Before the Feast Read online

  What followed was not to be forgot, albeit those Present denied it vehemently at a later date, as if there were a Crime or a Sin to be recollected. The noble Count and the Miller looked the Pig fearfully in the Eye, and the Pig looked cheerfully back at them. They cleared their Throats as a man might clear his Throat when something displeases him mightily, and those close to the Pig thought that it also clear’d its Throat.

  The Miller and Count von Blankenburg turned White as Whey in the Face, and said not a word.

  Then a young Man stepped forward, ’twas the tailor’s Journeyman, Anton Kobler of Jakobshagen, and he said: Gentlefolk and good People, God be my Witness that I do not know that Sow!

  The Men looked at Kobler, greatly confus’d, but then in Anger, so that he also cried: Other Folk besides me go in and out of Master Mertens his Mill!

  Then a Laborer by the name of Droschler spoke up. Anton, said he, I hope your Idle Talk is not meant to anger me, or God help you! There is no Call for Insinuation, I tell you freely, aye, to be sure I know the Sow, but not in the sinful Manner that you mean, there I have no Knowledge of her at all, albeit the Pig’s crooked Nose could not be more Familiar to me, resembling as it does mine own. However, I could never commit so wickedly godless a Sin! I tell you, this is the Devil’s Work, so it is—aye, the Devil’s Work, I say!

  There were those who agreed with Droschler’s words, and folk made haste to say: Aye, ’tis Magick and Sorcery!

  Old Wennecke was not heard amidst the Tumult. He was Surpriz’d to hear Droschler speak of the Piglet’s crooked Nose, since he saw that Nose as Flat and much like his own, Wennecke’s, Nose. But the Townsmen heard only that which they wish’d to hear, and said only what show’d them to be in the Right of it, and this was Devilry. So now each spoke up for his Neighbor as they seldom did, for Man often strives only for his own Advantage, and to show his Fellow Men in a bad Light. Great Wrath was stirr’d up against the Pig, that same Pig meanwhile squealing pitifully, but none could say whether ’twere with the voice of a Babe or of a Pure-born Pig.

  At last Miller Mertens did seize the Piglet around its neck with both his Hands, and he rais’d the Piglet over his Head and he threw that Piglet high into the Air, to fall into the Lake, where it immediately sank, never to be seen again, or so the People thought. The Men rejoic’d, and the Count laid his Hand on the Miller’s Shoulder, and then it so chanc’d that the Pig came to the Surface again and began swimming to the Bank, grunting right merrily.

  It was old Wennecke who threw the first Stone.

  That same evening the Sow was first blessed and then eaten.

  And it was in the little town of Fürstenfelde, in the year of Our Lord 1587, that here by the Pillory, on the banks of the Deep Lake, the Miller’s Sow gave Birth to a Pig of monstrous Kind, for in all other respects it was made like a true Pig, but it had a human Head, and a Face like mine, and a Face like thine, and a face like the face of Everyman.

  HE DOESN’T WANT TO DO IT TONIGHT; THE BELL-ringer doesn’t want to ring the bells any more. He should have been in the church by now, instead he stays lying in his bell-ringing uniform and his bell-ringing boots and his bell-ringing gloves, with his bell-ringing top hat lying beside him. He doesn’t want to ring the bells, never wants to smell the church again. The church smells like Great-Aunt Elsbeth’s wig, of pomade and dust, and Great-Aunt Elsbeth puts her wig over the little bell-ringer’s head, his whole face disappears under it, pomade, dust and sweat, and he’s supposed to turn round in a circle saying a prayer, his great-aunt hides and he looks for her, what a brutal game, you can only lose, you could lose consciousness too, that must be nearly ninety years ago, his great-aunt choked to death in ’44, think of choking to death on your food when there was almost nothing to eat.

  The bell-ringer is cold. If he’d listened to Rosa he’d have retired long ago, he’d be a pensioner watching the box in his slippers all day long, and now his knees hurt even when he’s lying down. Twenty steps three times a day, every day since ’43. He’s had enough of it. Johann will have to ring the bells alone, yes, Rosa, you do know him, Johann Schwermuth, son of Herrmann and Johanna of the Homeland House, yes, my apprentice, surprised, aren’t you?

