Belle traveler when you come to the spa. Heinrich Böll

Plan

1. G. Bell - “the conscience of the German nation.”

2. The title of the story, its composition.

3. The hero’s perception of the world around him. Characteristics of a hero.

4. Symbols in the work.

Task for the preparatory period

1. See the stages of identification by the hero of your native school. 2. Let's define the symbols in the work.

Literature

1. Verenko L. The tragedy of the Second World War in the works of G. Böll // Foreign literature. - 2005. - No. 5 (405) - P. 7-8.

2. Belle G. Materials for the study of creativity. // World literature. - 1998. - No. 5. - P. 12-18.

3. Gladyshev V. Study of the works of G. Bell. 11th grade // Foreign literature. - 2005. - No. 5 (405). - P. 3-7.

4. Gordina L. Condemnation of the inhumane essence of war in G. Bell’s story “Traveler, when you come to Spa...” // Foreign literature. - 2005. - No. 5 (405). - pp. 9-11.

5. Goridko Yu. The theme of war in the works of G. Bell. 11th grade // Foreign literature. - 2005. - No. 5 (405). - P. 1-3.

6. Zatonsky D. A separate and independent humanity. // Foreign literature. - 2000. - No. 17 (177). - P. 3-6.

7. Chess K. G. Belle // Foreign literature. - 2003. - No. 10. - P. 21-23.

8. Yupin L. Philological analysis of the literary text of G. Bell's story "Traveler, when you come to Spa..." 11th grade. // Foreign literature. - 2005. - pp. 12-13.

9. Loboda A.P."The only thing that matters is being human." Lesson on the novel by A. Camus “The Plague”. 11th grade // Foreign literature. - 2000. - No. 1. - P. 13-18.

10. Goridko Yu. Studying the work of A. Camus // "ZL". - 2005. - No. 3 (403). - P. 5-16.

11. Marchenko Zh.“The absurdity of life is not the end at all, but only the beginning” (Sartre) (Based on the novel “The Plague” by A. Camus) // “ZL”. - 2005. - No. 3 (403). - pp. 17-20.

12. Nagornaya A. Yu. Understanding the writer’s creative style through the prism of philosophical ideas. Based on the novel “The Plague” by Camus // World Literature. - 2005. - No. 6. - P. 61-64.

Instructional and methodological materials

Heinrich Böll is one of the most famous writers of post-war Germany. He had to live during a difficult period in the history of his country, when brutal wars determined the existence of entire generations of Germans. The tragedy of the nation did not spare the writer and his family; The writer's father served as a soldier in the First World War. Henry himself fought on the fronts of World War II for six years. Tragic front-line events and their cruelty determined the meaning of the artist’s life and work. Towards the end of his life, Belle opposed the war as a man, a German and a writer. During the Second World War, having arrived at the terrible front (Eastern) in the summer of 1843, he ended up on the territory of Ukraine. The names of cities and villages of this region remained forever in his memory: Galicia, Volyn, Zaporozhye, Lvov, Cherkassy, Odessa, Kherson and many others. They became a symbol of German defeats and numerous deaths.

War in Bell's works is a war of the vanquished. It depicts its last period - the period of retreat and defeat. However, just like Remarque and Hemingway, Bell was interested in people in war.

The plot is based on the gradual identification of a young wounded soldier with the gymnasium where he studied for eight years and left three months ago.

The genre is short story. It is considered to be an example of psychological prose, because:

o a lot of reflections by the hero about the meaning of life in the composition of the story;

o the story is told in the first person;

o principle of contrast;

o the basis of the narrative is the process of the hero’s identification of his own gymnasium (past) and awareness of his future life;

o psychological details (table with the names of the fallen, writing on the board)

o psychological symbolism;

Features of the story composition

1. G. Bell constructed the plot in a somewhat unusual way so that the characters could reveal themselves to the readers themselves, without the author’s interpretations.

2. In G. Bell, the “I” is hidden behind various human characters and the writer himself almost never stood behind it.

3. The action in the work unfolded either through the dialogues of the characters, or through their monologues, stories about the events they witnessed.

