Journey Into the Past (7 page)

She said she was very sorry, and indeed the shy warmth of her heart did now venture back into her voice. But she did not seriously try to keep him there. As she accompanied him out, their eyes nervously avoided each other. Something was crackling along their nerves, again and again conversation stumbled over the invisible obstacle that went with them from room to room, from word to word, and that now, growing stronger, took their breath away. So it was a relief when he was at the door, his coat already on. But all of a sudden, making up his mind, he turned back. “In fact there
is
something else I wanted to ask you before I go.”

“You want to ask me something? By all means!” she smiled, radiant once again with the joy of being able to fulfil a wish of his.

“It may be foolish,” he said, his glance diffident, “but I know that you’ll understand. I would very much like to see my room again, the room where I lived for two years. All this time I’ve been down in the reception rooms that you keep for visitors, and if I leave like this, you see, I wouldn’t feel I had been in my former home. As a man grows older he goes in search of his own youth, taking silly pleasure in little memories.”

“You, grow older, Ludwig?” she replied almost light-heartedly. “I never thought you were so vain! Look at me, look at this grey streak in my hair. You’re only a boy by comparison with me, and you talk of growing older already. You must allow me to take precedence there! But how forgetful of me not to have taken you straight to your room, for that’s what it still is. You will find nothing changed; nothing ever changes in this house.”

“I hope that includes you,” he said, trying to make a joke of it, but when she looked at him his expression instinctively changed to one of tender warmth.

She blushed slightly. “People may grow old, but they remain the same.”

They went up to his old room. Even as they entered it there was a slight awkwardness, for she stood aside after opening the door to let him in, and as each of them courteously drew back at the same time to make way for the other, their shoulders briefly collided in the doorway. Both instinctively retreated, but even this fleeting physical contact was enough to embarrass them. She said nothing, but was overcome by a paralysing self-consciousness which was doubly perceptible in the silent, empty room. Nervously, she hurried over to the cords at the windows and pulled up the curtains, to let more light fall on the dark furnishings that seemed to be crouching there. But no sooner had bright light come suddenly rushing in than it was as if all those items of furniture suddenly had eyes and were stirring restlessly in alarm. Everything stood out in a significant way, speaking urgently of some memory. Here was the wardrobe that her attentive hand had always secretly kept in order for him, there were the bookshelves to which an addition was made when he had uttered a fleeting wish, there—speaking in yet sultrier tones—was the bed, where countless dreams of her, he knew, lay hidden under the bedspread. There in the corner—and this memory was burning hot as it came back to his mind—there was the ottoman where she had freed herself from him that last time. Inflamed by the passion now rekindled and blazing up, he saw signs and messages everywhere, left there by the woman now standing beside him, quietly breathing, compellingly strange, her eyes turned away and inscrutable. And the dense silence of the years, lying heavily as if slumped in the room, took alarm at their human presence and now assumed powerful proportions, settling on their lungs and troubled hearts like the blast of an explosion. Something had to be said, something must overcome that silence to keep it from overwhelming them—they both felt it. It was she, suddenly turning, who broke the silence.

“Everything is just as it used to be, don’t you think?” she began, determined to say something innocent and casual, although her voice was husky and shook a little. However he did not echo her friendly, conversational tone, but gritted his teeth.

“Oh yes, everything.” Sudden inner rage forced the words abruptly and bitterly out of his mouth. “Everything is as it used to be except for us, except for us!”

The words cut into her. Alarmed, she turned again.

“What do you mean, Ludwig?” But she did not meet his gaze, for his eyes were not seeking hers now but staring, silent and blazing, at her lips, the lips he had not touched for so many years, although once, moist on the inside like a fruit, they had burned against his own burning lips. In her embarrassment she understood the sensuality of his gaze, and a blush covered her face, mysteriously rejuvenating her, so that she looked to him just as she had looked in this same room when he was about to leave. Once again she tried to fend off that dangerous gaze drawing her in, intentionally misunderstanding what could not be mistaken.

“What do you mean, Ludwig?” she repeated, but it was more of a plea for him not to tell her than a question requiring an answer.