  Seventy years, and how many days has he missed? Three! No bells ringing for prayers in Fürstenfelde on only three days! Not counting holidays and days when the bells were being maintained.

  Once in April ’45. At first he ran away like the others, but you easily died on the road, so he and his family came back and he went straight to his bells. The Russians let him ring them.

  Again at the end of the 1970s, because of Schramm. Schramm came by, Comrade Lieutenant-Colonel, asked whether the bell-ringer wouldn’t like to give it up, that noise reminded people of other times. But those times were over, said Schramm, we weren’t living in the Middle Ages any more, thank God, and in these new times the church was needed only as a place for events to be held, was wanted for deeds and not bells. Gustav, watch your step. I’m asking you nicely. Others will order you.

  The bell-ringer stayed at home that day and the bells didn’t ring, and after a while Rosa said: there are hundreds of reasons not to ring bells but politics isn’t one of them, so he went on ringing the bells. Schramm apologized to him last summer, thirty years late, but never mind that.

  The third time was when Jakob came into the world, and then he and Rosa were in Prenzlau. He made up for it with a jubilant peal the next day.

  When the ferryman was buried recently, he wanted to ring his old friend of so many years into the last darkness with the chiming bells, but his knees failed him. Later, he went to the ferry boathouse and struck the ferryman’s bell. The lake was calm. He sat in a small boat. The landing stage was empty, the little boathouse deserted, no one had heard the sound of the bell. That’s the real meaning of Nothing, Rosa. When something exists and works, but is no use to anyone. Objects, implements, a whole village. The bells. They are still there, that’s all.

  Once upon a time, ah, once upon a time bell-ringers marked the beginning and end of important events, warned the people of dangers, of enemies, of the elements. Many bell-ringers were struck by lightning while doing their duty. By night, in a world not over-full of light as it is now, the bells were a lighthouse of sound for all wandering in the darkness. Here, where we chime, living hearts beat. Today? Today bells are the acoustic reminder that the church still stands. A wake-up call that no one has asked for.

  The best part was going home to Rosa after ringing the bells for morning prayers, and Rosa would wake up and hold him close. Her hair, still soft from sleep. She would whisper his name, getting the emphasis wrong all those years, beautifully wrong.

  The mechanized system will have to take over if Johann doesn’t want to ring the bells. Johann is always punctual, what a hypocrite! An atheist. Johann will want to ring the bells. He knows what to do, and he can do it on his own. Johann’s hands are not soft and delicate any more.

  The bells are ringing.

  The bell-ringer opens his eyes. He is lying outside the front door of his house, with his bell-ringer’s top hat on the gravel, his head on the gravel, blood on the gravel, the crunchy sound of footsteps on the gravel.

  “Rosa?” He smiles. Rosa says something, it isn’t his name with the emphasis wrong, the bells lose their rhythm and the sound dies away. Johann, my boy, and you’ve practiced this so often. Now, quick chimes as the clapper strikes the bell, rhythmically, the steps on the gravel come closer, the first drops of rain fall, Rosa bending over him—“Master?”—Johann crouches down, takes the bell-ringer’s arm, tries to help him up. “You’re bleeding, Master!”

  “Never mind. It’s all right.” Slowly, the bell-ringer sits up.

  The last chime of the bell and its long echo.

  “Johann, what’s going on?”

  We ourselves are confused, too. If the bell-ringer is here, and Johann is with him—then who is ringing our bells?

  Gustav drags himself up the steps, unlocks th
e door, staggers. Johann supports him, helps him over to the sofa. The bell-ringer’s head drops back. Abrasions on the palms of his hands, a deeper cut on his temple.

  “Johann?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “My times are in thy hand.”

  “Master?”

  “That was the tune. Well rung, almost perfect. My times are in thy hand.” The bell-ringer grimaces. The hair above his temple is sticky with blood. He closes his eyes. Johann cleans his injuries and bandages them. He learned all that from role-playing, who says it’s just a waste of time?

  “That’s good. Thank you, Johann. Please will you—will you go and see to the bells?”

  It’s raining harder now. The bell-ringer’s top hat is still lying on the gravel. Johann picks it up, turns it in his hands. Puts it on. Hurries out into the roads by night.