5. The hero of the story is only a victim of war, because he did not commit any crimes.

6. The story is constructed in the form of a monologue, a confessional revelation of the soul of the protagonist, in which the reader always heard, to a greater or lesser extent, the voice of the author himself.

Quite strange and incomprehensible at first glance, a name that reeked of antiquity. This phrase is the beginning of an ancient Greek couplet-epitaph about the battle in Thermopylae Gorge, where the Spartan warriors of King Leonidas died defending their homeland. It sounded like this: “Tell, traveler, to the Macedonians that together we lie here dead, faithful to our given word.” the author was Simonides of Keos. These lines were known even in the time of Schiller, who translated the above-mentioned verse. Since Germany became an empire, it has identified itself with harmonious antiquity. Service to the empire was sanctified by the idea of the justice of the wars for which the school prepared German youths, although these wars could only be predatory. The poem about the Battle of Thermopylae is an old formula for heroism in a just war. It was in this spirit that German youth were brought up before and during the Second World War. It is no coincidence that the key phrase appears on the blackboard of a German gymnasium; it reflected the essence of the education system in Germany at that time, built on arrogance and deception.

The main problem of the work is “a man at war,” an ordinary, simple, ordinary person. Belle seemed to deliberately not give his hero a name, depriving him of expressive individual characteristics, emphasizing the individual character of the image.

The hero, having got to his native gymnasium, did not recognize her at first. This process occurs in several stages - from recognition with the eyes to recognition with the heart.

First stage. The wounded hero was carried into the gymnasium, where the medical aid station is now located, carried through the first floor, the landing, and the second floor, where there were drawing rooms. The hero felt nothing. He asked twice where they were now and witnessed how the dead soldiers were separated from the living and placed somewhere in the basements of the school. After some time, he watched as those who were caught alive were soon taken down - that is, to the dead. The school basement turned into a mortuary. So, the school is a house of childhood, joy, laughter, and the school is a “dead house”, a dead one. This terrible transformation is by no means accidental. The school, which prepared students for death through the entire educational system, was supposed to become a morgue.

Second phase.“My heart did not respond to me,” the hero of the story stated, even when he saw a very important sign: a cross hung above the door of the drawing room; at that time the gymnasium was still called the school of St. Thomas. And no matter how much they sketched it, it should still remain.

Third stage. The soldier was placed on the operating table. AND Suddenly, behind the doctor’s shoulders on the board, the hero saw something that made his heart respond for the first time since he was in this “dead house.” On the board was written, made by his hand. This culmination of the story, the culmination of identification, took place at the end of the work and is concentrated in the statement “which we were then told to write, in that hopeless life that ended just three months ago...”. The moment of identification in the story coincided with the moment the hero realized what had happened to him: he was missing both arms and his right leg. This is how the educational system that “they” established in the gymnasium of St. Thomas ended (a Christian gymnasium, one of the postulates of which was probably like the biblical commandment: “Thou shalt not kill!”).

The German writer actually disparaged fascism as a phenomenon. His heroes - soldiers, corporals, sergeant majors, chief lieutenants - simple servants, executors of someone else's will, did not find the strength to resist fascism, and therefore they themselves suffered to a certain extent from their involvement in its crimes. No, Belle did not justify them - he sympathized with them as people.

Bell's little story "Traveler, when you come to Spa..." is permeated with enormous anti-war pathos. It spoke of the denial not only of fascism, but also of any war.

The plot of the story is structured as a gradual recognition by the main character, a young crippled soldier, of the gymnasium in which he studied for eight years and which he left only three months ago, when he was sent straight from his school desk to the front.

Describing in detail the props of the gymnasium of the then fascist Germany, Bell suggested to the reader that such props corresponded to a certain system of education and, in this case, the education of racism, national exclusivity, and militancy.