Then, with a firm, determined look, he fixed his eyes on hers with masculine strength. “You pretend not to understand me, but I know you do. Do you remember this room—and do you remember what you promised me here ... when I came back?”

Her shoulders were shaking as she still tried to fend him off. “No, don’t say it, Ludwig ... this is all old history, let’s not touch on it. Where are those times now?”

“In us,” he replied firmly, “in what we want. I have waited nine years, keeping grimly silent, but I haven’t forgotten. And I am asking you, do you still remember?”

“Yes.” She looked at him more steadily now. “I have not forgotten either.”

“And will you—” he had to take a deep breath, to give force to what he as about to say—“will you keep your promise?”

The colour came to her face again, surging up to her hairline. She moved towards him, as if to placate him. “Ludwig, do think! You said you haven’t forgotten anything—so don’t forget, I am almost an old woman now. When a woman’s hair turns grey she has no more to wish for, no more to give. I beg you, let the past rest.”

But a great desire now came over him to be hard and determined. “You are trying to avoid me,” he said inexorably, “but I have waited too long. I ask you, do you remember your promise?”

Her voice faltered with every word she spoke. “Why do you ask me? There’s no point in my saying this to you now, now that it’s all too late. But if you insist, I will answer you. I could never have denied you anything, I was always yours from the day when I first met you.”

He looked at her—how honest she was even in her confusion, how truthful and straightforward, showing no cowardice, making no excuses, his steadfast beloved, always the same, preserving her dignity so wonderfully at every moment, both reserved and candid. Instinctively he stepped towards her, but as soon as she saw his impetuous movement she warded him off.

“Come along now, Ludwig, come—let’s not stay here, let’s go downstairs. It is midday, the maid could come looking for me at any moment. We mustn’t stay here any longer.”

And so irresistibly did her own strength dominate his will that, just as in the past, he obeyed her without a word. They went down to the reception rooms, through the front hall and to the door without another word, without exchanging a glance. At the door, he suddenly turned to her.

“I can’t say any more to you now, forgive me. I will write to you.”

She smiled at him gratefully. “Yes, do write to me, Ludwig, that will be better.”

And no sooner was he back in his hotel room than he sat down at the desk and wrote her a long letter, compulsively carried along by his suddenly thwarted passion from word to word, from page to page. This was his last day in Germany for months, he wrote, for years, perhaps for ever, and he would not, could not leave her like this, pretending to make cool conversation, forced into the mendacity of correct social behaviour. He wanted to, he must talk to her once more, away from the house, away from fears and memories and the oppressive, inhibiting, watchful atmosphere of its rooms. So he was asking whether she would take the evening train with him to Heidelberg, where they had both once been for a brief visit a decade ago when they were still strangers to one another, yet already feeling a presentiment of intimacy. Today, however, it would be to say goodbye, a last goodbye, it was what he still most profoundly desired. He was asking her to give him this one evening, this night. He hastily sealed the letter and sent it over to her house by messenger. In quarter-of-an-hour the messenger was back, bringing a small envelope sealed with yellow wax. His hand trembled as he tore it open. There was only a note inside it, a few words in her firm, determined handwriting, set down on the paper in haste, yet in her forceful handwriting:

“What you ask is folly, but I never could, I never will deny you anything. I will come.”

The train slowed down as they passed the flickering lights of a station. Instinctively the dreamer’s gaze moved away from introspection to look outside himself, again seeking tenderly for the figure of his dream in the alternating light and shade. Yes, there she was, ever faithful, always silently loving, she had come with him, to him—again and again he savoured her physical presence. And as if something in her had sensed his questing glance, feeling that shyly caressing touch from afar, she sat up straight now and looked out of the window beyond which the vague outlines of the landscape, wet in the spring darkness, slipped past like glittering water.

“We should be arriving soon,” she said as if to herself.

“Yes,” he said, sighing deeply, “it has taken so long.”

