Before the Feast (29 page)

Frau Schwermuth sits down. Her desk, her timetable, her own Leitz file folders. The Californian pensioner asking, “Are you the one to help me with my ancestry?”

Breakfast TV is there. It didn't like Ditzsche's inner courtyard as much as the courtyard of the Homeland House, with its old ceramic stove and the well, so the TV show asked Ditzsche to bring one of his chickens and be filmed here. It's
all the same to Ditzsche; he has shaved, put on his smallest shirt and tucked it into his trousers.

It was not entirely all the same to Zieschke for Ditzsche, of all people, to be giving an interview in the Homeland House, but there you are: TV is TV, and this is the “Travel Fever” slot of the program. Maybe someone will come out with a case of Fürstenfelde-fever, anything that sets it off is fine by us, even if it comes from Ditzsche and his chickens.

Frau Schwermuth doesn't hear what Ditzsche is saying at this moment. She closes the cellar door behind her. There was only one possible answer to the Californian pensioner's questions: “We have that in the basement, let me get it for you.”

Silence is requested in the inner courtyard. The camera is running, and Ditzsche can start talking, with his hen in his arms. The woman presenting the “Travel Fever” slot of the show smells of shampoo, and that calms Ditzsche down, because he thinks he too smells of shampoo, so they have something in common. At the end of the interview he asks to make a private remark to viewers; it is about letters and the Stasi, and he may think it is being transmitted live, but the program won't go out for a couple of days, when Ditzsche will be seen for all of five seconds, plus another three for a close-up of his hen. The private remark, thank God, will have been cut, and all that's left will be, “My name is Dietmar Dietz, and here we have a German Dwarf Reichshuhn, color: black and white Columbia.”

However, the horoscope slot went out live. Britta Hansen greeted viewers from her own part of the country, and closed
the horoscope this time with a quotation from Schiller: “He who does not venture beyond reality will never conquer the truth.”

No cellar here is so deep that you don't hear the sound of our bells. Soft and harmonious—the Old Lady seems to be in a good mood—their chimes tower above Fürstenfelde. Your son is ringing them, Johanna, and we know he will pass the exam, or rather we don't know it but we would like him to. After all, it's fabulous to show how you can excel in the field of useless activities. We ought to think not about why we do them, but about just doing them—and as for being useful, who can judge what is and what isn't useful anyway?

Take the example of the anti-Fascist cyclists and their helmets: they have now assembled in the church forecourt, Hirtentäschel is showing them his angels and telling them his story, and Frau Steiner is making eyes at Herr Hirtentäschel, she has her own way of doing that kind of thing, Hirtentäschel can't concentrate properly, and anyway many of the cyclists are still wearing their cycling helmets, because once you've put a cycling helmet on there is no important reason to take it off until you go to sleep, unless the straps are rubbing you. And many people may say, what's all this about the cycling helmets, they're no use if you're not riding your bike! Well, that is the parallel with the bells, because it's a fact that the cyclists paid no attention to the bells at first, but now their heads in the brightly colored helmets are raised, and a powerful, hard, then fine melody peels away from the traditional chimes—yes, all
right, melodies don't peel, they peal, but do listen, Johann is just playing something, a little tune,
his
little tune, and the cyclists are immediately enthusiastic, and what, may we ask, is more useful than something that makes people enthusiastic? Johann is ringing all three bells on his own, which is difficult, you really need a ringer for each bell, but the boy has paid attention, and likes doing it, and generally that's all you need to be successful, and Johann's hands aren't soft any more, he is wearing his bell-ringer's top hat, that's the way to do it. Lada and Suzi are up there with him, eating jelly bears. Lada looks down at his village, and then Lada spits out a jelly bear, it flies through the air, and there, now you see what we mean: it can sometimes be useful to wear a cycling helmet even when you're not riding a bike.

The sound of the bells dies away, the tune is over.

The cyclists hesitate. They don't know whether the bells of Fürstenfelde always sound so great, because if so applause is somehow inappropriate, you don't applaud when someone makes a delicious sausage sandwich every day. The old bell-ringer relieves them of the decision by beginning to clap heartily, and once someone has gone first it's easier for the others to follow.

