In his room, Uwe Hirtentäschel yawns. The rain beating on the window makes him sleepy. He clears away his tools. The angels’ wings quiver in the oak tree, the half-moons, the oars, the tears. Hirtentäschel sweeps the floor of his studio. He’s opening it tomorrow for those who take an interest in art. He has also managed to sell a few things these last years. He doesn’t make much money, but it’s enough, it’s enough.
Children like his little wooden angels. He displays them in the bathtub: twenty little angels in twenty little boats with forty little oars, and if a child shows an interest in the angels, Uwe Hirtentäschel puts his arm in the water and the boats bob up and down.
IN THE YEAR 1658, ABOUT MICHAELMAS-TIDE, THE Well was sunk for the Parsonage, partly for the sake of Convenience, partly to free the Cellar of Water before the Anna Feast, and in the Hole a Piece of Chopp’t Wood was found, of the Size of a Hand. Since this Piece of Wood was as much as the Height of two Men down in the Earth, and since the various different Strata of the Soil were distinctly visible, when the Question of how the Wood came to be so deep in the Earth is raised, I can say only that the aforesaid Item must date from before the Deluge.
FRAU SCHWERMUTH’S TELEPHONE RINGS. IT’S Hirtentäschel on the line. He wants to know what she is doing at the moment. Frau Schwermuth is eating mini-carrots and watching Buffy. That was what Hirtentäschel thought, and by that he doesn’t mean the vegetables and the vampire-slayer, but the fact that it’s not Frau Schwermuth in the Homeland House with her flashlight. Just a moment. Someone’s in the Homeland House now, does he mean? Yes, now. Hirtentäschel is looking down, and someone is slinking about inside the House. Slinking? Yes, slinking could be the word, anyway not switching on the lights. And another thing: before that, Anna Geher collapsed outside the House, and along came two young fellows, one tall as a beanpole and the other small and stout, and helped her. And before that, he could swear, a fox — Uwe? — came out of the House — Uwe, please stick to the point! Can he recognize anyone? Only a silhouette, tall and thin. It’s dark, and his eyes, as she knows. . Yes, Uwe, but you have glasses! Of course he has glasses! — We ourselves are getting impatient now; those two just won’t stick to the point, although the point is perfectly simple when the beam of a flashlight, or a flashlight app, is wandering over the wall of a building by night and there’s a broken window standing open, although it seems that Hirtentäschel hasn’t noticed the window yet.
Uwe, hang on. Frau Schwermuth clears her throat. There’s someone at the door, please stay on the line. .
Sorry, Uwe. That was Zieschke just now. It’s all been dealt with. The power went off again. . no, I’ve no idea why, maybe mice like before, or the lightning just now. . No, he’ll see to the Homeland House in the morning, I’m only just back from cycling. . I don’t know, maybe something for the auction.
So says Frau Schwermuth, adding that she’ll go right over and take Zieschke the key to the fuse box. Yes, no, everything’s fine, is it all okay about coffee and cake for Hirtentäschel’s talk? Yes, fine. You too, thanks. Thank you, Uwe. Yes. Yes. Goodnight.
Frau Schwermuth clears her throat. Frau Schwermuth eats a mini-carrot. Her pupils move from extreme left to extreme right.
THE STREETLAMP OUTSIDE THE HOMELAND HOUSE isn’t working. The gate at the entrance shouldn’t be open. Johann shines light in from his mobile. There are bits of glass on the ground. The windowpane is broken, the window’s open. Ma made that crochet-work curtain.
He shouldn’t go in there; he climbs in. Neither Lada nor Suzi nor his half-elf would have done so. The lights won’t switch on. On the other hand, Lada and Suzi and in particular Mustard-Micha would be much more likely candidates to do a thing like that here. A thing like what? Talk about it sometimes, anyway. Not about the Homeland House, of course, what is there to nick in here? Johann shines the flashlight app into the front room. Leaves, not very many of them, are lying on the floor, scattered by a gust of wind. It wouldn’t be the first time for Mustard-Micha — just ask Lütti at the fuel station in Woldegk. Micha attacked Lütti twice. A gas gun and an Elvis mask, but as soon as he opened his mouth Lütti knew it was Micha under the mask, they’d sort of known each other for ever, since their fathers left them before they were born, their mothers are still best friends today. Lütti didn’t show that he knew who it was either time, so as not to hurt Micha’s feelings. A year later Micha organized a booze-up to make things okay and apologized to Lütti. “It wasn’t anything to do with you personally.” Lütti understood that and accepted the apology. The booze-up to make things okay was also a celebration of Micha being out of jail. And then Lütti apologized too, because he hadn’t meant it personally either when he shopped Micha, but twice was once too many. Naturally Micha also understood that, and accepted the apology.
But seriously, what was there to nick in here? The GDR stuff? Everyone had plenty of that at home. As long as a GDR hairdryer is still getting hair dry somewhere or other, the GDR isn’t dead.
The door to the cellar steps is open, a little light comes up from down below. However, the light on the steps isn’t working. Johann listens. “Hello? — Ma?”
He shouldn’t go down there; he does go down there. A long corridor, with the large door at the end of it standing open. The light is coming from the room beyond the door. The Archivarium. Ma is always talking about her Archivarium. It would break her heart if someone—
Johann knows the room from the 700th anniversary celebrations, when it was nearly empty. Now it is stuffed full of books, standing on shelves and on top of other books, with stacks of papers everywhere. In the corner there is a fine pair of antlers. In the middle of the room there is a table with writing materials, a magnifying glass and even more paper on it.
Best of all is the leather: four gigantic leather wall hangings or whatever you’d call them, made up of separate pieces of leather. Johann runs his fingers over one of them; it is cool. There are signs on it, barely legible characters. A date: September 1636. Each single piece making up one of the four hangings is written on and dated. It is as if the room had a skin made of leather and writing.
A mouse makes Johann jump as it scurries through the room, disappearing behind a chest. Should he phone Ma, or call the cops at once? But he can’t get reception down here. Maybe it was only the wind that broke the window upstairs. But then why is the door here open?
A gigantic folio volume lies on the reading desk, its finely decorated pages charred. Johann takes a photo of the book. The lovely old writing. He really wanted to make sure that the bells were all right. But since he’s here. .
The village was sitting underground, all in a long row, and the earth was cold, and when a chicken began clucking comfortably Barth the blacksmith wrung its neck, and no one said a word.
Suddenly there’s a sound like fine sand trickling down. Oh shit. Johann turns round. There’s light in the corridor again, a shadow outside the door — he runs toward it — but it closes as he drums his fists on it, shouting.
The display on the electronic lock changes from green to red.
EARLY IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1594, THERE CAME a wondrous procession to Fürstenfelde. Several Carts drawn by Horses and Oxen stopp’d outside the Prenzlau Gate, whereupon men and women jumped down from the said Carts, danc’d and sang and all rac’d about freely, but some lay in Cheynes howling and screaming pitifully, or speaking in strange Tongues.