He himself did not know whether, by those words impatiently uttered, he meant the train journey or all the long years leading up to this hour—a confused sense of mingled dream and reality surged through him. He felt only that beneath him the rattling wheels were rolling on towards something, towards some moment that, now in a strangely muted mood, he could not clarify in his mind. No, he would not think of that, he would let an invisible power carry him on as it willed, with his limbs relaxed, towards something mysterious. He felt a kind of bridal expectation, sweet and sensuous yet vaguely mingled with anticipatory fear of its own fulfilment, with the mysterious shiver felt when something endlessly desired suddenly comes physically close to the astonished heart. But he must not think that out to the end now, he must not want anything, desire anything, he must simply stay like this, carried on into the unknown as if in a dream, carried on by a strange torrent, without physical sensation and yet still feeling, desiring yet achieving nothing, moving on into his fate and back into himself. Oh, to stay like this for hours longer, for an eternity, in this continuous twilight, surrounded by dreams—but already, like a faint fear, the thought came into his mind that this could soon be over.

Here and there, in all directions, electric sparks of light were flickering on in the valley like fireflies, brighter and brighter as they blinked past. Street lamps closed together in straight double rows, the tracks were rattling by, and already a pale dome of brighter vapour was emerging from the darkness.

“Heidelberg,” said one of the legal gentlemen to his companions. All three picked up their bulging briefcases and hurried out of the compartment so as to reach the carriage door as soon as possible. The wheels, with brakes applied to them, were now jolting and rattling into the station. There was an abrupt, bone-shaking jerk, the train’s speed slackened, and the wheels squealed only once more, like a tortured animal. For a second the two of them sat alone, facing each other, as if startled by the sudden onset of reality.

“Are we there already?” She sounded almost alarmed.

“Yes,” he replied, and stood up. “Can I help you?” She refused with a gesture and went quickly ahead. But on the step down from the carriage she hesitated, her foot faltering for a moment as if about to step down into ice-cold water. Then she pulled herself together, and he followed in silence. And then they stood on the platform side by side for a moment, helpless with awkward emotion, like strangers, and the small suitcase weighed heavy as it dangled from his hand. Suddenly the engine beside them, snorting again, let off steam shrilly. She started, and then looked at him, her face pale, her eyes unsure and bewildered.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A pity it’s over; it was so pleasant, just riding along like that. I could have gone on for hours and hours.”

He said nothing. He had been thinking just the same at that moment. But now it
was
over, and something had to happen.

“Shall we go?” he cautiously asked.

“Yes, let’s go,” she murmured barely audibly. None the less, they still stood there side by side, as if some spring inside them had broken. Only then—and he forgot to take her arm—did they turn undecidedly away towards the station exit.

They left the station, but no sooner were they out of the door than stormy noise met their ears, drums rattling, the shrill sound of pipes—it was a patriotic demonstration of veterans’ associations and students in support of the Fatherland. Like walls on the move, marching in ranks four abreast, flags flying, men in military garb were goose-stepping along, feet thudding heavily on the ground, marching all in time like a single man, necks thrown stiffly back, the very image of powerful determination with mouths open in song, one voice, one step, keeping time. In front marched generals, white-haired dignitaries bedecked with orders and flanked by companies of younger men, marching with athletic firmness, carrying huge banners held vertically erect and bearing death’s heads, the swastika, the banners of the Reich waving in the wind, their broad chests thrust out, their heads braced as if to march against an enemy’s batteries. They marched in a throng—they might have been propelled forward by a fist keeping time—all in geometrical order, preserving a distance as precise as if it had been drawn by compasses, keeping step, every nerve gravely tensed, a menacing expression on their faces, and every time a new rank—of veterans, of youth groups, of students—passed the raised platform where percussion instruments kept drumming out a steely rhythm on an invisible anvil, the many heads turned with military precision. With one accord they looked left, a movement running along the backs of all those necks, and the banners were raised as if on strings before the army commander who, stony-faced, was taking the salute of these civilians. Beardless boys, youths with the first down on their chins, faces etched with the lines of age, workers, students, soldiers or boys, they all looked exactly the same for that split second, with their harsh, determined, angry expressions, chins defiantly jutting, hands going to the hilts of invisible swords. And again and again, from troop to troop, the drumbeat hammered out, its monotony doubly inflaming feelings, keeping the marchers’ backs straight, their eyes hard, forging war and vengeance by their invisible presence here in a peaceful square, under a sky with soft clouds sweetly passing over it.