrenched the sword from his grasp and attacked the officer with it himself, Polster fired his pistol and struck his opponent down. The Chinaman, severely injured, was taken to hospital in Prenzlau, where he passed away soon afterward.

No one could understand his last words.

WE TAKE AN INTEREST IN THE ELECTRONIC LOCK
on the massive oak door to the Archivarium. The Homeland House was renovated in 2011, and the old padlock was replaced by a lock with a code that you have to tap in. 2011 was 700 years after the first mention of Fürstenfelde in the records, and between January and July three young drivers collided with the plane trees. One of them did not survive: Thorsten Brandt, a passionate computer-game player, placed third at the German Counter-Strike Championship in the team event.

Only the History Society knows the code.

We take an interest in all that secrecy.

The Homeland House celebrated the 700th anniversary of Fürstenfelde with an Open Day. Even the Archivarium was to be opened. Frau Schwermuth wore local costume, although it wasn't 100 percent certain what locality the costume came from. The Mayor made a speech, mentioning the new lock among other things. She called Fürstenfelde a site, because that always sounds like new jobs. She waved her arms about as if showing the size of a very large fish. Then Frau Schwermuth tapped the code into the lock, and the massive wooden door swung open, buzzing.

Ooh, aah, applause.

The walls were covered with sheets, but the room was empty except for a Perspex podium with a stack of papers
on it, and about eight members of the Sound and Smoke Firefighters' choir. They had had to wait in that little room behind the locked door for an hour because of delays to the planned course of events. They looked annoyed and heated.

The papers were the original manuscripts of the chronicle of the village by Paul Wiese, which is famous all over the village. Frau Schwermuth had “acquired” the chronicle from the Museum of Brandenburg History for the anniversary celebrations.

We were disappointed. We had hoped for better from the Archivarium. Frau Schwermuth explained that for want of suitable means of displaying them, and in the expectation of large crowds, she had been obliged to take the items in the Archivarium, which after all were valuable, to be kept in a place of safety. Not everyone went along with that, but fair enough.

Sound and Smoke gave it all they had. The acoustics of the cellar were sensational. Senior citizens went red in the face, junior citizens took their hands out of their pockets. The vaulted room was very full. The unhewn rock of the walls was sweating. The air almost ran out with all those people in the cellar, just ask Frau Kranz.

Our historical interest in Paul Wiese is confined, at the most, to Paul Wiese's melancholy. In his day, Wiese tried to compile records of all the houses in the village and their inhabitants. Such-and-such a house built at this or that time by such-and-such a person, passed into the possession of whatsisname, fell into ruin at such-and-such a time or was still
standing. A joke here, an anecdote there. Sentences beginning “Ah!” and charmingly excited, as melancholics tend to be when they have a good story to tell. Paul Wiese liked Fürstenfelde. A man who longed for steadiness in unsteady times.

The old windmill was demolished in 1930. I was there to see it come down. The demolition was necessary; it was extremely dilapidated. In 1945 the miller's house burned down and was destroyed. I saw the flames. No one had to light a fire. What will happen now we cannot tell. Everything is transitory. .
.

There's a portrait of Paul Wiese, a charcoal sketch done by Frau Kranz from a photograph. A man with a round head and a small moustache. His eyes are full of regret. We take a historical interest in whatever Wiese's eyes are regretting.

We are even more interested to know why, on the Open Day at the Homeland House, all the other doors had to be locked while the door of the Archivarium was open. Even the doors on the ground floor, and even after Frau Kranz was left gasping for air when the Firefighters' choir sang the folk song “Cling-clang,” and Imboden only just managed to catch her before she fell down in a faint as the singers reached “the tolling bell.”

Cling-clang, drink up and sing! / Tomorrow may yet bring / The ringing of a knell. / The world may fall apart / but sing with all your heart / above the tolling bell
.

For the curious, copies of Wiese's melancholy writing were available next day, ready for anyone on a little table between the tiled stoves.

To this day, however, no one has had a sight of the archives. Aren't archives there to be consulted? Ah, but there is so much material, says Frau Schwermuth, and it hasn't all been properly assessed yet. In addition, some of the documents are so fragile that they seem to tremble when you look at them for any length of time. So fragile and so valuable.

Well, let's hope they're valuable! If not, the parish would hardly have paid good money for the new lock and the humidity-regulating thingummy, while the
Nordkurier
complains that the long-distance cycle path is in a “shocking” condition where it reaches Fürstenfelde; the last time it was cleared was when Rudolf Scharping, the cycling politician, rode from Berlin to Usedom when he was standing for Chancellor.

Okay, so it's not quite true that we don't get a sight of the archives. Frau Schwermuth provides it. She notes down what we want to know, and makes copies if she finds anything. Or doesn't make copies, but says, “Come back the day after tomorrow,” and we do go back the day after tomorrow. And if it takes longer than that, she says, “Things don't move as quickly as all that in the past,” or something similar, and her heavy head sways on the neck under it, which is much too thin, like those long rocking horses you see in kids' playgrounds going up and down on their metal springs.

We are surprised that no stories are growing and proliferating around the room in the cellar. That sort of thing usually happens when we come across cellars, locked rooms and open questions. We take a historical interest in the non-proliferation
of stories. For instance, why Paul Wiese's entry on House Number 11, today the Homeland House, ends with an incomplete sentence:
In the cellar of the house I found, in a small room
. . .

We take an interest in incomplete sentences.

We take an enormous interest in when the window of the Homeland House was broken into, and who it was that Uwe Hirtentäschel saw from his studio moving around: the shape of someone, and a beam of light traveling over the wall.

Now that, yes, that is really interesting.

IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1592 THERE WAS A VERY
wet summer, during which Season the Rain fell in Cloudbursts, and the Fields and Meadows were flooded, Gardens laid Waste, and the Great Lake rose so high that the Carp in the Pond swam out of that Same. Cattle and Sheep also contracted the Rot, of which many did die, and whole Flocks and Herds perish'd, and the same was noted of Hares. Then there was in the Autumn a terrible Drought, making the Land intractable to work and Harvest very poor. The People, being in great Want, fear'd the Winter, and Famine threaten'd.

On the Morning of the second Day of November, however, there appear'd under the Oak Tree hard by the Church five Wagons full of Grain, Butter, dried Meat and Beer, the Origin whereof None could explain. The Church expected Prayers of Thanksgiving, yet it remained empty. However, a Quarrel had broken out concerning the rightful Owner of the Food, in uncouth and unChristian Fashion, like the Brute Beasts, and a Fox was even to be seen watching, Every Man took what he could carry, and tried to trip up his Neighbor who was carrying more.

But Joy in the Booty did not last long; that Miracle fail'd as quickly as it Came. The Foodstuffs vanished once more from Cellars, Storehouses, Chambers and Halls, sometimes even from Tables.

Where did it go? None could say.

And why? Some guess'd, and came to Church in a penitent Condition.

UWE HIRTENTÄSCHEL LEAVES THE PARSONAGE AND
steps out into the night, only for a moment, but long enough to be drawn into our round dance. The ferryman takes his left hand, we take his right hand. Let's just give him a moment to update his placard on the oak in front of the church.

On 21st September, at 5.30 p.m., the new basic course on the Christian faith begins at Fürstenfelde parsonage. We will devote ourselves to the subject of “Rapture” on the occasion of the Anna Feast. More information available from: [email protected]

Above the date he wrote in red marker: TODAY!!! and added a * before the T.

Uwe Hirtentäschel looks after the church, keeps it clean, encourages other people to visit it, talks to them benevolently about the faith. He provides them with candles and incense sticks, plays the saxophone in front of the altar, and after the service he leaves the radio playing, so that silence won't seem to descend so suddenly. He takes care of the place, and that's good; taking care of things is always good.

Hirtentäschel's business card shows Jesus as the Good Shepherd, surrounded by sheep, holding a little lamb in his arms. If you tilt the card Jesus raises his arm and the lamb
raises its head. On the back is the bit from the Gospel of St John about Jesus being the light of the world, so we must follow him and not walk in darkness.

Uwe Hirtentäschel has been saved. Either the ferryman or an angel saved him. Hirtentäschel is grateful for that every day. Every day, except when the weather is bad, Hirtentäschel puts up a folding table under the oak by the parsonage well, and serves tea and biscuits. All are welcome. Frau Schober made him a crochet tablecloth. She and Frau Steiner usually sit at his table, because they just happen to be in the area. They are both on the point of retiring, but Frau Steiner is very well preserved. She still does some newspaper delivery rounds to make ends meet, and Frau Schober sews and crochets. And then they sit at Uwe's table in the middle of the day. There's not much else going on at that time, the house is empty anyway, the Ossis on the midday TV program are always a bad lot and incorrigible. Only in the evening are there normal Ossis like you and us on TV, in
Police Call
and athletics and
Wife Swap
. The church oak tree provides shade in summer, and the optimism of the reformed Hirtentäschel provides warmth in winter.

Hirtentäschel puts the marker away and sets off for the parsonage. It is in Karl-Marx-Strasse, of all places, on the corner of Thälmann-Strasse. He has a small apartment and his studio on the top floor. Hirtentäschel's latest work of art, done for the Feast, is stretched between the branches of the oak. It consists of white scarves. Frau Schober likes the scarves
but doesn't know what they are meant to be. It would be embarrassing to ask the artist in case she looked stupid. She would far rather have been able to say, “What lovely, lovely angels' wings!” than be guessing, “Are those half-moons?” Or, “Is the white something to do with heroin?” To be honest, we don't know the answer either, but they make a nice noise fluttering in the wind.

Uwe Hirtentäschel speaks softly and hardly ever asks questions. He wears only white or black clothes, to reflect the light and shade of his life story. He doesn't mind showing his bald patch, and his glasses have thick lenses because he's almost blind. That comes of the heroin. It was blinding him for years, he says, both spiritually and literally. Remarks like that show how serious his conversion is. It's easy and pleasant to listen to someone who hardly ever tries to be funny.

Up on the top floor of the parsonage, Hirtentäschel goes on making his little figures of angels. He's tired, but he will carve one or two more, one or two more tonight.

The village knows and likes the story of his enlightenment. He also tells it, unasked, to tourists when they stay to drink tea after looking round the church. He likes telling the story, because it was more important than anything else in his life, and because all of us—if we're honest—are waiting for a miracle, so we like to hear about one.

Uwe Hirtentäschel was born in Fürstenfelde, and at the age of fifteen he ran away from Fürstenfelde. He describes the next fifteen years as a single moment and a never-ending trip.
It had been a time full of small flashes of enlightenment in his drugged intoxication. He calls them “disorientations”: false, uncertain joys, siren songs. Sins. But then he had his great epiphany, when he was “found.” It happened in Fürstenfelde.

After years of taking drugs and addiction, Hirtentäschel passed the Woldegk Gate on his way to the Baltic early one morning, and there was the old wall, there were the lakes, there was the promenade, there was the ferry boathouse, all the same as ever, and he got out,
had
to get out, sat down beside the lake and drank perhaps his sixth beer of the day, and then the ferryman came by. He recognized Hirtentäschel. He recognized the boy who had just disappeared one day, leaving his parents with a thousand questions. The ferryman didn't know about the disorientations, says Hirtentäschel, but he surely recognized his, Hirtentäschel's, demons.