The evening proved still more exciting for Albert. He remained seated
with rapt attention, listening to the talk of his elders. For relatives
had dropped in—Uncle Salomon and Aunt Braunelle and Aunt Hanna—and all
talked enthusiastically. His father, David, however, did most of the
talking. There was something of the gambler’s optimism in David Zorn. It
did not take much to make him over-sanguine. Pacing up and down the
room, he ran his fingers through his well-trimmed blond beard, and from
time to time paused to take a mouthful of Assmanshauser, his favorite
vintage, of which he had opened a bottle in celebration of the great
event.
The father’s feverish speech stirred the boy’s volatile imagination.
Albert became restless and, unobserved, left the house for the
Marktplatz, where he hoped to find a few loitering friends.
But the large square was deserted; not a single youngster in front of
the town-hall, not a pedestrian in sight. Even the squeaky-voiced vendor
of apple tarts had left his post in front of the bronze statue in the
centre of the Marktplatz. There was quiet everywhere, the quietness of a
town occupied by the enemy. For this was during the period when Gunsdorf
was occupied by Napoleon’s troops.
Albert made his way back through one of the dark streets and as he
turned a corner caught the sound of quick footsteps back of him. But
before he had time to think he was struck with a fishing rod, and above
the clatter of his fleeing assailant came the donkey-call in Shorty
Fritz’s familiar voice—“Al—ber’! Al—ber’!”.
Albert wandered back home, a great pain in his head. As he walked past
St. Andrew’s church, the pallor of the moon resting upon the Jesuit
saints in the shadowy niches, he turned his eyes away with a sense of
dread. There was venom in his heart. Somehow he blamed those sculptured
saints for his present sufferings. Strange feelings possessed him.
Melancholy enveloped his whole being. What if his father should bring
back millions from Amsterdam? Every Fritz and every Kunz would still run
after him and call: “Al—ber’”.
He entered his home stealthily as if he feared his mother might hear his
very thoughts, and when he retired he lay in bed, a prey to strange
fantasies. Soon, however, his roving thoughts, like twilight merging
into night, turned into a web of dreams . . .
The world was coming to an end. God was standing in a garden of colorful
flowers placed in the midst of waving wheat-fields, the marble bust of
the broken Grecian goddess in his grandfather’s garden glistening in the
sun. Then God rolled up the nodding flowers and waving grain stalks as
one rolls up a carpet and, after placing them in a huge wagon, lifted up
a great heap of apple blossoms and honeysuckle and piled them, too, into
the van.
“Yes, all this goes to Amsterdam,” God was saying to Albert’s father,
who was gathering armsful of golden leaves and loading them into the
large vehicle.
Then Uncle Salomon climbed a high ladder—it was the same ladder the
sexton climbed to trim the candles in the great chandelier—and took the
sun out of the sky. For a moment he held it in the hollow of his hands,
as the sexton often did when filling the large lamp with oil, while
Johann Traub, the tailor, who stood nearby, donned a white shroud.
It sounded strange to hear Johann speak Hebrew, for Albert knew the
tailor was dead and he had only spoken German, and he wondered if all
dead people spoke Hebrew. But then Uncle Salomon began to climb down the
ladder, with the sun under his arm, and it grew darker and darker—and
only a few stars, suspended from the sky by rainbow-colored ribbons,
were emitting bits of flashing light, and presently the gorgeous ribbons
broke and the stars dropped like live sparks flying out of a chimney on
a winter night . . .
“Everything packed?”
It was the voice of God, who was now seated on the box of the colossal
van, and lashing the fiery steeds, the van disappeared in a cloud of
silvery dust, leaving Albert behind in darkness and in tears. He peered
into space, but could see nothing—nothing but an endless stretch of
darkness. Finally he began to move aimlessly and wandered and wandered
until he reached a freshly dug grave. Leb, the grave-digger, with spade
in hand, was in the grave, digging deeper and deeper and singing
merrily: “Everybody is dead—everybody is dead!” he hummed in his
Westphalian dialect. Then he turned around and said, “Shove him in.”
There was no one else around but himself. Albert wondered to whom the
grave-digger was speaking. Presently he noticed a very aged woman, a
toothless hag. She stepped forward, holding the head of a man in her
apron. Harry shuddered at the sight of the decapitated head and wanted
to flee, but could not move. He stood paralyzed. He wanted to cry but
his voice was gone. Then the toothless hag flung the head into the
grave, gave a fiendish, blood-curdling laugh, and jumped in after it and
began to dance. She danced as he had often seen drunken peasants
dance—shaking her head from side to side and moving her legs wearily.
“Now I must run—they are coming,” the grave-digger exclaimed and
suddenly vanished.
Albert trembled in every limb. He was again alone, with nothing but the
open grave before him. The darkness around him seemed impenetrable. He
could not see an inch away. Only strange voices of invisible men reached
his ears, with the sound of autumn leaves in his ears. Then flashes of
lightning came and revealed to him a line of men, in single file, coming
through a gap in a ruined wall. He could not see the men’s faces but
they wore little crucifixes over their breasts and swayed ornamental
containers of frankincense such as he had seen in the Franciscan
cloister. The next moment a strange light appeared and he saw himself
surrounded by black robed priests, with mitres on their heads, and one
of them gave him a sharp cut with a fishing rod and jeered. “Your
inheritance!—your inheritance!”
“What’s the matter, Albert?—You gave such a shriek.”
He opened his eyes and beheld his mother at the foot of his bed.
“I had a dreadful dream—” he muttered.
“Always your dreams,” the mother said, smiling affectionately, as she
walked out of the room.