On the other side of the boards are all the hidden lighting installations and heating and cooling ducts; work is in full swing around the red-brick workshops, forklifts crisscrossing the whole time, though never cutting across the field of vision painted on the backdrops in the appropriate colors, with a predominance of yellow ochre imitating the hue of plasterwork. Thus, the workshops themselves are not seen either, nor the workmen in overalls, nor the huge gantry cranes, even though these are in constant use. Standing on the square as the first character at hand and gazing down the street, one is unable to imagine the real topography of the terrain. Besides, such surplus knowledge would be of no use to the characters. It’s better to live tranquilly, though in the dark, and have no notion of what one is participating in. And if the order of things has already been disturbed, ignorance absolves one of inquiring into the reason, of wondering what led to the collapse. Whose calculations lay behind it, and which layers of sand were disturbed. Why those and not others. Here and there cracks had appeared; foundations had begun to settle dangerously, and a number of walls had collapsed on the spot. To avoid an unexpected and tragic end in one of the stories resembling this one, some hurried evacuations had to be arranged.
The apprentices fashion poles into a new construction to prop up the backdrop. They work quickly but unwillingly. After the last nail is knocked in, they move away at last to light up a longed-for cigarette. As chance would have it, the painted back-drops they took from the warehouses had been used once before in a story about the difficulties of life under an oppressive regimen, and bore evident signs of censorship. To be precise, they were missing sizable fragments of pavement and wall, which had been removed along with the matching parts of the plywood base. It was not hard to guess why they had been cut out: to get rid of certain unsettling details that would have stirred recollections and emotions. It may have been, for example, that in this place there were bullet holes in a row, along with disturbing red smears. Repugnant circumstances, the memory of which some character harnessed to his own paltry drama of power had at one time attempted to erase, were written permanently into the background in this indirect way, through the removal of the traces they had left behind. Who reached for a saw to carry out such an order, when, and what did they get for it? Hardly anything, that much is certain. It was probably done by inexperienced apprentices, because only they — without the knowledge of the masters, and perhaps deceived by the trappings of majesty — could have violated the principle of paying no attention to the desires of the characters, and the practice of avoiding all contact with them. The largest holes were patched with pieces of thick cardboard, without even taking the trouble to color them ochre to conceal the repair. No eye will linger over them anyway. The gaze will rather be drawn towards the gaudy pennants jutting from the rows of windows painted on the plywood. This distant view was not without influence on the course of events; it reminded the concierges that in their apartment buildings too there were flags in the same national colors, stowed away in dusty closets and dark storage spaces beneath some flight of stairs or another, waiting for their time, which, so it seemed, had now come. Before long they flowered on the façades of the buildings round the square, restoring the equilibrium of bright accents between foreground and background. A wind blew up, opening the flags and setting them aflutter. This was the most emphatic sign that something had changed. The flags multiplied in windows; there were more and more of them by the minute. No one had known previously just how many had been lying about in various corners, but nor was anyone surprised. For of all the things one can think of, flags are the easiest to sew; no kind of faith or hope is required for the job.
And what about that other square, in a different story, of necessity vacated and closed down? And the suddenly interrupted threads of stories entwining it? And the inhabitants, removed from their own homes by a peremptory decree? Up till now they had lived where they belonged, uninitiated into the mysteries of the freight railroad, uninformed about the layers of sand shifting beneath the foundations of their houses or the economies made in the construction of the walls, far away from the notary and his safe. They did not know the overalled masters and they did not know whose account they were paying for; otherwise they never would have resigned themselves to the wrong they had suffered. Misfortune is easiest to accept when it is beyond comprehension. And now, unlike the notary, these people no longer had anything to worry about. The worst had already happened. In the place where they had lived till now, the ground had been pulled from under their feet.
So it should come as no surprise if they now begin to emerge from the streetcar at the stop in front of the local government offices. First just a handful of them — let’s say one family, like a sign that is a prelude to the arrival of crowds. Someone has to take the first step, and this first step is from a later perspective nothing more than the presage of an already familiar continuation. Thus, the streetcar comes to a halt and the first refugees appear on the square: a small group of dark figures of different ages, in thick winter overcoats, caps with earflaps, head scarves, mufflers, and thick gloves. They tread unsurely, disoriented by the sudden downturn in their fortunes. The question of whether they may have come at the wrong time is the last thing they would wish to ask themselves. They too were not asked whether an explosion would be convenient for them. They hand down suitcases and bundles and arrange them on the sidewalk as if they believed — without so much as a hint of gratitude — that it had now been given over into their possession in return for the home they had lost. The streetcar cannot move on till they have finished unloading their belongings — till with the help of their children they have dragged out all the cardboard boxes tied with string, the sled, the teddy bear, the gramophone with its huge trumpet, and the canary in a cage. While they’re maneuvering all these objects, they have something to do, and while there is something to do, there is also hope. Afterwards things will only get worse.
The moment the streetcar pulls away, they’ll begin to look around helplessly, not knowing what to do with their luggage or themselves. They’ll check whether they have brought the tureen with the gold band, a memento of the large service of best porcelain that they could not fit in their cases. They’ll have a slight quarrel, allowing their raised voices to drift all the way up to the windows of the apartments. Then they’ll press their ears to the trunks to check which one contains the ticking dining room clock. But ticking is nowhere to be heard, so they have to open the trunks and make sure that the clock is safely where they packed it, wrapped in a blanket. If it hadn’t been for the haste imposed by unexpected events, they could have taken whole sets of tumblers and wine glasses, and they would have had time to wrap each individual one in tissue and pack it in sawdust. Yet if it hadn’t been for those events beyond their control, why would they have left home in the first place? The youngest little girl is hugging a small pillow. It is her entire luggage. She stumbles as she carries her unwieldy burden, but she won’t hear any word of encouragement, because the grownups have forgotten about the job they gave her. She’s despondent and wants to return home. She was always the apple of their eye; so why is it that right now they don’t hear her moaning and whimpering? She might be forgiven for thinking they have wads of invisible cotton wool stuck in their ears. When she stamps her little foot on the sidewalk, their gaze passes over her oblivious, wrapped in a mist of more important affairs. The pillow could just as well be lying on the curb, and that’s where it falls. The little girl grabs at sleeves and coattails, to no avail. Since her desperation remains without a response, she begins to understand that there is no return to what was before, and that all her privileges are gone. She sits down on her pillow, her eyes wide open in astonishment. The tears that proved useless dry on her cheeks.