Svenda, a Dream Fragment; or, My Worries

(1944)

I must have known Svenda in earlier times, but my memories of her are indistinct, like the shadows of the clouds that lie over our lakes even on sunny days. My first clear memory of her is climbing a wide flight of oak stairs, with nice old-fashioned low risers, straight up to a double door, which instead of a wooden panel at its heart had clear glass panes. It’s like the French windows in my house, only bigger and not so pretty, with ugly decorative brass and coloured glass details in the corners.

The other side of the clear glass panes I see Svenda standing looking blankly at me, with her dark curls tumbling to her shoulders. I stand on the top step for a moment, we look at each other in silence. Then I put my hand on the doorknob. Svenda shakes her head. Then suddenly I remember something I’d forgotten, namely that I may never set foot here again, because I have made a proposal to Svenda and been turned down, that only awful things took place here, I can’t remember them except vaguely, like the shadows of those clouds that hang over our lakes on sunny days.

I turn and go slowly down the stairs. I walk through the streets of the town, I leave the town and find myself in open country. I walk slowly on and on. I am approaching a railway line, the crossing-gate is just coming down, the monotonous ringing of a bell announces that a train is coming through. On a little rise the other side of the tracks is the crossing-keeper’s house. I lean against the top of the gate and crane round to it. There are yellow and pink hollyhocks blooming round it. A little girl steps out, with the red flag in her hand. Dark curls tumble round her shoulders, it could almost be Svenda but I know it isn’t Svenda. I know the little girl’s name, but it won’t come to me. And while the train is clattering and rattling between us, I remember that I offered myself here too, and was turned down as well. Slowly I turn away, and wander back in the direction of town, whose rooftops, lit by the sun, seem to hang over the tops of the fields.

I am standing in a large, unevenly paved market square, and have just purchased three horses. They are incredibly big. How will I be able to feed them? I wonder. Suddenly I recognize them, they are the ancient nags of our drunken publican. And all of a sudden there he is too, laughing in my direction, unshaven and unwashed as ever, the corners of his mouth stained with tobacco juice. I head into town from the market place, the horses, out of harness, follow me, one of them has my bag with my cigarettes looped over its hindquarters. One of them is particularly devoted to me, he keeps nuzzling me under the arm, making me step aside. I’m a little afraid he might tread on my sore right foot with his great hooves.

I stop in front of a large house. I walk in and ask if Frau St. is in. No, she’s left – but a room has been made ready for me. I go up to wash, but am told I have to eat right away. I sit down at a long table, opposite me is a general. He is dressed in a linen summer suit, but I know he’s a general anyway. He is of unsound mind, and hates me. He has a small, red face and stares at me with bloodshot eyes. The dishes are served very quickly, and there is no change of plates, we have white boiled turbot, pike tails in runny aspic, haddock in mustard sauce – I am shown the huge menu, and see that today is meatless. For pudding there is a large, marbled ice bombe. I help myself to a big piece, and put it on my already crowded plate. The piece of ice bombe starts to melt right away, it dribbles over the edge of my plate, my whole plate is overflowing. I spread my legs and let it trickle down between them. I look round hurriedly; the bloodshot eyes of the crazed general are levelled at me, the whole table is eyeing me silently and grimly. Between my legs, the runnel from my plate continues to drip on the floor.

It occurs to me that I have forgotten to take my cigarettes back from my horse, I don’t have anything to smoke. I go to the window and open it. The horses are gone, I know I will never see them again. I have nothing to smoke. I survey the area round the Kaiser Wilhelm Gedächtniskirche. The church is burned down, the surrounding buildings are in ruins, the streets are choked with rubble. There is no one out in them. It is war after all, I say to myself, Berlin is in ruins. Even the building from whose third-floor window I am now looking has been hit and torn apart by a bomb. I myself saw the ruins, back when I was on business in Berlin. A strange feeling creeps over me. I am my own ghost, I think.

Then I spot a cigarette machine on the wall. I start fiddling with it to get a packet of cigarettes out of it. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on,’ says somebody behind me. ‘Those are all dummy packs.’ But at the top I see a compartment with a flat door that I open easily enough. This compartment is also full of dummy packs, but behind them I find four packets of tobacco. The tax labels have been torn off them. It’s lucky I’ve managed to find some tobacco, I think, because I remember that nurse H. has a lot of cigarettes for me, but only one opened packet of tobacco. I leave two marks in the compartment in exchange for a packet of tobacco.

Night has fallen, the arc lamps are burning over the dead stations, no trains are running, I am running away from my father. I know he is dead, but he has come back to call me to account for what I did to my mother. There is nothing alarming about my father, he looks well, the little goatee that I remember as white is now brown, he is striding rapidly down the street next to the rails, looking for me. I myself am running away along the line. The line has been bombed, but they have put out great sequences of duckboards along which I half-run, half-fly. My father is long since out of sight; when the line starts to climb, I know it’s time to turn off, and then my father will never find me.

I step into a gateway, and ring a bell on a very dark panel. A white-haired lady in a black dress with a fine white lace trim opens the door, and greets me as a stand-in for the master of the house who is away on travels. I ask her to set aside two downstairs rooms for my work, and one for my secretary, but she declines in no uncertain terms; I would have to make do with some rooms upstairs. In the big downstairs room with its upholstered furniture, the reddish flowers on yellow cretonne, my secretary is waiting. I hired her in a bar, a very tall, very beautiful woman, taller than me. At the time she was heavily powdered, now the powder has been washed off, and I can see two anchors tattooed on her pale cheeks. This woman could almost be my wife, that’s how much she resembles her, she wears the same wide blue trousers that my wife wears with the appliquéd anchor, and their faces are practically identical too – but for those two little tattoos. I am very disappointed. At least I will be able to dictate to her.

Once again I am climbing the wide, easy oak staircase leading up to the glazed double door behind which Svenda stood. I am very sad, because I know there is no more hope for me. My feet are dragging, my heart is heavy. When I look up I see Svenda looking at me through the glass door. I pass through the door and walk up to her. She does nothing but look at me; there is no expression in her eyes, neither refusal nor desire, neither fear nor question.

I pick her up in my arms, and carry her into her flat. The doors open silently in front of me, as I carry the motionless woman through them. A pallid, unearthly light that doesn’t come from outside fills the rooms. I am standing in front of a massive ornamental bed, over which a great canopy drops in dark pleats. The bed looks very white and cold. As I lay Svenda down on it, her clothes unpetal and silently fall to the ground like yellow roses. I lay Svenda down naked on the cold, white bed, she lies there, her body is even whiter than the sheets, her curls are black on the pillow. She looks at me unblinkingly, without love and without anger. I knew her once before, I was rejected, painful things took place, my memories are as vague as the shadows of the clouds on the lakes at home. I lean down over Svend …