In the place where Poppo von Blankenburg spent a day flattering a windmill, bewitching it, whispering sweet nothings to it, until in the evening he heard a sigh — perhaps it was the mill, perhaps it was the wind — whereupon he found that he could grind such fine, pure flour that at the Anna Feast, which was soon celebrated, the villagers hardly touched any meat once they had tasted the bread; in that place a wind turbine stands today.
The fourth mill, the one on the postcard, was demolished by Belorussians in the last days of the war. It then occurred to them that flour wasn’t a bad idea, and they put the mill back in running order. The bread, which had a sour flavor, tasted wonderful to anyone who could get hold of any. We can still hear the grinding sound of the mill. We remember Alwin, the miller’s man here in the war. He had crooked teeth and could do conjuring tricks, he made the coins brought by servants coming to collect the flour disappear, and days later they found a coin in their bread, what a surprise! Alwin had to stop that game when matters of hygiene were taken seriously. After that he always guessed which card was the King of Hearts. The Belorussians shot him outside the mill. His name was Alwin, he had crooked teeth, and he could do conjuring tricks.
The mill itself had a name, but it got lost among the rubble.
It was demolished in 1960 and carried away, bit by bit, to our gardens, our walls, our cellars.
4. The Promenade: lined by ash trees as it still is today, so there’s not much change there. The lake on the left, the town wall on the right. A bench between them. Shady. Shade is the theme. A young woman and a young man are sitting on the bench, holding hands. She is in white, with a brooch on her collar, he is trying to follow the fashion for mustaches. The year is 1941. Hardly anyone wishes you “Good day” now. Either it’s “Heil Hitler” or you don’t give a greeting at all, but in a public place like the promenade no one would like to appear discourteous.
An ordinary sort of couple. Not too good-looking, not too elegant. Hands perhaps a centimeter or so apart. We say they are a couple because we know how it turned out; they almost held hands that day; there was a wedding, and nine months later along came Herrmann. Only they weren’t in love. Not on the promenade, not in the bad times that were coming and fired up many a relationship. They stayed together, yes, and they didn’t bother each other. You could say they behaved to one another all their lives like their hands on the postcard, just about to touch. If you look closely, you can see that the young woman on the promenade is suppressing a yawn.
Two people under the ash trees on the promenade. Two people who wouldn’t have spent their lives together but for the promenade. If Herr Schliebenhöner hadn’t stopped them separately and asked them to pose for a photo on the bench, they’d have passed each other a little way up the promenade with a shy “Heil Hitler,” and that would have been it.
You would have been able to see the ferryman from the promenade. And the women in Frau Kranz’s first painting. Three bells are resting under the ash trees beside the lake. Perhaps they like it on the promenade.
That well-lit promenade. That subsidized, undermined promenade. Ah, those mice who scurry over the tarmac. A little refuge for those who may be in love, a forum for proletarians, a place for Anna to run when she goes running, a country road for satnav devices. That eternal promenade. Our promenade.
ANNA COMES UP FROM THE PROMENADE, RUNS past the new buildings, past the Gölow property, turns along the former railway embankment, puts on a spurt at the dilapidated railway station where, as we remember it, the morning train from Prenzlau let off the first guests coming to the Feast.
Anna approaches the fallow field. Not even the oak tree has survived such a night as that intact. Anna is tired. She would be home in two or three minutes, but she wants to look at the oak tree. The tree slants up into the mist, its branches touch the ground to left and right as if they were growing straight from the soil. Anna climbs over the fence and makes her cautious way through the bushes. The field doesn’t care about caution, she can hardly move along, gets her clothes caught in the undergrowth, does not get impatient.
Lightning has split the oak tree, breaking it open from inside. It is white; white timber. Let’s imagine that the air smells of smoke. The ground is churned up, a narrow grave as if the lightning had turned the soil. Or as if someone had been digging.
Two pale skulls lie in the earth. The yellowish-white of hungry teeth. Anna has only a few meters to go, in a week’s time her term begins, she’s going to study marine technology in Rostock, she wants to design ships; she’d like the ships that she designs to be built so that other people can steer them over the seas. She bends over the skulls, is going to pick one of them up, puts a twig into its eye socket, and a hand comes down on her shoulder.
We would scream. Anna keeps calm. The skull slips off the twig and is caught by a stranger’s hand in mid-flight through the air.
“Good catch in this light,” says the tall, handsome one, grinning at the skull.
“They never had a Christian burial rite,” says the small, sturdy one, crouching down at the side of the grave. They are Anna’s rescuers from earlier in the night. Anna takes a deep breath and shakes the hand off her shoulder.
“What are you two still doing here?” As long as you can say the right words in a firm voice, you have nothing to fear.
“We thought we wouldn’t go before telling ourselves hello,” says Q, examining the skull and cleaning soil out of the holes in it with his forefinger. Henry plucks leaves off his companion’s coat. They have cigarettes with them, and cans of beer. Anna declines to drink with them — oh, come on! No.
Q gives Henry a light; the flame shoots out of his thumb. Henry dips his hands into the grave like a surgeon into a patient’s body, bones clatter, he brings out the second skull. Q holds his to his cheek, as if he wanted to show Anna the likeness.
“The oak tree,” says Anna. “Frau Schwermuth once told me people were hanged from it.”
“We come into the world innocent, we may go to our death sinners.”
“The rope showed that we weren’t always winners.” They laugh. Anna doesn’t. They clink the skulls together. To the dead! They drink. Henry offers his skull a sip too.
“Who—” Anna hesitates. “What are you?”
Q takes off his coat and puts it round her shoulders. Henry walks over to the grave, rhythmically opening and closing the lower jaw of the skull he holds with a clatter, Q joins him, they are actors now, and this is the last act. Not Anna but the grave is their audience.
They speak in unison, thoughtfully: “We — we are what you would be: worldly-wise, carefree are we. Power, a dig at you as we’re leaving, honest avengers wanted for thieving. We are the fury of ancient songs, wild as we go about righting wrongs.” Softly at the end: “We are two who will endeavor, with our necks in the noose, to sing for ever.”
Henry puts his cigarette between the jaws of the skull. The field crackles, as if familiar with fire.
The cigarette goes out. They put the skulls carefully back in the grave. Pile the earth over them with their bare hands. Anna takes Schramm’s pistol out of the pocket of her jacket, and lays it in the grave too. Helps them.
They escort Anna to the farmhouse, take off their caps, bow politely to her; their farewells do not take long, and then they are off, two dissimilar figures going cross-country through the Uckermark, one tall and slender, the other short and strong.
WE ARE EXHAUSTED. THE BIRDS HAVE NO CONSIDERATION for us. The dawn twilight, the tiles, the stones in the fields: all clammy. Suzi takes a detour along the side of the lake. Mist hovers over the water. Frau Kranz is packing up her things. Suzi offers to help her. No. The old woman wades through the reeds. She shows Suzi the painting. Her lips are bluish. His glance wanders from left to right. He goes closer. Frau Kranz wants to know his opinion.