Glancing over all the paintings and sculptures, the hero remained indifferent; everything here is “foreign” to him. AND Only when he got to the operating table, which was located in the drawing room, did he recognize the inscription on the board made by his hand: “Traveler, when will you come to Spa... At that same moment, he realized his condition. This is how the education system ended, which "they" (fascists) installed in the gymnasium of St. Thomas. The school, which taught to kill, itself turned into a corpse house (dead soldiers were stored in the basements).

It is no coincidence that the teacher forced him to write on the blackboard exactly the ancient Greek couplet of Simonides of Keos about the battle of 300 courageous Spartan warriors at Thermopylae against the conquering Persians. A poem about this battle is an old formula for heroism in a just war. Every single one of the Spartans died defending their homeland.

The fascists, in a pharisaical manner, sought to “identify” themselves with the Spartans. By killing the idea of just wars in the minds of young people, preparing them for a heroic death, fascist ideologists, in fact, were preparing “cannon fodder” for Hitler, which was so necessary for him to carry out his anti-human intentions.

However, the world recognized the heroism of the brave warriors of Sparta, and it also condemned Hitlerism, rebelling against it and destroying it through joint efforts.

Symbolism of the WORK

The main idea of the work

The author convinced that war should not happen again, man was born for life, not for death, it is called to build, to create beauty, and not to destroy the world in which it lives, because by destroying the environment, it first of all destroyed itself, because man is responsible for the fate of the world.

Heinrich Belle Traveler, when you come to Spa...

The story is told in the first person.

The car stopped. The voice commanded that those who were still alive be carried to the drawing room. There were painted walls on the sides, signs on the doors, and a photo from the sculpture between them. Next is a column, a sculpture, photographs. And on the small platform where we stopped there was a portrait of Friedrich. Then the hero was carried between Aryan faces and reached the next platform, where there was a monument to the warrior. They carried it quickly, but the hero had the thought that he had seen this somewhere. This is probably due to poor health. Further down the corridor there were three busts of emperors, and at the end of the corridor, above the entrance to the drawing room, hung a mask of Zeus. And again there are signs on the doors, a painting by Nietzsche. The hero foresaw what should appear next. And indeed, he saw a map of Togo. He was carried into the drawing room, which had been converted into a surgery, and given a cigarette. The hero consoled himself with the fact that everything he saw could be in any gymnasium.

He felt no pain. He began to think that he was in the same gymnasium that he graduated from eight years ago. But how could he end up here, she’s far away. Closing his eyes, he again saw the whole string of objects. And he screamed. They gave him a cigarette again and told him that he was in Bendorf, which meant he was home. And he could say with confidence that he was at the gymnasium. They gave him water, but not much. There was little water, the city was burning. The hero looked around and realized that he was in the drawing room of a classical gymnasium. But there are three of them in the city, which one exactly. Artillery salvos could be heard outside the window. The hero began to continue examining the drawing room. His feeling did not tell him that he was in his native gymnasium. He began to remember how he learned to draw and write fonts. It was boring and nothing worked for him. And now he was lying and could not move his arms. He did not remember how he was wounded, and screamed again. The doctor and fireman looked at him. Then they took someone who was lying nearby and carried him behind a sheet, behind which a bright light was burning. The hero closed his eyes again and began to remember his school years. Everything here seemed cold and alien. The orderlies took the stretcher with the hero and carried him behind the blackboard, behind the sheet, where the light was on. And he noticed another coincidence, a mark from a cross above the door. Near the operating table stood a doctor and a fireman who smiled sadly. The hero saw his image in the lamp, and turning his head, froze. On the scribbled side of the board, he saw an inscription in calligraphic handwriting: “Traveler, when you come to Spa...”. It was his handwriting. Nothing he had seen before could be proof. And now he remembered how several times he tried to write this phrase, and each time he did not have enough space on the board. At that moment he was given an injection in the thigh, and he tried to get up, but could not lean. Having examined himself, he discovered that he had been unswaddled, and he no longer had his arms and right leg. He screamed. The doctor and fireman looked at him in horror and held him. He recognized the fireman as the janitor of his school and quietly asked for milk.

