But the two older children still suspect nothing. While the policeman checks their parents’ papers, they will feed the canary with a crust of bread stuck between the bars of the cage, abandoning their luggage unconcernedly on the sidewalk. The canary, tired from the journey, ruffles its feathers and turns its back on them. The only thing left is for them to run around in circles. And so they run till they’re fit to drop, laughing wildly. Gleefully disobedient, for their own amusement they start running away from their mother and making faces from a distance at their father, who is walking round the square and, straining to be as polite as possible, which is understandable in his situation, is asking about a place to rent. The mother, in the meantime, is worn out. She sits on the suitcases, though she would rather have simply lain down on them. She is in an advanced state of pregnancy; her overcoat will not fasten across her belly, and she looks as if she could give birth at any moment. The children will keep hiding round the corner and coming back, hot and perspiring, until at the final moment, exhausted by their own giddiness, they burst into bitter tears. And it’s plain to see that their laughter meant nothing, and that only their crying truly counts.
There is nothing to rent, nor could there be; each concierge sends the father on to the next building without so much as batting an eyelid. If only because of the cap with the earflaps and the thick winter coat, which smells of mothballs, drawing attention to itself and arousing mistrust. Otherness is always conspicuous from a distance, though it’s hard to say how one recognizes it, if not from certain elusive attributes of cut and fabric. And what on earth kind of cut is that, what on earth sort of cloth is it, how can anyone wear something like that? — such questions automatically present themselves to the concierges, and especially to their wives. As for the upper windows overlooking the street, not many details can be seen from up there, but even so the first thing that will be noticed by the concerned occupants will be the foreignness of the handful of overcoats, incongruous as dark inkblots against the clean sidewalk, with its pattern of paving stones like squared office paper. Concerning the matter of foreignness, then, the locals need only a single glance, accustomed as they are to recognizing it in all its shades. There is no need for the mind to exert itself, and it’s hard to be mistaken. The newcomers’ attire does not blend subtly into the background; on the contrary, it is strikingly dark, and stands out in sharp contours displeasing to the eye. It can immediately be seen that they do not belong to this story. Foreignness, isolated within itself, is incapable of explaining itself, despite having introduced into the landscape a stain so disturbing it borders on deliberate provocation. Foreignness is foreign, and that is what constitutes its essence.
In the meantime, behind the lace curtains indignation is growing. If I am one of the respectable housewives following the doings of the newcomers from their windows, in my opinion the children ought to realize that they are not at home here. Because whether they feel at home determines what they are allowed to get away with. And if they do not understand this, the fault most certainly lies with their parents. The latter, however, are quite clearly occupied only with themselves and with what has happened to them somewhere else, and is of no concern to anyone here. Do people here not already have their own local worries? We have no need of new complications. And after all, it’s quite possible that the newcomers, wrapped in their overcoats, scarves, and caps with earflaps, will bring with them a harsh climate foreign to this place: snowstorms or bitter frosts. One can only hope that if the threads of stories they have brought with them are immediately cut short, the newcomers will sit for a while on their suitcases and then, having nothing to latch on to, will disappear along with their luggage. They’ll simply vanish into thin air, ending this unexpected breakdown of order, and the prior state of affairs will be happily restored. It’s obvious, then, that they should not be given even the most cramped quarters to rent. Besides, for a paltry few pennies that may decrease in value anyway by tomorrow, no one will want to run the risk of problems such as icy drafts whistling through their apartment, especially since their entire supply of coal from the cellar would go up in smoke in the course of a few days. Why would they allow such a thing to happen when it’s more than likely that the bad luck which has already driven these warmly dressed figures from their homes will continue to hold them in its grip?
Whatever one might think of the story taking place around the square, it was conceived as a light and smooth thing, and this fact bothered no one. It could have been told in a restrained tone of voice, without any trembling of the hands, without the need to touch on any weighty issues. Even if it contained a small amount of pain, this pain was shot through with comicality. And if a policeman appeared in it, it was only because of his amusing qualities — in other words, so he could strut about in his ill-fitting uniform. The handsome student was needed for balance, so the maid should also have someone to be sweet on. Everything was fashioned to a middling size, so there was no danger of choking on one’s laughter, nor of shedding a single tear. The suffering in the story did not assume the kinds of dimensions that would exhaust one’s reserves of sympathy, giving a lie to the belief that these are unlimited. Did it bother anyone that the notary pinches the maid, that the maid has a crush on the student, or that the policeman has eyes for the maid? What of it that the notary’s tired, overweight body refuses to obey him, or that the student is shown in a less than complimentary light by the professors’ comments in his grade book and by the excesses of behavior in which he has distinguished himself? What of it that the policeman, worn down by constantly being passed over for promotion, no longer has a heart for his duties and contents himself with an outward show of conscientiousness? No one minded about the cream cakes in the glass display case, even if one or another of them turned out to be inedible. There were no complaints.
It would be best for the newcomers to go away again, allowing the continuation of a story to which they did not belong. But it seems instead that because of them, all local matters will have to take a new turn. For when the streetcar stops again outside the government offices, more and more new arrivals start climbing down in an endless stream, struggling with unwieldy packages and tugging teary-eyed children behind them. And since it had fallen to their lot to leave so abruptly, and they did not know if they would ever return, they had to put on their winter overclothes. If they had been asked about the smell of mothballs, they would have said they hadn’t had time to air their things.
The windows of the local government offices would offer the best view of the scene below, with its ever-increasing numbers of dark padded overcoats and the accompanying bundles, trunks, and suitcases. The first few dark specks against the background of the sidewalk rapidly spread into a large ink stain. Looking down from above, one could see how many of the new arrivals were already encamped on the square and how many were still emerging from the streetcar. A trembling old woman is having trouble negotiating the step, but she has no need of anyone’s assistance since a first grader in pigtails is with her and will help her down. Alas, there is no bench for the grandmother to sit on, though that is all she wants. A blind man in dark glasses taps at the step with his white cane before cautiously placing his foot on it. With one hand always occupied, he was able to take with him only a single small piece of luggage, which is actually just a violin case, and it would be hard to say what he packed in it — food, a change of underwear, or an instrument. Following the blind man, a flock of children pours out of the streetcar, black mourning bands on their arms. They jostle one another noisily. They’re from an orphanage, which evidently also collapsed. The black is fresh in some cases; other armbands have faded. Each was probably sewn at some time in an impulse of the heart by a compassionate aunt shaken by the sudden misfortune in the family. She would have liked to be of more service, but she lacked the strength, and since she was unable to take the orphan in, she merely attached the child’s mourning to his sleeve with black tacking, and so it remained.