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from all sides, thronging together, corpse to corpse,
pressed closely more.
    Gradually, the spot becomes deserted as before and I am still
staring down, motionless as ever, on the water rattling by.
    Again something rises up from the dark water towards the gleaming shine. A head, a single head, the same one I saw today,
with the thick, black hair hanging sodden and tangled around the
temples and with the long, dark lashes that cast a shadow on the
wax-matt cheeks. And suddenly again I see the old, grinning
skeleton grasp with his rough claw the big, black shock of hair and
shake the head with its pall of suffering, to and fro, in wild fury, so
that the eyes are opened and stare at me with a silent, pleading,
fear-filled gaze.

    I am startled by the dog that begins to whine as I grasp hold of
it roughly, and the vision disappears.
    Still the water rattles on with its restless black waves. The little
dog drops off to sleep once more, and again I stare down on the
dark waters. But now the luminous spot has gone and there is
nothing but darkness and black around me.
    I see myself lying blue and contorted beneath the water where I
am sucked into the mud, soiled and battered, and I follow my own
corpse that bloats and rises to the surface. It snags on a barge
which drags it along over mud and stones; I see how it comes
loose and floats along on the current and how, finally, it is fished
out by a passing boatman. I see the little yellow cart, pushed along
by an indifferent drudge and accompanied by a single police
officer; I see how it rolls along past quiet backwaters where
everyone moves out of the way, revolted, as it passes, how it
continues on its lengthy way one evening and reaches the churchyard.
    The rain that slowly has begun to fall shakes me from my
reverie. I take shelter tight against the planks and continue to
drowse.
    I see the churchyard, a sunny, warm comer, green with tall grass
sprouting up luxuriantly among which rough thistles and yellow
dandelions grow, quietly rained on by the white petals the may is
sprinkling down. Warm and clear, the glow of the sun radiates
from the crisp blue sky and scorches the leaves of a copper beech
casting a deep shadow over this quiet spot. Humming flies dance
around it, a few white butterflies sway gently to and fro on a tall
ear of grass-seed that, spindly, sticks out above the rest. Repeatedly,
a mild wind rustles through the leaves of the surrounding woods
and makes the little spots of shade dance and intertwine on the
soft, gleaming, green turf. Now and then, a bird perches on the
grey tombstones, hops to and fro for a while on the warm stones and disappears among the quiet twigs. The air trembles, straight
from the soil up to the deep blue of the heavens above.

    The rain falls more heavily. The wind blows more strongly
across the dark water.
    This has to be the end - and when I get up, for a moment I still
feel the warm breath of the little dog which I have startled from its
sleep and I see all the visions of that entire day pass before me one
more time, the pale head of a woman with the black hair, the dense
throng of corpses; and when they have passed, everything dissolves
into the same grinning old skeleton who, like today, stretches out
his scrawny hand to me.
    While I am ready to do that to which everything propels me,
while I already feel the scrawny hand with irresistible grip urge me
toward the dark pool glugging forth wildly in the direction of the
great, black water, whipped up by the wind, while the gloomy cry
of the winter-radish man sounds from the opposite side of the
water, I suddenly see in the sunny spot of the churchyard a
woman, wrinkled with sorrow, who is staring at a raised spot
under which I myself am lying, and I recognise in her my
mother ...
    I return home, sadder and gloomier than ever, followed by the
skinny dog who stays close to me and trots along beside me with
a drooping tail.

     

Jan