Searched here:

traveler will come when you go to the spa summary
traveler when will you come to the spa summary
Traveler when will you come to Spa

Heinrich Böll

Traveler, when you come to Spa

The car stopped, but the engine continued to purr for several minutes; somewhere a gate opened. Light entered the car through the broken window, and I saw that the light bulb in the ceiling was also broken into pieces; only its base stuck out in the socket - several glittering wires with the remains of glass. Then the engine stopped, and someone shouted on the street:

Dead here, do you have any dead here?

Damn it! Are you not going dark anymore? - the driver responded.

Why the devil should it go dark when the whole city is burning like a torch, shouted the same voice. - Are there dead people, I ask?

Don't know.

The dead are here, do you hear? The rest of us go up the stairs to the drawing room, understand?

But I was not yet dead, I belonged to the others, and they carried me to the drawing room, up the stairs. First, they were carried along a long, dimly lit corridor with green, oil-painted walls and bent, old-fashioned black hangers tightly embedded in them; on the doors there were small white enamel plates: “VIa” and “VIb”; between the doors, in a black frame, shining softly under the glass and looking into the distance, hung Feuerbach's "Medea". Then there were doors with signs “Va” and “Vb”, and between them a photograph from the sculpture “Boy Pulling Out a Splinter”, an excellent, red-glowing photograph in a brown frame.

Here is the column in front of the exit to the landing, behind it is a wonderfully executed model - a long and narrow, truly antique frieze of the Parthenon made of yellowish plaster - and everything else that has long been familiar: a Greek warrior armed to the teeth, warlike and scary, looking like a disheveled rooster. In the stairwell itself, on the wall, painted yellow, there was everyone from the Great Elector to Hitler...

And on the small narrow platform, where for a few seconds I managed to lie straight on my stretcher, hung an unusually large, unusually bright portrait of old Frederick - in a sky-blue uniform, with shining eyes and a large shiny gold star on his chest.

And again I lay rolled to the side, and now I was carried past thoroughbred Aryan faces: a Nordic captain with an eagle eye and a stupid mouth, a native of the West Mosel, perhaps too thin and bony, a Baltic scoffer with a bulbous nose, a long profile and the protruding Adam's apple of a movie mountaineer; and then we got to another landing, and again within a few seconds I was lying straight on my stretcher, and even before the orderlies began to climb to the next floor, I managed to see it - a monument to a warrior decorated with a stone laurel wreath with a large gilded Iron Cross upstairs.

All this quickly flashed one after another: I was not heavy, but the orderlies were in a hurry. Of course, everything could only have been my imagination; I have a strong fever and absolutely everything hurts: my head, my legs, my arms, and my heart is pounding like crazy - whatever you can imagine in such heat.

But after the thoroughbred faces, everything else flashed by: all three busts - Caesar, Cicero and Marcus Aurelius, side by side, amazing copies; completely yellow, antique and important, they stood near the walls; when we turned the corner, I saw the column of Hermes, and at the very end of the corridor - this corridor was painted dark pink - at the very, very end, above the entrance to the drawing room, hung a large mask of Zeus; but it was still a long way off. To the right, in the window, the glow of a fire was red, the whole sky was red, and dense black clouds of smoke solemnly floated across it...

And again I involuntarily turned my gaze to the left and saw the signs “Xa” and “Xb” above the doors, and between these brown doors, as if smelling of mustiness, I could see Nietzsche’s mustache and sharp nose in a golden frame, the second half of the portrait was covered with a piece of paper with the inscription “Pulling Surgery” "...

If it happens now... flashed through my head. If it happens now... But here it is, I see it: a painting depicting the African colony of Germany Togo - colorful and large, flat, like an old engraving, magnificent oleography. In the foreground, in front of the colonial houses, in front of the blacks and the German soldier, who for some unknown reason was sticking out here with his rifle, - in the very, very foreground, a large, life-size bunch of bananas was yellowing; there is a bunch on the left, a bunch on the right, and on one banana in the very middle of this right bunch there is something scratched, I saw it; I think I scribbled it myself...