  WE ARE WORRIED. NO ONE KNOWS THE BIBLE AS well as church bells. Psalm 31:15. My times are in thy hand: deliver me from the hand of mine enemies, and from them that persecute me.

  IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1588, IN THE MERRY month of May, two fine Horses were Spirited Away from Ulrich Ramelow, Inn-Keeper in this Place, and two Starveling Nags left in their Stead. His Groom gave Word to the Inn-Keeper, as had been given to the Groom himself by two Men, one tall as a Tower and t’other round as a Barrel, that since he, mine Host of the Inn, kept good Beer aside for himself but Water’d what he serv’d his Guests, so that it tasted thinner even than Small Beer, the Horses he kept should be such Sorry Nags as those the two Fellows left for him.

  ANNA STANDS BESIDE THE FENCE, STRETCHING. The wood feels soapy, it is rotting and splintered. Slats are breaking away from the fence, coming loose, missing. In the beam of her headlight the green of rot shows through the brittle veining of the wood. Anna has never seen the fence in anything but this ramshackle state, nor the field on the other side of it as anything but running wild. The undergrowth rustles in the wind, the branches of wild rose bushes reach out to her. Rain falls slanting down. Anna can smell cadaverine; the field has made a kill again, it gives and it takes away.

  Anna has grown up with that field. It was waiting outside the window while she was studying, it watched her playing in the yard, it was never a playground itself. Right next to the garden. On her way to school. Never beautiful. Hard and dirty, even in spite of dew and hoar frost. In the evening it disappears abruptly into night, it won’t linger in twilight. Ordinary stinging nettles. Debilitated greenery. No one calls it “mine.” Well, Anna does now and then. Untamed, unused, uncleared of vermin. The next world beside this world, beside Geher’s Farm that will be inhabited again some day. After Anna. After Anna, her mother and her grandfather. Briefly, there was a father too. Before that, during the war, Polish forced laborers. People called it the Polish farm, the Poles leaned on the fence, quietly reciting poetry to each other, and before that two or three more generations of the Geher family, all farmers except for one innkeeper, and the field was always there. It has listened to them all, has taken an interest in them all as it takes an interest in Anna now: does the field think she looks sexy in those tights? With her leg on the fence, Anna is stretching the back of her thigh.

  The seasons are hesitant; if snow didn’t lie where it falls now and then, you would think it was always cold spring weather in the fallow field. All the flowers are colorless, you don’t notice them. No bumble bee fancies a flower like that. Bramble shoots like hair, the blackberries too black, too dry. Holes in the ground all over the place, with nothing and everything living in them. Stones like scars, grasses like swords. And anything that doesn’t have thorns and can’t defend itself won’t live to see the end of the day.

  A solitary oak tree stands in the middle of the field, roughly speaking. Not necessarily the prototype of solitary oak trees standing, roughly speaking, in the middle of fields. In spite of its situation and plenty of light it is pale, its leaves are sparse, its dry trunk stands at a crooked angle, stuck between the field’s teeth.

  Anna’s lower jaw quivers as she jumps up and down on the spot a few times. She reaches cautiously over the fence, tries to break off a sprig of wild rose. The wild rose defends itself vigorously. Anna tugs at it, pulls. The field fights back. Only in mankind does Nature open its eyes and look at itself. The field is mankind in thorns’ clothing, you can’t believe a word it says.

  Anna starts her timer and begins running.

  Anna has known the field a long time. We’ve known it longer.

  . . . there was so early and persistent a Frost in Fürstenfelde that all Nature froze, and the Harvest fail’d, and the People were sore anhungered, likewise was there a strange Phenomenon, in that one Day in the Depths of Winter, Apples were seen to lie in great Number under the Oak Tree. . .

  Suppose the oak tree were a sight worth seeing? Suppose tourists came to gawp? A bus full of little black-haired men in little beige jackets. They get into position in front of the fence. Someone takes a photo. He crouches down so that the others will look taller. He makes a speech. Anna doesn’t understand a word of it. Anna knows he is telling nothing but the truth.

  No tourists come. Young men come on the way back from White’s in Woldegk, early in the morning they leave a drunk to sleep it off, comatose under the oak tree, while they drive on, it’s kind of a tradition of ours.

  Anna is breathing with difficulty. She slows down.

