By Hanns Heinz Ewers 1921
Translated by Joe E. Bandel 2008
Copyright 2008 by Joe E. Bandel
Protected under United States Copyright Law as a derivative work of a foreign Author originally published prior to 1923
They called at Ilo and Mollendo, ports in Peru. It was early Wednesday when Frank Braun came onto the bridge during the Second’s watch.
“When will we reach Collao?” He asked. “I must get off there and visit Lima for a few days.”
The Second laughed bitterly, “Collao? We will be there in two hours, but you can give up on going to Lima today doctor!”
That was unexpected.
“Why?” He asked. “Will we be leaving that soon? I was only going to shake hands with some old friends.”
The Second whistled a couple of shrill notes and then sullenly said, “Oh, we will have lots of time! We will be staying an entire week at Calleo, Only we won’t be going ashore!”
He raised his arm and pointed up at the mast. “There! See that!”
Frank Braun glanced up at the small yellow flag fluttering there.
“What happened?” He asked. “Who’s sick?”
The officer stepped closer to him. “The Captain was going to tell you when he came up. It’s no secret. We don’t know right now who is sick, only who is dead! Three hours ago we buried him at sea.”
“Who?”
“The tall clown!”
“What was it?”
The Second shrugged his shoulders, “Yellow Fever!”
They were not allowed in Callao, Salavery, Manta, Gauyaquil or Buenaventura. By the time they reached Cape Blanco two of the horse handlers had died. A week later they sent one of the equestrians into the sea. There was no doctor on board. They were sent away from one port after another cruelly, without compassion or mercy.
The Second cursed, “The swine!”.
But the Captain said, “They have every right! They don’t have the facilities. Should they let their entire city get contaminated because of us?”
They crawled northward at a speed of four knots toward Panama. That was their hope. It was in possession of the Yankees but they were sent away from there too. The quarantine station was already overflowing. What if they waited six weeks?
“It would be much better to try for California,” the American doctor called out. “They will certainly help! No English ports will burn their fingers on you!”
“No English?”
That was when they learned they were at war, at war with France, with Russia and with England.
The Captain laughed, “Anyone else?”
“Oh, yes,”cried the Port Commissioner. “Belgium, Serbia, Montenegro, Portugal and soon the Japanese! Then the Italians, the Romanians and the Greeks.”
He didn’t believe it, but the Port Commissioner laughed scornfully and sent over a bundle of newspapers.
“Here, read for yourself! It’s all about Germany. By the time you get to Frisco’s Golden Gate it will be all over and Germany will be wiped off the map.”
He asked if they wanted any supplies but the Captain refused anything. He only took on fresh water and a chest of medical supplies. Then they steamed away.
Above on the bridge he unfolded the newspapers, the New York Herald, the New York Times, the Tribune, the Sun, and a couple of local papers from the Panama Canal. He stared at the large headlines.
“180,000 Germans fall in the storming of Lűtticher fortress.”
“The Crown Prince attempts suicide”
“Serbians defeat Austria capturing 80,000 over 150,000 dead.”
“Russia attacks Galicea, Austria loses over 400,000″
“Battle in the North Sea! Nineteen German battleships sank by the English”
The Captain laid the newspapers down, pushed them over to the engineer but he pushed them back.
“No, I don’t want to read anymore.”
“What do you think doctor?” The Captain asked.
“Exaggeration, naturally,” said Frank Braun.
The Captain stood up, “Exaggeration? I will tell you something. It is all a bunch of filthy lies! A low down American swindle!”
The Second stood in the doorway, “May I take a look at them for a minute?”
The Captain gave him the entire bundle. “There! Take them all! Take them away as quickly as possible.”
He climbed down from the bridge with hard heavy steps.
Frank Braun went to his cabin and lay down. What was happening? What had happened to the others in the last fifteen minutes? What was going to happen? Was the Captain different, the engineer? Was he? It seemed as if he was drunk. He wanted to concentrate and couldn’t.
