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What Goes Around Does NOT Necessarily Come Around On Friday 13th

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In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the missing entries of his actual diaries.  There are many days to fill, as he either did not write during these days, or he destroyed the record.

Kafka did have occasion to ponder Friday 13th. The date was connected to “The Swiss Girl”, whom he met at a resort.  She was eighteen and he was thirty-four. It is unclear how intimate their relationship became.

Twice, I give him a brief recognition of Friday 13th. In reality, The Swiss Girl haunted him (pleasantly) all his life.

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13 April 1917

I almost wrote down the year as 1913. That was the year I met the Swiss girl. And I remember her joking about, and how we had missed it by just a day. She was superstitious – Christians seem to be. I wonder what precautions she is taking today. It will be three years and seven months since I saw her. Yet some of the things we did could have happened last week. I think that memory must be made of rubber.  You can sometimes pull it toward yourself – and sometimes it snaps away like a shot. Causing as much pain.

13 July 1917

Friday the 13th again. What better time to think of the Swiss girl, than with F. I don’t know if such memories help sustain me, or if they revel how intolerable the future can sometimes be. I can not imagine the Swiss girl’s face across the table from me, nor her voice singing one of her quiet songs. If I must be trapped, then why can’t I be trapped in the past?

[The Swiss Girl ~ Gerti Wasner] p8.storage.canalblog.com/89/52/207513/106933578_o.gif

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Franz Kafka Dies June 03, 1924

Franz Kafka died on 03/06/1924. He was a young man – a month short of his 41st birthday. However, his death was preordained years earlier. In my novel, “Kafka In The Castle“, I fill in the missing days of his diary. These are the entries I imagine concerning the days he actually found out his fate.

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04 September 1917

           A death sentence.

05 September 1917                                                                 

Max is saying all the right things. All the nice things. And he is saying them all in the right way. An earnest, matter-of-fact truthfulness which sounds plausible. If he does not tread from a very narrow path. Sometimes I find myself a part of his hopeful speculations. And sometimes I find that I am trying to keep his spirits up. If he is going to all this trouble, then shouldn’t I do my part?  But: it isn’t his blood.    And anyway – he was the one who insisted on the specialist. Chose the renowned Dr. Pick. And heard – almost as soon as myself – the verdict. Tuberculosis. Tuberculosis engaged in both lungs. Like a preparation for marriage. The engaged man now flirting with another lover. And planning a marriage which will be far more permanent that any I could have had with Felice.

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How Does Kafka Feel When He Becomes A Dead Man Walking?

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

11 August 1917

              I went to the office as usual. I was still coughing, and took extra handkerchiefs. The Director asked if I had a cold, and I told him I wasn’t sure. That certainly was true – I wasn’t sure what I had. When I met Max in the afternoon, he was horrified when I told him what had happened to me. And angry with me – genuinely angry. He told me that I was stupid.

     I’m sure it’s a word he has never used in relation to me. Stupid.

     I was astounded, and my surprise was such that I started coughing again. This made Max propel me all the more rapidly to the doctor. I feel that doctors are never really to be trusted. But sometimes, they are necessary. There had been so much blood.

I suppose that is what woke me – the coughing – or else I might have choked on it. Or even drowned in my own blood.

     I had to sit on the edge of the bed and grope for the light cord, to find out what this wetness was on my face and hands. Even then, I was more surprised than startled. I was wondering more how to stop the mess, than anxious about its cause. Blood from my throat, pumping out of my mouth. I slipped off the pillowcase, and tried to use it as a gag, coughing and spitting into it while trying to wipe my face. This gushing stream from my mouth did not seem to be stopping however, so I warily made my way to the sink. Even the usually chattering maid was subdued this morning, as she tried to scour the porcelain and the walls.  “Herr Doktor,” she said. “You don’t have long for this world.”  But at the time, the minutes had certainly seemed long when I had been leaning over the sink, one hand steadying myself against the wall while my gasping and spitting seemed to turn everything red. It was a relief to finally get to sleep. I felt I had really earned it.  