  The field has killed. It wants to show Anna what.

  Anna doesn’t want to know.

  EVIDENCE OF THE FINDING OF TWO UNUSUAL SETS of antlers at localities near Fürstenfelde in the Uckermark, first mentioned in letters from Count Poppo von Blankenburg to Herr Bruno Bredenkamp on 17th and 19th March 1849.

  The skull and horns of the first set of antlers were found in the sand at the bottom of the Great Lake. Dissatisfied with the catch brought in by his fishermen, the Count had been about to lend a hand himself, to show those idle fellows how to do it. His net was caught in the tines of the antlers, whereupon he pulled hard and, not without difficulty, brought the antlers up on land in all their considerable glory. On investigating the antlers, the noble Count scratched himself on a sharp edge of the right-hand horn, and the scratch bled, staining Herr von Blankenburg’s linen shirt, not a little to his annoyance.

  The Count could not explain the find to himself. Back at his hunting lodge, he wrote to his friend, saying: antlers of that kind are not native to this place! He knew that, he added, as a huntsman himself. He therefore thought, he wrote, that this set of antlers must be a very ancient specimen, thousands of years old, dating from the time of the dense forests and the Great Moor, when bears, crocodiles and God only knows what other creatures still roamed the Mark of Brandenburg. He was now wondering, he added, whether those antlers might not make him a few thalers; they were strangely well preserved. He would happily keep them for himself, but Lisbeth did not like to have dead eyes staring at her.

  In his second letter, Herr von Blankenburg describes, with considerable excitement, as his handwriting and choice of words bear witness, the second extraordinary find. He was employing several despondent and useless day laborers to grub up the vegetation in the fallow field run wild on Geher’s Farm, when one of them came upon a remarkably large bone in the ground. That was no bone, the Count realized, but another piece of horn lying there pale in the earth, like something from another world. The laborers, superstitious riff-raff that they were, refused to touch the horn. So the Count undertook the work of salvaging it himself, and a good deal of trouble it gave him, since the earlier injury to his hand had swollen and was very painful. With much difficulty he brought to the light of day the second set of antlers, which was even larger and finer than the first. He wrote to his friend that he would not have liked to encounter a living stag crowned with such antlers had he been unprepared for it.

  Four days after making this second find, Poppo von Blankenburg died of the consequences of gangrene in the ball of his hand. His widow had the antlers, which she described as horns of the
Devil, removed from the house immediately, and Herr Bruno Bredenkamp accepted the charge of them in Dresden on 2 May 1849, and later generously bequeathed them to us.

  FRAU KRANZ HAS FOUND THE RIGHT COLOR FOR everything that grows, stands and dies here. Classics are the church, the old town wall, the ferry boathouse and the lakes. Painted from every imaginable viewpoint. And there are gradations of what Fontane described as the “waste of green” in the Brandenburg Mark, for Nature as a whole is green: meadows, gardens, cultivated fields growing everything from poppies to sugar beet, all sorted by shades of color. Last of all the Kiecker, the ancient forest.

  Everyone in the village who is old enough to know names at all knows the name of Frau Kranz. She’s already painted so many of them and so much of them. People and buildings in Fürstenfelde, natural scenery near Fürstenfelde, human beings and houses and machinery in Fürstenfelde, in Nature and in time. And she portrays the passing of time: East German industry and today’s industrial ruins in Brandenburg. East German agriculture and today’s Brandenburg windmills. Unchanging: East German avenues with an East German road surface. Cobblestones and paving stones that make every picture look as if it dates from the nineteenth century.

  Frau Kranz has opened more and more doors for the journalist, doors with more and more canvases behind them. On the second floor—or was it the seventh?—a room full of faces. The journalist stands in the doorway and stays put; eyes examine him affectionately, enquiringly, sadly; he sees wrinkles, lips, temples, throats; shirt collars, scars. The only possible question to ask is, “Who?” The journalist opens a window.

  “Have you,” he asks, “painted me too?” He really doesn’t seem to be sure.

  “Come along, come along,” says Frau Kranz.

  None of these portraits are of people sitting for their portrait. They are all busy doing something. Working in the fields, working at handicrafts, working on the black market. Bathing, ironing, visiting Grandpa in the old folks’ home.