history

Kafka Takes A “Mistake” Train To Prague As The War Begins To End

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

Franz Kafka did not shy away from writing horror, and you are forwarned.

14 February 1918

The grip of evil showed tenfold times the horror.

The train to Prague – late and slow because it had made a stop in Hell.

“A mistake train,” said the Stationmaster. “But we had no other choice because of the shortages.” I looked through the windows, and hesitated. “There may be no other train today, if it’s Prague you want.” He rubbed off the chalkboard with the spittle on his finger. “No evening train. Perhaps there will be something after mid-night.” He wiped his hand on his soiled jacket. “Perhaps not.” “You do not even dare look into the compartments,” I said. “And yet you expect me to enter.”

“I’ve seen worse.” He wrote down a new time, and his hand did not shake. “In the dark of the night, these trains come through.” He put the stubby piece of chalk back into his coat pocket. “But -no. I don’t get used to it.” He looked in my direction, his face as expressionless as before. “I would advise you to try the coaches after the engine. Most of them there can at least sit up.”

His advice was good.

That is where the other civilians were clustered. Huddled – almost literally – away from the sounds and the stench. And they readily made room for me, moved even closer together so they could add me to their number. In my suite and tie, overcoat and hat, I was a Godsend of normality. The gentlemen nodded, and the ladies tried to smile. But then the train started, with its usual jumble of jolts, and the moaning which followed turned their faces blank and ashen.

One of the soldiers, across the aisle behind me – a Hungarian captain with a weeping bandage obscuring his neck – gulped and slid to the floor. I looked around for a doctor, or an orderly, but there were none. I went back and placed him – as best I could – onto his seat. He mouthed some words – he obviously couldn’t speak – and I patted his hand. Further back still, I saw an Austrian corporal grabbing and grasping over his head. I went to him, and smelled the blood before I saw it. One leg ended in a jagged stump of bandages, the other ceased inches below the hip. He kept grasping at the air even as I steadied him, and he finally seemed to realize I was there. He made motions toward his mouth, gesturing with both hands. “Have you got a fag for us, Sir?” he said, and I realized what his movements had meant. “You’re bleeding,” I began, but he smiled with a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell them, Sir. Don’t tell them. A cigarette is all I need. I’ll keep quiet. I confessed that I didn’t smoke, but a voice behind me spoke with a shrill deliberateness. “I have some – a box of them.” I turned, and it was one of the men I had been sitting with. The soldier held out his hand, and I changed places with the man. “I’m going to find help,” I said. “It won’t do any good,” replied the man, lighting the cigarette. “We’ve tried.” Terror was trapped in his eyes. “You shouldn’t go any further.”

And I should have listened to him.

I can not – or perhaps, even now, I dare not – reveal the monsters which I saw. For that is what these men had become, by no choice of their own. Terrifying, repulsive creatures who were more frightening the more human they appeared. One man had his arm melted into his side by and explosion. Another had his ribs piercing through his chest. And what flame can do to faces. The last cars had sacks of dead – too many for the coffins. And any official, any officer, any nurse I met, would only say that they’ll be tended to in Prague. Treated. Looked after. The best care available.

And I remembered something from my childhood – a saying perhaps even from my parent’s parents: “A dead man doesn’t care what suit he’s buried in.”

But I did not tell them this.

07/27/2023 0

Paw, The Cat/Kitten, Takes A Walk

I have had to affix

A bell,

Around the neck of

Paw, my cat kitten,

Black as feathers

With one white mitten,

Because

He has acquired

A taste for birds.

This is natural and

Was to be expected.

I might not have done so

On the Mainland,

Where birds are plentiful

And fair game.

But on this island,

Which one can circumnavigate

In under a two hour walk,

I feel the birds need

All the help they can get.

So – there it is.

And Paw, my cat kitten,

Protested for about

A half hour,

And not since.

He’s a smart li’l bugger.

He adapts.

And I swear, he gets

Faster.