But then the door to the drawing room opened with a jerk, and I swam under the mask of Zeus and closed my eyes. I didn't want to see anything else. The hall smelled of iodine, feces, gauze and tobacco and was noisy. The stretcher was placed on the floor, and I told the orderlies:

Put a cigarette in my mouth. In the top left pocket.

I felt someone else's hands rummaging in my pocket, then a match was struck, and there was a lit cigarette in my mouth. I took a drag.

Thank you, I said.

All this, I thought, does not prove anything. After all, in any high school there is a drawing room, there are corridors with green and yellow walls in which bent old-fashioned dress hangers stick out; after all, this is not proof that I am in my school if “Medea” hangs between “IVa” and “IVb”, and Nietzsche’s mustache between “Xa” and “Xb”. Sure, there are rules that say that's where they should hang. Internal regulations for classical gymnasiums in Prussia: “Medea” - between “IVa” and “IVb”, in the same place “Boy Pulling out a Splinter”, in the next corridor - Caesar, Marcus Aurelius and Cicero, and Nietzsche on the top floor, where already study philosophy. Parthenon frieze and universal oleography - Togo. The “Boy Pulling out a Thorn” and the Parthenon frieze are, after all, nothing more than good old school props passed down from generation to generation, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who has taken it into his head to write “Long live Togo!” on a banana. And the antics of schoolchildren, in the end, are always the same. And besides, it is quite possible that the intense fever caused me to become delirious.

I didn't feel any pain now. In the car I was still suffering a lot; When she was thrown around on small potholes, I started screaming every time. Deep funnels are better: the car rises and falls like a ship on the waves. Now, apparently, the injection worked; Somewhere in the darkness they stuck a syringe into my arm, and I felt the needle pierce the skin and my leg felt hot...

Yes, this is simply impossible, I thought, the car probably did not travel such a long distance - almost thirty kilometers. And besides, you don’t experience anything, nothing in your soul tells you that you are in your school, in the same school that you left just three months ago. Eight years is not a trifle; after eight years, will you really know all this only with your eyes?

7 CLASS

HEINRICH BELL

TRAVELER, WHEN YOU COME TO THE SPA...

(abbreviated)

The car stopped, but the engine was still loud; somewhere a large gate opened. Light flew into the car through the broken window, and then I saw that the light bulb under the ceiling was broken into pieces, only the scroll was still sticking out in the socket - several flickering darts with the remains of glass. Then the engine stopped, and a voice came from outside:

Dead men here. Are there dead people there?

“To hell with it,” the driver swore. - Are you not doing eclipses anymore?

An eclipse will help here when the whole city is on fire! - shouted the same voice. - Are there any dead people, I ask?

Don't know.

The dead are here, have you heard? And the rest go up the stairs to the drawing room, understand?

Yes, yes, I understand.

And I was not yet dead, I belonged to the others, and they carried me up the stairs.

First they walked along long, dimly lit corridors, with green, oil-painted walls, into which were embedded black, crooked, old-world clothes hooks; then doors emerged with enamel signs: 6-A and 6-B, between those doors hung, affectionately gleaming under glass in a black frame, Feuerbach’s “Medea” with a look into the distance; then there were doors with signs: 5-A and 5-B, and between them - “Boy taking out -” - a lovely photo with a reddish tint in a brown frame.

And now there is the column in front of the exit to the staircase, and the long, narrow frieze of the Parthenon behind it... and everything else that has long been familiar: a Greek hoplite, armed to the toe, powerful and menacing, looking like an angry rooster. On the estate itself, on the wall painted yellow, they all stood proud - from the Great Elector to Hitler.<...>

And again my stretcher fell, they floated past me... now examples of the Aryan breed: a Nordic captain with an eagle look and a stupid mouth, a female model from the West Mosel, a little lean and bony, a Baltic bad laugh with a bulbous nose and the dark-colored long profile of a supreme leader from the movies ; and then the corridor stretched out again... I managed to see it too - a table with the names of the fallen, intertwined with a fireplace laurel wreath, with a large golden Iron Cross at the top.