     Of course, this afternoon the doctor took his time prodding and peering, asking the most obvious questions while Max fretted like a parent. And took the doctor seriously. The questions about the blood seemed to disturb him. And the doctor was full of questions – wanting to know about the pain, and the amount of blood, and its duration. Had anything like this happened before? Any incidents in my family? Had I received any recent blows to the face or neck? Had I tried to eat or drink since it happened? Was I dizzy, or short of breath? Did I have headaches? Actually, this was the only time he seemed to take an interest in my answers. I mentioned that after the incident had happened, a headache which I had for days finally disappeared. I was able to sleep peacefully the rest of the night.

     He then rattled off words like thoracic dual apices, hemorrhage, and catarrh, and gave me two bottles of medicine to take at alternate times of the day. And that was that. Examination over and we’re out in the street. Max also expressed some reservations about the diagnosis, and suggested I should see a specialist. As he walked me back to work at the Institute, I at least had reason for not taking an active part in the conversation. I noticed that one prominent word was prominently absent from all discussion.

     Tuberculosis.

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Kafka Goes On The Road To See Death

18 February 1917

               A drive to the country, to see the dying.

A man from my childhood. We could have been porters in the station, with other people’s luggage, so little did he care.

There was no pretence at conversation, he did not even feign an interest. He had gone into himself, and death patiently awaited his return.

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How Will Kafka Fill In The TIME 01 July 1917

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. It is estimated that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. 

Here Franz contemplates his long days to fill, after his beloved sister, Ottla, fled their parents house in Prague for a farm in a village.

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01 July 1917

           A weekend which stretched endlessly. Long walks, but without Ottla. I would like to avoid the places where we went – but there would be little walking left to me. Instead I take a long walk into the country, and am at least a few kilometres closer to her.

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How Will Kafka Fill In The TIME?

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. It is estimated that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. 

Here Franz contemplates his long days to fill, after his beloved sister, Ottla, fled their parents house in Prague for a farm in a village.

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01 July 1917

           A weekend which stretched endlessly. Long walks, but without Ottla. I would like to avoid the places where we went – but there would be little walking left to me. Instead I take a long walk into the country, and am at least a few kilometres closer to her.

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Is Kafka Correct About The Dead?

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.

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17 June 1917

            I am told that you can’t lose people, that “…they will always be with you in memory.” Max is heavy with this type of comment – as if the hand of sentimentality brushed off his coat before he set out on each day. Both the intelligent and the slow of wit seem to be struck dumb by this nonsense. Emotion, I suppose  – hope, I suppose – has no place for reason among its folds. But, if you can not touch, or have expectation of being touched, then the people and places are as gone as yesterday. There is no way to travel back, and the future beckons with only an empty gesture and a hollow laugh. Bowing low at the open doorway to usher you in, but the room is empty. And will remain ever so. When they are no longer there to hold their hand out to you – well, then they are no longer there.

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Since Kafka Writes So Many Letters, Does He Become A Bore?

   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.

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10 June 1917

           I find I am writing the same letters. Saying the same things. Even using the same words. Perhaps to prove that they are the same thoughts. Over and over like a child hawking his newspapers on the street. Yet, he has more success, for I can not sell. I can not even give away.

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If Kafka Were To Die, What Would He Think?

   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.

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07 June 1917

I wonder what my final thought will be – just before I die. I was moments away from death this afternoon, as I stepped unheeding onto the tram tracks. The motorman’s frantic bell made me leap. Had I been too slow, my last thoughts would have concerned where and when to take my vacation. Not very glorious last thoughts to possess.

     But, had I the time granted to me, what would I chose to think about? Perhaps F. Perhaps the writing – I’d like to finish the novel. Would I torture myself thinking about father? Would I accept that my past – now that it was ending – was finally settled. Or would I instead – and this is what I really expect – be wondering what I was going to miss tomorrow?

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