Fast enough to still

Dine on the occasional

Avian feast.

Which he proves, by

Spitting out an errant

Feather or two

At my feet.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

07/16/2023 0

The First Day Of Summer And Fresh Salmon On Partridge Island

It’s the first day of Summer!

Summer!

And, I bet,

Even Jesus feels grateful.

My first visitor of the day,

Down at the Lighthouse dock.

Paddling his canoe,

Is Michael,

A Mi’kmag Indian.

I know little of his language

Which I regret.

But I know he calls this island

Quak’m’kagan’ik

Which means “a piece cut out.”

A good enough description.

These poor bastards are getting shafted

By the “civilization”

We have brought.

But, they like me,

(As I do them),

And have pity that

I’m stuck out here with no

Family, nor village,

To fill my days.

So, they sometimes bring gifts

As they head down the coast.

Today it’s fresh salmon.

Paw,

My cat/kitten

Black as Mi’kmag hair

With one white mitten,

Is sore curious.

He gives Michael

A good laugh, as he

Gently shoos him away.

But Michael, and I,

Full well know

That Paw will get his share,

As,

I suspect,

Does Paw.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen/A lot of stuff to report}

06/21/2023 0

After A Funeral Kafka Dreams Of The Dead

21 March 1917

Dreamed I was standing in a galleria with him. In a town in Northern Italy. We could see across the rooftops, to a plain slipping gently toward the foothills of the mountains. The day was clear – a cool spring morning – and the touch of sun was welcome on our skin. He pointed to a laden waggon passing beneath us. A curtain of dust rose from its wheels as it squeezed through a narrow lane. We watched it for awhile, then he turned to me, his body a silhouette against the vivid sky. “I enjoyed my funeral. I wish we could have talked about it after – it was one of those things to share.” “We did share it,” I pointed out. “I was there.” “But I was not,” he said.

Then he eased himself over the balcony, and without effort, we were sitting in the back of the waggon, perched upon boxes and equipment. We rattled out of the village toward the countryside. “I loved the outdoors,” he said. “I still remember my last walk in the fields.” We moved slowly through the country side, the waggon rarely being jostled along the rutted road. The teamster must have been an expert, but he never turned his face to us. Intent upon his business, I suppose. “You forget that I am dead; for which I thank you.” “Sometimes I do,” I replied. “It is at those times, I sometimes think I’m still alive.”

He occasionally pointed to things behind me. Once there was a rabbit. The countryside spread endlessly, without another person in sight. I mentioned this, and he nodded. “It will be crowded at our destination. But I’ll want to meet my wife.” He then leaned toward me, across the waggon. “You helped me, you know – in our final dance.” He smiled, then sighed, then pointed beneath me. “My destination is close, I must return.” I looked down, and saw I was sitting on a coffin – the polished brown one of his funeral. I moved, then bent over, prepared to open it. His fingers touched the wood beneath my hand. “No. Do not look. You would not like what you found.” His smile seemed forced, there were more teeth showing than usual. “I embrace my new world. But for you, I am well and truly dead.”

06/04/2023 0

Kafka Takes The Train In His Dreams

04 April 1917

             Dreamed I was to take a train journey. I tried to find my travel papers, but all the drawers were jammed shut. The cupboard doors refused to open. My wallet was stuffed with money   – colourful bills worth thousands of marks – yet no passport, no police clearance. I could find no proof of who I was, and no permission to cross borders. I feared I was going to be late, so I put on an overcoat, grabbed a small bag off the bed, and hurried from the room.

     The door led directly to the station platform, and I was quickly caught in lines of people. A man in uniform harshly requested to see our tickets, but when I explained I had been unable to find any of my documents, he pointed to my case. Inside were passports and papers from every country in Europe. I handed him one, but over my name was a photo of hog. Another had a picture of a donkey. A third showed sheep. Rodents, insects, and finally an ape, all appearing over my name and signature. “You are Doktor Kafka?” he demanded. “Yes,” I answered. I was terrified – what face did I have now? “You are the veterinarian,” he said, finally satisfied. “Down to the end of the train.” He pointed the way, and I hurried along.

