Moving Parts

He cannot refrain from asking bitterly who is actually in charge in this space, who has placed the various figures in it, who set the events in motion. It may be that the principal matters are resolved in the mechanisms of grammar, in the inscrutable moving parts of the elevators. He who slept through the scene in the garden, the lavishly illuminated climax, is probably still under the illusion that nothing can happen here without his knowledge and without his will. Occupied with his own affairs, he only infrequently and sparingly gives his distracted attention to the story, and his overweening pride leads him to believe that this is sufficient, and that anything he touches, however casually, will immediately become transformed into precious metal. And yet he does not know everything that goes on behind his back, between the lines of the text, in the dark corners behind the paragraphs. Story lines that he ordered to be concluded and cut off are unfolding on the quiet — proof that his will does not determine everything. Where now is the black automobile loaded with luggage? Perhaps in a ditch, out of gas, pushed aside by the throng like all the other cars. Fojchtmajer and his family are among those wandering the roads on foot, sleeping in barns; the autumn is a warm one. Until winter comes they can manage like this. In any case, a simple accident will free Fojchtmajer from the arduous obligation of surviving the winter, and the frost will never touch him. Before it can strike, soldiers in gray-green uniforms will appear on motorcycles — two privates and a sergeant. The cause of the far-reaching disruption that arises suddenly from their presence may turn out to be some denunciation linking the person of Fojchtmajer with the Polish Word publishing house. For someone up above, this could serve as a convenient excuse to close this bothersome story line once and for all. At the decisive moment Fojchtmajer’s wife disowned him without hesitation, and so convincingly that she rescued the children from danger. He was present at the time, and appreciated the ease with which she lied; he felt relieved and grateful. And so his wife and children are in the crowd, while Fojchtmajer stands to one side now, his hands raised, under guard. Betrayed, three times betrayed. He will exchange a word with one of the privates; his wife waits anxiously for a sign, for after all she loves him as much as she is able. With a helpless smile Fojchtmajer shakes his head: Nothing can be done.