That afternoon Hans had gone out for a stroll, less for pleasure than because he felt restless — he had been trying to concentrate for hours, unable to translate a single sentence. His brain was a dicebox in which images, fears and the roots of words were being jiggled about. He was fretting over the difficulty of the text, the situation with Sophie and the organ grinder’s health. He followed the stream of people climbing the Hill of Sighs until he found himself opposite the railings of Wandernburg Cemetery — a place he had never visited. He contemplated the sea of black headscarves, the long flowing coats, the lowered veils, the felt hats pulled down, the dark armbands, the shoes submerged in their own blackness and the rebellious contrast of floral offerings. Where did all these people come from? Why were Wandernburg’s streets even more crowded on All Souls’ Day than they were in spring?
At the entrance, a shabby beggar sat slumped against the wall. As they passed, the visitors stretched out their arms and dropped a few coins into his lap before hurrying on. This was the only day in the year when the beggar didn’t need to speak to or look at his benefactors. He simply accepted their charity, eyelids half-closed, almost with indifference. Mourners are generous, reflected Hans — they hope to buy a little more time. Hans began rummaging through his pockets in front of the bundle of rags. It opened its eyes and grunted: How’s the patient? Who, me? Hans started, I’m in perfect health, thank you, how about you? No, the beggar replied shaking his head irritated, not you, the organ grinder, is he any better? Ah, Hans said, surprised, well, sort of. When you see him, the beggar said, tell him his friend Olaf is waiting for him, don’t forget, will you? Olaf from the square. Now move along, please, you’re getting in the way of my customers.
Hans noticed that no one, absolutely no one in the whole of Wandernburg Cemetery allowed a hint of a smile to cross their faces, not even when they greeted one another. He found such consensus incredible. In a place like that, wasn’t it as reasonable to weep or to laugh aloud out of pure astonishment, to laugh at the absurdity, the miracle of being alive? But those gathered there acted as if they were standing in front of mirrors rather than tombstones. Veils raised, the widows displayed their sorrow and practised the various overtures to falling into a faint. The men vigorously shook their umbrellas, flexed their shoulders, clenched their jaws. Fascinated by this spectacle, the children copied their parents as closely as they could. Each time a sob rang out, another louder one next to it ensued. Suddenly, amid the figures dressed in black, Hans made out Frau Pietzine’s puffy, painted face. Seeing her entranced, busy murmuring her laments and dabbing her eyes beneath her veil, he did not dare disturb her, and walked on by.
Farther along the path, he stumbled on a strange sight — on an isolated knoll a man was dancing silently, eyes closed, around a grave bedecked with chrysanthemums. The dance was serene, old-fashioned. The painful memories etched onto the man’s face were overlaid with an expression of profound gratitude. Hans walked away thinking his grief was perhaps the most genuine of all those he had witnessed.
Near the exit, as he was reading some of the names and dates on the tombstones, Hans almost tripped and fell onto a grave whose edges were concealed by weeds. A voice behind him cried out as if from nowhere: “Hey, careful with my lads.” It was the gravedigger. Hans wheeled round and gazed at him curiously. He was surprised by his youth (why do we imagine gravediggers to be old?) and relative cheerfulness. A lot of work? Hans said, just for something to say. Don’t you believe it, replied the gravedigger, it’s the living that give us all the work. My lads — as I like to call them on account of it makes me more attached to them, see? — they don’t give me much trouble, ha, ha! Forgive me for asking, said Hans. (No need to apologise, the gravedigger declared, am I that scary looking?) Of course, sorry, I mean, this is my first visit to the cemetery and I wondered whether many people come on normal days. Many, you say? the gravedigger laughed. No one comes! No one at all! People only come here once a year, on All Souls’ Day. Well, said Hans, clapping him on the back (an amazingly firm back, hard as wood), I must be going, it’s been a pleasure, good luck. Thanks, likewise, replied the gravedigger, if you ever need me you know where to find me. I hope I shan’t be needing you, said Hans, no offence. It’s only a question of time, ha, ha! The gravedigger raised his arm and waved goodbye.
The first thing Hans glimpsed through the railings was not Mayor Ratztrinker’s exaggeratedly large hat, nor his fine silk socks, nor his velvet frock coat, it was his beak-like nose as he climbed out of his carriage. While the mayor’s whiskers ventured into the open air, a servant folded back the hood. No sooner had His Excellency’s foot touched the ground than a second servant handed him a wreath; the mayor clasped onto it as he would a funereal life belt. The cortège advanced slowly, accepting peoples’ greetings. When they walked past Olaf, Mayor Ratztrinker gave one of the servants a sidelong glance, at which the servant showered the beggar with coins. Good afternoon, Your Excellency, Hans murmured as he passed him on the way out. The mayor stopped, handed the wreath to a servant, and doffed his hat, pausing a moment before returning the greeting. This struck Hans as suspicious. They exchanged pleasantries, remarked on the worsening weather, and before saying goodbye Mayor Ratztrinker took a step forward. He looked Hans up and down, gestured to his beret and said nonchalantly: Jacobins aren’t welcome in Wandernburg. Neither are adulterers. Imagine what we think of Jacobin adulterers? The police, quite naturally, are concerned. Good afternoon.
He arrived at the cave as night fell. The organ grinder was talking to Lamberg, who had brought him some supper. Hans sat down on a rock and patted Franz’s side. You’ve arrived, kof, just in time, I was telling Lamberg about my dream last night. (And how are you feeling? asked Hans.) Me? — kof—Fine, just fine, you sound like a mother! But listen, I dreamt, kof, I was alone in the woods and I was very cold, like I hadn’t a stitch on, and then I began, kof, to shiver, and the more I shivered the more I sweated — funny, isn’t it? — only instead of droplets, kof, instead of droplets of sweat, my body gave off sounds, you know? Like notes, and the breeze carried them through the woods, kof, and they started to sound familiar, and I went on shivering and giving off sounds until, kof, I began to recognise the tune coming from my body, and at that moment I woke up (because of the dream? asked Lamberg), no, no, kof, because I was hungry!
Hans burst out laughing. Then he grew very serious. The organ grinder stretched out his bony arm, beckoning him to come near, and asked cheerily: How is Olaf?
No, child, no, Father Pigherzog whispered into her ear as the bell in the round tower rattled out the midday chimes with a clang like coins dropping into the collection plate, calm yourself, child, in spite of everything it is best you tell no one, nemo infirmitatis animi immunis, I sympathise, we spoke about this the other day, do you remember? Yet no matter how great your suffering only you can free yourself from it, that is what makes us worthy of the Lord, the power to transform evil into good, and to forgive, of course not, my child, I am not saying the Lord wishes you to suffer so much, but that He wants you to love once your suffering is over, so that your reward will be much greater. That is why, my child, you must tell no one about what happened to you.