Frau Schwermuth is back at her place in the Homeland House. The bells to which her son gave a voice are still echoing in her ears, she hardly listens to the Californian. She is only glad that he really does mean our Fürstenfelde, and not, like his countryman from the States who once visited the Homeland
House, the Polish one. It was sad, because Frau Schwermuth had to tell the man that he would probably have to go to Boleskowice in Poland. “Many, many have lived here,” she told the other American in English, “peasants, counts, witches and thieves, but no Mennonites. Trust me, I would know.”

Yes, she would definitely know.

IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1599, ON THE EVE OF
the Anna Feast, a mighty wind raged in the morning, doing great Damage to the Houses, raising Roofs and blowing down Barns. A great Quantity of Partridges was also driv'n into Town, and the Wind struck them down in the Streets, causing folk to run away in Alarm at the first, but they soon thought better of it, catching such of the Fowl as did not fly away and roasting them for a Festive Dish.

It is not for Us to say whether this was a Sign and a Wonder portending the strange Events of that Feast. On that Day the notorious Robbers and Malefactors Hinnerk Lievenmaul and Kunibert Schivelbein, known as Long-Legged Kuno, were to be Burnt to Death. The Date when the Condemned Men were to be given over to the Pyre had been announc'd long since, by ringing of all the Bells, and such as had come to see the Show were eating Partridge, the Flames already lick'd round the Calves of the Evil-Doers, when the Wind rose once more, carrying Sparks into the town, which same then caught Fire.

O ye Elements, keeping uncanny Fellowship with the Uncanny! Great was the Confusion and
Perturbatio
, in the midst whereof Lievenmaul and Schivelbein took to their Heels. Many said it seemed as if the Blackguards were dissolv'd away into Smoak!

Worse Devastation, thanks be to God, was averted, in that only four Houses burned down. When the Smoak was blown away, and the Thieves had fled, some cried out that 'twas not the Seed in the Pyre made it burn, as had been thought, but the Robbers' Friends intending to free them. Others again accused the Authorities in Prenzlau of building the Pyre poorly, in such fashion as to endanger them: for the said Authorities, by wishing to see two men die by Fire, had killed nigh on a hundred. One man, Bartholomeus Schutte by name, claimed to have seen a Fox with a burning Brand in its mouth. This said Fox then trotted into the Smithy, which same burned almost entirely to the Ground. What we may make of that, only the Brandywine can tell.

For this time, howbeit, the Robbers were free again, and not all would say they were not glad of it.

In the Chaos, however, as the Flames were extinguished, the Malefactors perpetrated another Robbery, in that they stole our Bells, which the Bell-Ringer had zealously rung to announce the Execution, and after that the Fire. The said Bell-Ringer was bound with ropes and placed in the Belfry, with the Stipulation that no Bell be rung until the last Word were spoken.

The Bells were found by the Deep Lake. It is Suppos'd they were too heavy for the Skiff when Hinnerk Lievenmaul and Kunibert Schivelbein, known as Long-Legged Kuno, were convey'd by our Ferryman over to the other Side.

V

ALL THAT WAS PRELIMINARY SKIRMISHING. THE
Feast proper begins with the auction by the Deep Lake. Only after that is music played, and Ditzsche dances, only after that does the village tuck into the food. The pigs are already being turned on the spits, there'll be drinking and burning, of a witch or a dummy, it all depends.

Frau Kranz seems a little distracted; maybe she's tired. She is sitting in the middle of a bench where they are drinking beer, and is soon surrounded by friends and neighbors. Gölow brings her water, Imboden kisses her hand; he's not very good at that, but he insists on doing it, so fair enough. Again and again someone joins her, touches her—she doesn't like that, but tolerates it—asks how she is, asks about her picture. She is sitting here, she says, so she is all right, and the questioner will soon see the picture. It is still leaning against the beer table being used for the auction, draped in a white sheet. It is at least twice the size it was last night, but not many people know that.

The atmosphere is relaxed; a pig wanders among the benches, spontaneous verses of “Sound and Smoke” are sung, people sing along, there must be some 200 people here, we know many of them from the night just past.