     I walked and walked, but the train just became longer. Box cars and cattle cars were filled with the most terrible animal clamour, and reeking of filth. And I wondered, as I searched in vain for the end of this endless train, where would my destination finally be?

20 September 1917

              Dreamed a mixture. I walked – a desolate figure trudging the vast Steppes. Yet I rode wildly – a madman with my forehead pressed against the compartment window. And I saw myself as the train raced by, outlined by the yellow light of the coach; and then a slender body turning to stare at the racing train. We both hollered, but noise and distance obscured our voice. The vast Steppes turned into a castle, but the castle was displayed in the photos of a magazine, which I held on my lap in the flickering light of the compartment, as the train became engulfed by the large buildings on either side of the tracks. In the magazine there was a railway at the base of the castle, and as I looked out the window the stone walls filled the frame, each giant block wedged securely to the others, their facing protruding and rough. It was as if the train had entered a tunnel, except there was still light from the distant sky.

     I turned a page, and had to squint to see the pictures. Along the whole bottom of the magazine pages, a train obscured part of the castle wall, almost becoming a part of the stones. Black and white, light and shade, blending into a sepia which smudged all the details. Was there a figure in the window?

05/16/2023 0

Kafka Meets A Gypsy And Coin Is Exchanged

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

08 June 1917

A Gypsy confronted me today, and I was in the mood for a bit of sport. Her age was difficult to tell – certainly a decade older than me. In her swirl of shawls and dangling jewellery, heavy make-up on her face, she could almost have been in disguise. She peered at me with an intense sigh, attempting – I am sure – to penetrate my own disguise.

“You are a Jew,” she said.

“And you a Gypsy,” I replied.

She seemed pleased with my response, for her professional smile became real.

“You state the obvious,” she said. “As becomes a Doktor of Laws,”

I replied. “But to your eyes, do you not state the obvious?”

“Are you going to banter with a poor old Gypsy woman, instead of barter? That would make you suspiciously like one of us.” She said this with a growl in her throat.

“The Gypsy and the Jew,” I said, feeling the challenge which I so miss. “Perhaps an opera – but I think it’s been done to death.”

“They will try to do us all unto death,” she said harshly, and turned away.

I had the fear she was going to leave me without another word, but what she did was to spit fulsomely onto the street.

“They can’t kill us all,” I said, but I knew she heard the doubt in my voice.

She slowly faced me again.

“So. Even a Doktor of Laws can have hope. That is refreshing – but foolish.” She took my hand and felt my palm roughly with her thumb, although all the while her eyes never left my face. “You are going to travel.”

“Travel is a vague word. One can go on many types of voyage.”

“And reach many destinations,” she added, still holding my hand. “If you take away my vagueness, you take away my trade.”

“Then let me pay you for your services right now.”

This transaction would make her loose my hand, which is what I wanted most of all. She had frightened me, for her eyes and face were full of truth. I know the truth. I know it when it presents itself, stark and unobscured. I search out truth endlessly, yet still can flee at its approach. As in her eyes. But she gripped me more fiercely, and pulled my hand up.

“The coin, Herr Doktor.” Her voice was now soft. “The coin can wait.”

She at last lowered her eyes and looked closely at my palm. She rubbed the lines and whorls of my skin. She touched her finger to her lips, and spread the moisture along my hand.

“Your lifeline, Herr Doktor,” she took a quick look in my eyes, “of Laws. You deceive with the youth upon your face. Is that not so?”

“If your eyes stop at the mask, then no, the years have not etched themselves deeply.”

“Not on your face, Herr Doktor of Laws.” Her grip was intense. “But on your palm…” She hissed. “You will soon embark upon that final voyage.”

She released my hand, rubbed her fingers across her sleeve.

“But you will not go in haste. There will be many stops along the way.”

