This completes my act of contrition with respect to Captain Heinz Kraschutzki. Let him now rejoin the living characters in my book—sans chickens, to be sure, and absolved of being a mutineer against God, King, and Fatherland, those three entities that have caused so much trouble for humankind in the upwards as well as the downwards direction, but especially downwards, where the soldier makes his appearance, standing rigidly at attention with his brain in his boots. Since the Stone Age we have never come to grips with spiritual ossification. Perhaps there are some who wish to believe that man is a rational being who can get beyond acting with tooth and claw. But here, too, let truth be told.
Additional Correction:
I cite a character in my island memoirs, Bobby, as presenting his business card with the same typographic design as the printing of this book. This refers solely to the first edition, whose colophon reads as follows:
“The Island of Second Sight by Albert Vigoleis Thelen was set in Poliphilus and printed in the autumn of 1953 by Drukkerij G. J. Thieme in Nijmegen, under commission from G. A. van Oorschot, publisher on the Herengracht, Amsterdam, and bound by Elias P. van Bommel in Amsterdam. The typographic design is by Helmut Salden, Wassenaar. The licensed German-language edition is published by the Eugen Diederichs Verlag, Düsseldorf.”
Further Correction:
For years there have been reports that I was dead. Yet it is not the purpose of this supplement to my island recollections to contradict advisories concerning my interment. Recently the announcements about my biting the dust have become more numerous. There have even been some messages of condolence, which I have found just as touching as they are amusing, because when the fateful hour finally arrives I’ll be in no position to savor them, either in heaven or in hell. I will have disappeared into the void, dans le néant. And that’s just as it should be.
But people whom I have myself caused to die with strokes of my pen, people who since then have proven to be very much alive — in my applied recollections I have restored such individuals to life, as in the case of Navy Captain Kraschutzki.
In the book, I reproduced the death notice of an uncle of my mother’s, from the Scheifes farm in St. Hubert. I added an assertion that God had forgiven this murderer, but that he had not escaped the secular arm of the law. He was hanged, I wrote, basing my conclusion on oral reports from my grandmother and my mother. This family oral tradition is erroneous. I am seizing the opportunity presented by this new edition of my book to set things straight.
Not long ago I received a copy of the local newsletter from the village of St. Hubert, the Hubertus Messenger, No. 98, dated October, 1974. Under the headline ‘St. Hubert Enters World Literature?’ the death certificate is quoted together with my explanation of the murderous deed. The author of this notice added the following commentary:
“The death notice for Heinrich Hermann Scheifes, which A. V. Thelen incorporated into his novel, was quoted together with other information in Footnote 29 of the article ‘Diary of the Remarkable Events, Recorded by C. Pielen in St. Hubert’ in the Hubertus Messenger, No. 42. It should be noted that not only has God forgiven this unhappily culpable man, but the civil authorities were also merciful toward him. Following early release from prison, he lived for a long time in the vicinity of Stenden-Rahm, where he passed away. Given all that we know about the man, it is clear that he was not a murderer. Signed: Ma.”
It was not wanton macabre fantasy that caused me to let this putative murderer hang from a tree. Rather, I was following carefully the legend about him that was current within my own family. This now takes me straightaway to the topic of the credibility of my Applied Recollections. What is a “legend”? Here in my Island, you can read Pascoaes’ opinion that legend corrects history, and in another passage, that truth is no different from legend. On the other hand, in Conde-Duque de Olivares by the eminent man of science Gregorio Marañón, we find the statement that “legend is a caricature of truth.” One step further on this controversial subject, and I have arrived at Ernst Bertram and his book on Nietzsche. An Attempt at a Mythology. Bertram’s Introduction is concerned specifically with the nature of legend, and it has often been contested: what remains of history, he says, is quite simply legend.
I am therefore grateful to the Hubertus Messenger, which has herewith permitted me to return an executed but now half-cleansed man to his world and to my reader, by removing the noose from his neck.
Further, there is need for supplementary information in reference to p. 462 above, where, in keeping with what Pedro reported to us at the time, I remark in passing that several children had died. This, too, is erroneous, for now it is necessary to add two more children. Permit me to explain this unfortunate omission:
In the autumn of 1976, Vigoleis and Beatrice finally decided to make a return trip to Mallorca to enjoy a reunion with Pedro, and to make the acquaintance of his wife and their three children. Besides, Pedro had expressed his desire to create on canvas a portrait of myself in old age.
After 40 years, during the exact week of our former departure and overcome with emotion, we fell into each others’ arms. And like 40 years previous, Beatrice received a kiss on her hand from this Spanish grandee — nothing had changed, except that we had grown old. During this visit we often retraced our own steps. But the island was no longer our island. It had turned into an encampment for international tourism. Where ships of the Woermann Line once discharged hordes of Strength Through Joy passengers, now each and every hour thundering jets spewed forth travelers onto the island.
Our first destination was the Street of General Barceló, the Calle del General Barceló, House No. 23. The street itself had not much changed, although the house numbers had. But inside the front door we found our old address number. A little farther on, at the corner, we sought out Jaume’s and Don Matías’ bakery, but it was no longer there. Then we turned into the Calle de las Apuntadores, heading for the Count’s pensión and the little store run by pretty Angelita. But great heavens! Our little street was unrecognizable! It now was one single bazaar, with tavern after tavern, each one offering, on posted menus and in pub windows, selections to suit the taste of Teutonic customers: sauerkraut, fresh-ground coffee, and similar items of German gourmandise. What had once been the aunts’ shop was now a restaurante. And yet — may I continue serving as a Baedeker? — the little palace that had harbored the Pensión del Conde was still there, but in more decayed condition. The tree-shaking monkey Beppo’s coconut palm in the inner courtyard was withered. And upstairs, everything was transformed. The place was teeming with hippies, who had established here an international convention center. I felt very uncomfortable moving about in such company and stumbling over them. They were living in their own world, and the new proprietor of this rooming house, a bearded fellow, asked us with a scowl why we had entered the place. I explained the reason for our visit to the Conde’s Pensión, but he was unable to provide us with any information. He knew nothing about this Count. Besides, amid all the noise produced by the unruly crowd of kids, we were hardly able to make ourselves understood. Where at one time noble personages had found shelter, a brand new style of living held sway. So we left the premises, I with my head bowed.