But nor could I muster the cool to resume my reading. So, although I wasn’t much interested in nature, I stared out of the window, and saw advertising hoardings, guard-huts, ramps and telegraph poles. At the end of a quarter hour the lady found some change, handed it to me, said thank you, and joined me in looking out of the window. I took up my newspaper and read. The beautiful lady stood up, stretched, reached for the luggage rack, was unable to reach her suitcase, and stood there piteously. I felt compelled to get up, take down the surprisingly heavy suitcase, pretending that its weight was negligible, my muscles were bands of iron and steel, and the suitcase a down feather. I had to keep the blood from rushing into my face, discreetly mop the sweat that beaded on my brow, and with an elegant bow, say, “Madam!” I managed this feat, the lady opened her suitcase, a little gasp of perfume, soap and powder escaped from it, pulled out three books, and was evidently hunting for a fourth. All the while I sat there strickenly pretending to read, but actually wondering how I would ever get the suitcase back up on the luggage rack. Because there could be no doubt that I was condemned to return it to its resting place. Condemned to pick up an item that weighed more than I did, with effortless ease, and return it without turning purple. I silently tensed my muscles, loaded up with energy, and told my heart to be calm. The lady found her fourth book, shut the suitcase and made an attempt to lift it.
Her effort incensed me. Why did she pretend not to know that I was bound to relieve her of the task? Why not ask me directly for help, as required by morality and very nearly the law? What was she doing with such a heavy suitcase anyway? And seeing as she was, why hadn’t she packed her reading matter separately? Why did she have to read, seeing as she would certainly enjoy herself more talking to me right away, instead of allowing an hour to pass for the sake of decency? Why was she so beautiful that her helplessness was multiplied tenfold? And why was she a lady, and not a gentleman, a boxer, a sportsman, who might have picked up the suitcase with superb ease? My indignation was unavailing, I had to get up, say my “Allow me!” and with a superhuman effort hoist the suitcase up in the air. I stood on the seat, the suitcase was shaking in my hands — what if it should fall and crush the beautiful lady? It would have been unfortunate, but I don’t think I would have felt any guilt. Finally, the suitcase lay up on the rack, and I flopped back into my seat.
The lady thanked me and opened a book. From that moment on, I pondered how best to leave compartment and lady. I wholeheartedly envied any man with the good fortune of travelling with such a beautiful woman. But seeing as it was me, I did not envy myself. With honest alarm, I speculated about further useful objects the suitcase was bound to be harbouring. I no longer had eyes for my newspaper. The scenery had my contempt. Just as well a gentleman entered the compartment, a young, bold, athletic-seeming gentleman, and much dimmer than me. The lady set down her book. After a quarter hour, the gentleman made an idiotic remark, and the beautiful woman tinkled. He had presence of mind, quick-wittedness, he was capable of being entertaining, and surely of lifting a suitcase as well. He had no apprehensions, he would surely vanquish me and win the heart of the beautiful lady. I on the other hand had my peace of mind back, watched with indifference as the suitcase went up and down, my heart no longer pounded, and I followed with deep enjoyment the movements of the beautiful lady and the unfolding of the adventure. I was happy to have pleasant companions who were irked by my presence and wished me to the devil. For turbid natures like mine there is no better society.
Frankfurter Zeitung, 19 September 1926
57. Morning at the Junction
High summer. The train stops, and we hear the indefatigable chirping of crickets in the fields, and the song of telegraph wires, which sounds like the whooshing of dark, eerie, otherworldly scythes. The railway junction lies at the confluence of mountains, fields, larks and sky. We get there at four in the morning, no sooner and no later. The thoughtful timetable has arranged for the June sun and the passenger to reach the junction at the same time.
The porters are already up, so we aren’t on our own. Rails run off in every direction, elastic as stretched rubber bands, tightly held by far-off stations to keep them from snapping back to the junction. The station has a cosy restaurant in first, second and third class. Hospitable as it is, it accommodates a red vending machine with gold writing, six apertures for coins, a curly-wurly handle and a baroque gable that looks like a nod to some miniature gatehouse. All the stations I ever saw in my childhood had vending machines like that. I associate their aspect with the mysterious sound of the signals, the sound of the golden spoon in the glass that experts can interpret, but which to the layman says only that a train is coming from who knows where. Throughout my childhood, I saw those red vending machines. If I were to throw in a coin now, I could pull out the chocolate I would have wanted twenty years ago that I no longer care for.
The small green news-stand is still closed, as it’s thought to be too early for tobacco. The restaurant however is already giving out coffee, in freshly rinsed glasses, that a girl lifts out of their bath and holds up against the sun. Yesterday’s newspapers are on sale, not knowing that they are yesterday’s. But the sense of today is so strong that the newspapers look very old. The sunrise alone is enough to refute their news.
If you leave the station, you will see a hamlet so small that you wonder why the junction is here of all places, and if it is here, by blind chance, then why it hasn’t grown into a city; and how it can be the aim of a place to remain a junction and concentrate its whole significance outside itself, in the railway station; and how this place, even though every morning a train stops and passengers alight, is so deeply asleep it doesn’t even seem to know it is a junction at all. Only the cocks in all innocence are crowing. Not until five o’clock does a man with a rake and a watering can potter down the single street to his allotment. The barber is still asleep behind the fence that has his gleaming bronze basin affixed to it, a mirror in the sun. No. 76 is where the fire brigade’s trumpeter lives, there is a sign that says as much. His ground floor window is open, he gets up, kisses his wife, pulls a shirt on, and goes out to perform his ablutions. I stand outside his window in the hope that he will play me something, even though there’s no fire. An intellectual summer visitor is awake already. He is just setting off, swinging his cane, traces of soft boiled egg about his lips, up a mountain, the newspaper in his pocket, a subscriber to the bitter end, the highest peak.
How time creeps, when observed like this through a magnifying glass! Another three hours — and the clock on the church tower is slow. A stream drives a mill, a shepherd his sheep, a wind the morning fog. The news-stand at the station is still closed. It has glass walls, like someone sleeping with their eyes open. The girl at the buffet is still rinsing glasses. She has a plait, an apron, and her mouth is a little red splotch. Were you out for a walk? her mouth asks, while her hands rinse glasses. Are you travelling far?
Yes. — Will you take me with you then? — And because I fail to say yes (the junction makes one so slow on the uptake!), I answer her question with another: Would you like to come with me then?
Oh yes, she says.