All this went by very quickly: I’m not heavy and the orderlies were in a hurry. It’s not a miracle if I dreamed of it: I was burning all over, everything hurt - my head, my arms, my legs; and my heart was pounding as if frantically. What can you imagine in your delirium!

And when we passed the exemplary Aryans, everything else emerged behind them: three Pogrudians - Caesar, Cicero and Marcus Aurelius... And when we turned the corner, the Hermes Column appeared... On the right in the window I saw the glow of a fire - the whole sky it was red, and black, thick clouds of smoke solemnly floated across it.<...>

And again, I casually glanced to the left, and again I saw doors with signs: 01-A 01-B, and between these brown doors, as if soaked in soot, I saw Nietzsche’s mustache and the tip of his nose in a golden frame - the second half of the portrait was covered with paper with the inscription: “ Light surgery."

If now, - flashed through my head, - if now. And here he was, he had already seen it - a view of Togo... a wonderful oleography... in the foreground of the picture there was a large, life-size bunch of bananas - a bunch on the left, a bunch on the right, and it was on the middle banana in the right basket that there was something... it's scratched; I saw this inscription because, it seems, I scrawled it myself.<...>

The doors of the drawing room opened wide, I moved there under the image of Zeus and closed my eyes.

I didn't want to see anything else.<...>

The drawing room smelled of iodine, feces, gauze and tobacco and there was a hubbub.

The stretcher was placed on the floor, and I told the orderlies:

Place a cigarette in my mouth, at the top, in my left pocket.

I felt someone groping in my pocket, then they rubbed it with a cheesecake, and there was a lit cigarette in my mouth. I took a drag.

Thank you, I said.

Everything where, I thought, is not proof. In the end, in every gymnasium there are drawing rooms, corridors with green and yellow walls and crooked, old-fashioned hooks in them; ultimately, the fact that “Medea” hangs between 6-A and 6-B is not proof that I'm at my school. Apparently, there are rules for classical gymnasiums in Prussia, which say that this is where they should hang... After all, the jokes are the same in all gymnasiums. Besides, maybe I started delirious due to the fever.

I didn't feel any pain. I felt very bad in the car... But now, perhaps, the injection began to work.<...>

This can’t be possible, I thought, the car simply couldn’t travel such a long distance - thirty kilometers. And one more thing: you don’t feel anything; no instinct tells you anything, only your eyes; not a single feeling tells you that you are in your school, in your school, which you left just three months ago. Eight years - don’t worry, would you really, after studying here for eight years, know everything about yourself only with your eyes?<...>

I spat out the cigarette and screamed; when you scream easier, you just need to scream harder, screaming was so good, I screamed like crazy.<...>

What?

“Drink,” I said, “and another cigarette, in my pocket, at the top.”

Again someone touched my pocket, rubbed a match again, and they stuck a lit cigarette in my mouth.

Where are we? - I asked.

In Bendorf.

“Thank you,” I said and took a drag.

Apparently, I’m still in Bendorf, that is, at home, and if I didn’t have this terrible fever, I could say for sure that I’m in some kind of classic

gymnasiums; at least that I am at school is indisputable. Didn’t that voice below shout: “Those remaining in the drawing room!” I was one of the rest, I was alive, the living, probably, made up the “rest.”<...>

Finally he brought me water, again the scent of tobacco and onions wafted over me, I involuntarily opened my eyes and saw a tired, old, unshaven face in a fireman’s uniform, and an senile voice said quietly:

Drink, buddy!

I started drinking, it was water, but water is a wonderful drink; I could feel the metallic taste of the cauldron on my lips, I realized with pleasure that there was still a lot of water there, but the fireman suddenly took the cauldron away from my lips and walked away; I screamed, but he didn’t look back, he just shrugged his shoulders tiredly and walked on; the wounded man lying next to me calmly said:

There's no point in making noise, they don't have water, you see.<...>

What city is this? “I asked the one who was lying next to me, Bendorf,” he said.