He took down a book at random, Jacopone’s da Todi, opened it up and began to sing softly:
Oh, the rapture naught could smother
Of that most Immaculate Mother
Of the Sole-begotten One;
Then with laughing heart exulting,
She beheld her hopes resulting
In the great birth of her Son.
Who would not with gratulation
See the happy consolation
Of Christ’s Mother undefiled.
He stopped. That was so beautiful, so very beautiful. From where did he take these colors, these shimmering exultant rainbow colors? This poor fool from Todi?
Then, “No!” Why should he now sing the Stabat Mater Speciosa? Why now of all times? He should be singing the Stabat Mater Dolorosa! Don’t millions of people sing the Dolorosa every day whereas the Speciosa has only been read by a hundred people in all the time since it was written. The Dolorosa is the song of the people!
He began:
He sprang up, that applied to the author, who was a Saint, a lunatic and a poet all at the same time! Who is the Virgin today? Speciosa, Dolorosa, or whoever the poet sees in her!
Poet? Oh, there are no more poets today! There are only fists, bombs, grenades and torpedoes!
He ran through the corridors, up the stairs, over the deck to some place different, the front of the bow. He leaned over the railing, stared into the blue waves that were parting as the old ship cut through them.
The white foam down there sang to him like doves, like they had so often sang to him in the past. But this time it was no love song, no song from his bleeding heart. It was no perky song that whistled through the wind like the beating of a whip. It sobbed like a refrain, this song of the white doves that sang in the waves.
And his lips spoke,”Pray for us here and over there O blessed one, Pray for us! Please sweet Virgin, blessed Virgin, grant that we may return home to our Fatherland! Am I not your choice, sweet Virgin Mary? Who loves you in these days as I love you? Who sings your songs, who writes your fables.
Dear Lady, Sweet beloved Lady, Beautiful heavenly Lady, take me home to the Father_to the Fath_to the_.
He could not speak it out loud. The land that now lay before his closed eyes, that was all around him, that was the land of the Saints and of the sorcerers as well. He saw Narni, Terni, Spoleto, Trevi and Peragia as well as other towns in Italy.
He saw the city of St. Francis and of the blessed Jakob, saw the sweet shore of Transumener lake. Was that his Fatherland? Didn’t it lay somewhere between Assisi and Todi?
Weren’t they both the Guelphs, loyal to the Pope and the hated the Ghibellines, loyal to the German Emperor? Wasn’t St. Francis still honored in France? Weren’t his words of love and a better way still preached in the French language at the Paris courts as they were in the days of Virgil and Dante?
He loved the Holy St. Francis that spoke to the birds and sang the great song of his sister the sun! But he loved the other no less, the Hohenstaufen Kaiser, the one thrown into hell. Enzio’s and Manfred’s father, who with a German fist swayed the entire world. His Empire endured for centuries.
When the crusader was in Palermo, Italy, he wrote the cheeky book De Tribus Impestoribus, The Three Impostors. Frank Braun thought, “All three equally! Only a Bavarian Kaiser could come up with that!”
What was his Fatherland? His homeland, now that was certain. It was Europe. He was at home in Wein, in Berlin, in Munich and on the Rhein. But not any less at home in Bretagne, the Provinces, in Paris or Italy. He was at home everywhere! In Andalusia as well as in Madrid where the Prado was restored, in Stockholm, in Pest, in Zurich and Antwerp.
What was his Fatherland? Was he a German? Was he? Because he was born somewhere on the Rhein? Didn’t he know more languages and speak them more often than he spoke German?
Was he International? No, that didn’t feel right. There was a higher nation that stood over all peoples, with different citizens, higher, more chivalrous and greater. He called it the Nation of Culture. It belonged to everyone, towered over the masses. He knew it well, had found its citizens in all parts of the world. It existed, those people existed. There was certainly no doubt about it.
It was so near, you could almost reach out and touch it with your hands. That was yesterday. And today? It was gone, as if it had never existed! There were only Germans, Russians, Frenchmen, Englishmen and they were all mutually killing each other.
Where should he go? To which Fatherland?