Suddenly her face was full of the most beautiful smile, and her laughter was genuine.

“I see you do not complain of vagueness now.” She held out her hand. “The coin, Herr Doktor of Laws. This time I have truly earned it.”

I dug deeply into my pocket, and feared that I may have overpaid her. But, perhaps, that is not possible.

05/11/2023 0

Sister Darling Brings Religious Fervor On Walpurgis Night

One chore I have

As Lighthouse Keeper

On Partridge Island,

Is to count the ships

As they come

And as they go.

They signal me with their bells,

And some, with their new-fangled horns.

It was one of those blasts

That took me down to the dock.

And, indeed,

A ship was leaving for sea.

But first,

(Much to my surprise)

It let off

Sister Darling of

The Rarefied Church Of The World (reformed)

” It’s Saint Walpurga’s Eve”, said she.

“What?” asked I.

“Don’t be an oaf.”

She hit me on the shoulder.

“Grab the cat.”

She heads along the shore.

I scoop up

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as the Furies

With one white mitten.

And away we follow.

Sister Darling scoots along the

Narrow path beside the water.

And comes to a stop,

Looking far out to sea.

“Start praying!”

Which I do, for after a

Bout of fervent prayer,

Sister Darling wants fervent relief.

She speaks and sputters about

Ghosts, and opening veils, and

Blessed Saint Walpurga, opening

Doors to God.

Blessed Be! say I

Paw and me, we exchange

A certain glance

Knowing we both

Will feast tonight.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA.UEL

04/29/2023 0

Should Alison Alexandra Turn Over A New Leaf For International Women’s Day?

Alison Alexandra sometimes thinks of turning over a new leaf.

Sometimes at the most traditional of times, like at New Year or her birthday or under a full moon or when the tide is at its highest.

But then she remembers that well into her pre-teen years she thought the expression to turn over a new leaf meant reaching into the branches of a tree and flipping her wrist (somewhat like Amanda does when cutting cards) and when she found out the flip flip flipping concerned paper pages she was so bored she never did it. No, not once.

And anyway, why would she overturn anything in some sort of orderly fashion when she pell-mell turns things over at the very time they seem that they need to be overturned and not a minute or an hour or a full moon or one leaf later.

That now is indeed now is, indeed, now. And, as she daily finds out from her windows or cliffs overlooking the ocean; tide and time await no Alison Alexandra. So she will not wait for them.

Alison Alexandra has often thought – and she also often thinks – that she could happily turn over all her leaves just from her prow-of-a-ship room jutting into the sea or the cliffs that, as yet, do not erode under her feet as she walks them looking out to sea. But that would be unwise and probably as stagnant as a rotting fish that sometimes lodges itself at the base of her cliff and, though she has not travelled as often as those sailors and their spy glasses, she has travelled as far as many of them just to keep those leaves flip flip flipping.

So, today she is going to walk to town.

03/08/2023 0

Franz Kafka Does Not Want To be With People – Until He Does

In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in **missing** diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. It is estimated Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. I am as accurate as I can be in my timeline.

25 February 1917

We live a life where the years are short, yet the days can seem so long. We can be lonely, yet find the company of others tedious. I would guess I walked for hours today, so little inclination had I to do anything else. Yet now, with the time soon upon me to go down into the city, I feel as if the day had barely started. The people – numerous, interminable people – whom I met on my walk, wished to drown me in their banal conversations.

I would flee one, only to run into a couple; escape them, only to be tracked by a family. They enticed me into coffee shops, tricked me into homes, cross-referenced me for their supper tables.

They would even forego meat, they said, if I would only stay. I wanted to tell them that I would actually eat meat, if only I could leave.

And on it seemed to go, an endless day crammed with intruders.

But now, with bare minutes racing toward a new morning, I wish someone sat in my chair beside the lamp, so we could talk deep into the dark.

02/25/2023 0

kafkaestblog

It is a whirlwind in here

Category