Now there was no longer any doubt that I was lying in the drawing room of a certain classical gymnasium in Bendorf. There are three classical gymnasiums in Bendorf: the Frederick the Great gymnasium, the Albert gymnasium and - maybe it would be better not to say this - but the last, third, was called the Adolf Hitler gymnasium.

Wasn’t there such a bright, such a beautiful, huge portrait of old Fritz hanging on the staircase in Frederick the Great’s gymnasium? I studied in that gymnasium for eight years, but couldn’t such a portrait hang in another school in the same place, so bright that it immediately caught the eye; as soon as you step on the second floor?<...>

Now I heard heavy guns firing somewhere... confidently and measuredly, and I thought: expensive guns! I know it's mean, but that's what I thought... For me, there's something noble about guns, even when they're firing. Such a solemn moon, just like in that war that they write about in picture books... Then I thought how many names would be on that table of the fallen, which, perhaps, will be nailed here later, decorating it with an even larger golden Iron Cross and adding more large laurel wreath. And suddenly it occurred to me that when I was actually at my school, my name would stand there, carved into stone, and in the school calendar next to my name it would be written Left school for the front and died for...”

And I still didn’t know why, and I didn’t know for sure yet, I was at my school, I now wanted to find out about it.<...>

I looked around again, but... My heart did not respond. Wouldn’t it have started calling even then if I had ended up in that room where I spent eight whole years drawing vases and writing fonts? Slender, beautiful, exquisite vases, beautiful copies of Roman originals - the art teacher always put them on a stand in front of us - and all kinds of fonts: rondo, plain, Roman, Italian. I hated those lessons above all else in the gymnasium, I spent hours perishing with boredom and was never able to properly draw a vase or write a letter. And where did my curses go, where did my burning hatred for these stiff, seemingly rotting walls go? Nothing in me blinked, and I silently shook my head.

I erased it every now and then, sharpened the pencil, erased it again... And - nothing.<...>

I didn’t remember how I was wounded, I knew one thing: that I wouldn’t move my arms or my right leg, only my left, and even then only half-covered. I thought maybe they had tied my arms so tightly to my body that I couldn’t move them.<...>

Finally, a doctor stood in front of me; he took off his glasses and, blinking, silently looked at me... I clearly saw behind the thick glasses large gray eyes with barely moving pupils. He looked at me for so long that I looked away, and then quietly said:

Wait a minute, it's your turn soon.<...>

I closed my eyes again and thought: you must, you must find out what kind of wound you have and that you are really in your school.<...>

The orderlies entered the hall again, now they picked me up and carried me there, behind the board. Once I swam past the door and, as I swam, I noticed another sign: here, above the door, there once hung a cross, as the gymnasium was also called the School of St. Thomas; They later removed the cross, but in that place on the wall there was a fresh dark yellow mark left from it. Then they angrily repainted the entire wall, and the mark... The cross was visible, and if you looked closely, you could even see an uneven mark on the right end of the crossbar, where a beech branch had been hanging for years, which the watchman Birgeler had been clinging to.<...>All this flashed into my dining room in that brief moment while I was being carried behind the board, where a bright light was burning.

They put me on the operating table, and I clearly saw myself, only small, as if shortened, at the top, in the clear glass of the light bulb - such a short, white, narrow scroll of gauze, as if a chimeric, fragile cocoon; that means it was my reflection.

The doctor turned his back to me and, leaning over the table, rummaged through the instruments; an old, overweight fireman stood in front of the board and smiled at me; he smiled tiredly and mournfully, and his overgrown, expressionless face looked as if he was sleeping. And suddenly, behind his shoulders, on the unerased other side of the board, I saw something that for the first time since I found myself in this dead house, my heart responded... There was an inscription in my hand. At the top, in the highest row. I know my hand; seeing your letter is worse than seeing yourself in the mirror - much more likely. I could no longer doubt the identity of my own letter... There it is, still there to this day, the expression that we were told to write then, in that hopeless life that ended just three months ago: “Traveler, when will you come in Spa...”