The pig is the one that got away with its life, and since we are speaking of pigs: after last year's mini-pig, Gölow has
brought something special with him again. The carved wooden figure of a piglet with a human head has been in the possession of his family for many generations. It is a good fifty centimeters long and stands thirty centimeters tall, and Gölow has always liked its friendly face. Only recently has he discovered the signature:
Wegener
is carved under its right-hind trotter. Research—on the part of Frau Schwermuth—has informed us that the piglet must be some 400 years old. There was a woman woodcarver of that name in Fürstenfelde at the time, and a story about the piglet exists, would Gölow like to hear it?

Zieschke opens his beer and is glad so many people have come. He particularly wants to welcome Frau Kranz. Ladies and gentlemen, says Zieschke, friends. He unveils the painting; the sheet drops to the ground.

THE PEOPLE ARE STANDING UP TO THEIR KNEES
in the deep lake and do not move. No one is swimming, no one has wet hair. Are they afraid of the deep water? The air is still, no wind. The lake is smooth as if under a thin coat of ice. The sun is bright. Two young men are watching each other, hands in the water, ready to start spraying it up in the air. Their expressions are mischievous, their muscles immaculate. A third, over to one side, is watching them, wearing a large pair of brightly colored bathing trunks, his thin arms wound round his torso like wire. He is waiting for the game to begin, and something tells us he is the one who will be sprayed by the other two any moment now. Johann, this must be Johann, and the other two, tattooed with wolves and dragons, are Lada and Silent Suzi. Not far from them are three men with brown old-age marks: the bell-ringer, crooked and thoughtful; Imboden in his sun hat; and Eddie! Eddie is alive, Eddie is holding a screwdriver in the water as if to loosen up the lake a little. Who else have we here? Someone playing a fiddle, that's Zieschke, not a note can be heard. Herr Schramm over here, Herr Schramm is smoking. His head thrown back, the tall man is enjoying his cigarette. Frau Schwermuth is here as well, fat and white and strange as the limestone cliffs on Rügen Island. A Hawaii pattern
adorns the wraparound skirts worn by her companions, who turn cheerfully to look at Anna, amused, as anyone would be who could manage to walk
on
the water. Anna is in a one-piece swimsuit, swimming cap, goggles, with her broad back, beautiful as anyone concentrating is beautiful, a little like a professional swimmer before the start. We are determined, relaxed, rapt in reverie. This is Fürstenfelde. Someone with water wings is juggling, four colored balls in the air suit the sunny day well. That's Hirtentäschel. He wants to be seen showing his skill, although he would certainly say he's doing it just for himself, it's meditation. Oh, Uwe, it's all right to show off what you can do for a change, instead of always going on about what you once were. Who else? Frau Steiner is reading Frau Schober's future in the tarot cards on an air cushion; the future doesn't look good for Frau Schober. Ditzsche, off to one side, is alone. All right; several are off to one side and alone. Silent Suzi's mother, Manu from the ice cream parlor, Poppo von Blankenburg. Ulli, however, has two families—the drinkers from the new buildings and his own, including some who like boozing a lot, but no one overdoes it. A man with a red bald patch and the words
GEO-Special Alaska
over his stomach, that can only be Gölow. A delicate-looking woman lies on the air mattress beside him. Then there's her and her and him and him, Frau Reiff in the old kayak, some nudists playing volleyball. It's as if people were sprouting out of the water everywhere like plants, wherever we look. This is Fürstenfelde. The ferryman
is there as well, look, on the landing stage: his beard, his long hair, his cape too warm for the eternally fine last day of the year. He's squinting at the others, what is he planning to do? His Fürstenfelde is the one reflected in the shallow water. Is he calling someone to cross the lake? He takes his time. It can wait, it must wait, we still have so much to do. There's a light on in the ferry boathouse. And the longer we look, the darker it gets, it will soon be night. The Güldenstein is glowing. The people are still here. Herr Schramm must be enjoying a cigarette that lasts for ever.

Right at the front: Frau Kranz—we recognize her by her easel—with a tiny movement, the only movement, in her right arm.

And then Zieschke bangs his beer bottle on the auctioneer's desk, and the auction begins. Who'll bid me ten?

We are glad that Anna probably won't be burnt. Standing by the bonfire, she raises a burning brand in the air and bids ten euros, but we outbid her, we bid twelve.

MY THANKS TO