Oh, I remember, I didn’t have enough board, and the art teacher shouted that I didn’t calculate it properly, took large letters, and then, shaking his head, he wrote in the same font below: “Empty, when you come to Spa... »

It was written there seven times - in my script, in Latin script, in Gothic italics, in Roman, in Italian, and in rondo: “Traveler, when you come to Spa...”

At the doctors' quiet call, the fireman stepped back from the board, and I saw the entire statement, only a little spoiled, because I did not calculate properly, chose large letters, took too many points.

I was embarrassed, feeling a prick in my left thigh, I wanted to get up on my feet and couldn’t, but I managed to look at myself and saw - they had already unwound me - that I didn’t have both arms, I didn’t have my right leg, that’s why I immediately fell on his back, because now he had nothing to lean on; I screamed; the doctor and the fireman looked at me in fear; and the doctor just shrugged his shoulders and again pressed the plunger of the syringe, slowly and firmly went down; I wanted to look at the board again, but the fireman was now standing very close to me and replacing it; he held me tightly by the shoulders, and I heard only the spirit of grease and dirt that came from his uniform, I saw only his tired, sorrowful face; and suddenly I recognized him: it was Bergeler.

“Milk,” I said quietly...

Translation Yes. Grief

Heinrich Böll

Traveler, when you come to Spa

Dead here, do you have any dead here?

Damn it! Are you not going dark anymore? - the driver responded.

Why the devil should it go dark when the whole city is burning like a torch, shouted the same voice. - Are there dead people, I ask?

Don't know.

The dead are here, do you hear? The rest of us go up the stairs to the drawing room, understand?

Put a cigarette in my mouth. In the top left pocket.

I felt someone else's hands rummaging in my pocket, then a match was struck, and there was a lit cigarette in my mouth. I took a drag.

Thank you, I said.

I closed my eyes and again saw everything like in the film: the lower corridor, painted green, the stairwell with yellow walls, the monument to the warrior, the landing, the next floor: Caesar, Marcus Aurelius... Hermes, Nietzsche's mustache, Togo, the mask of Zeus...

I spat out the cigarette and screamed; when you scream, it becomes easier, you just need to shout louder; screaming is so good, I screamed like crazy. Someone leaned over me, but I didn’t open my eyes, I felt someone else’s breath, warm, smelling disgustingly of a mixture of onions and tobacco, and heard a voice that calmly asked:

Why are you shouting?

“Drink,” I said. - And another cigarette. In the top pocket.

Again a strange hand rummaged in my pocket, again a match was struck and someone put a lit cigarette in my mouth.

Where are we? - I asked.

In Bendorf.

“Thank you,” I said and took a drag.

Still, apparently I’m really in Bendorf, which means I’m at home, and if it weren’t for such intense heat, I could say with confidence that I’m in a classical gymnasium; that this is a school, in any case, is indisputable. Didn’t someone’s voice shout downstairs: “The rest of us go to the drawing room!”? I was one of the others, I lived, the others were obviously alive. This is a drawing room, and if my hearing did not deceive me, then why should my eyes fail me? This means that there is no doubt that I recognized Caesar, Cicero and Marcus Aurelius, and they could only have been in the classical gymnasium; I don’t think that in other schools the walls of the corridors are decorated with sculptures of these fellows.

Finally he brought water; again I was overwhelmed by the mixed smell of onions and tobacco, and I involuntarily opened my eyes, the tired, flabby, unshaven face of a man in a fireman’s uniform bent over me, and an senile voice quietly said:

Have a drink, buddy.

I started drinking; water, water - what a pleasure; I felt the metallic taste of the pot on my lips, I felt the elastic fullness of my throat, but the fireman took the pot away from my lips and left; I screamed, he didn’t even turn around, he just shrugged his shoulders tiredly and walked on, and the one who was lying next to me calmly said:

There's no point in yelling, they don't have water; the whole city is on fire, you see for yourself.