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03 June 1917 & 03 June 1918 From “Kafka In The Castle” In Memory of Kafka’s 100th Death Date

  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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03 June 1917

 A day trip to visit Ottla. I went half the way, and so did she. I had an extra hour’s wait for the connection back to Prague, but really a minor inconvenience. It was a lovely day, perhaps hotter than one would expect, but certainly not the heat of Prague. It was a pretty village to stroll around, and we even walked an hour into the countryside. Had a decent meal in a tavern. Men in uniform – with guns – even there. Ottla has put on weight, which is something I did not expect. I joked about it, and she said it was muscle from all the work of the farm. I guessed it was from all the fresh food she can get on the farm.  The advantages of being in the country. She said that there were other advantages to being out of Prague, but then spoke no more about it. She didn’t mention father, and I didn’t tell her I had kept this visit to myself. Sometimes you have to dance without touching anyone.

03 June 1918

           There was a meeting at the Institute today, although it was not classed as a meeting. It was held during the usual lunch period, although nobody ate. It was apparently well planned, although a surprise to most of those present. It was about paper and documents, although no notes were kept. The Director himself invited the specifically chosen – came into our offices with a smile and a few choice words. The Director himself locked the door behind us.

     “When the war ends, there will be changes.” This was a safe statement, for the war must eventually end. Even Ottla could not find fault with that. But, for the rest of the hour, it would have been best to have one’s ears stopped up with wax, if one did not want to flirt with treason. We would be prudent, suggested the Director, if we excised our papers and our files. To let our judgement lean toward the heavy-handed approach. To assume that victors within and without the country will be after their pound of flesh. To realize that those who desire the Republic of Czechoslovakia, will have the desire to eradicate all visages of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. That those in positions of power, when that power is removed, will have no position at all. “Where does one go,” asked a man, to no one in particular, as we filed from the office, “when your country leaves you?”

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Why Does Kafka Ponder His Fine Dining At The Sanatorium Frankenstein?

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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02 June 1918

           I took an evening train back to Prague, so I was able to have Sunday dinner at the Sanatorium Frankenstein. Much more restful than at my father’s table. The officials – and the officious – knew of my opinions. And know that I will be back on other trips for the Institute. Changes will be made, and those changes will be kept. With all these understandings in place, the meal was reasonably cordial.

     I chose to sit with the patients. There was, of course, unspoken control here – those whom they can’t control eat in other rooms. My wish-granting colonel was not to be seen, let alone heard. And if staff questions were not answered, then “Do you like the meals?” became “Tell Doktor Kafka if you like the meals.” I did hear one bandaged patient respond; “Why, is he the cook?” I chose – like everyone else – to ignore the comment. The food, if somewhat scant and overdone, was decent enough country fare. Better than many Prague cafes. There was no need for any fond good byes – I will be back.

     I paced the station platform for awhile, thinking of the places I’ve been, and the sights I’ve seen. The people I have met. I occasionally, in Prague, go just to watch the trains arrive and depart. All that hectic bustle, noise and confusion, and then – emptiness. It is at such times that I am tempted to think that the meaning of life is movement. And, eventually, my train came, and I was the one in motion.

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Is It Best To Speak Exactly To The Insane?

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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01 June 1918

          I was walking some distance from the Sanatorium, lost to my usual thoughts and memories, when a voice from behind startled me. “You’re the Herr Doktor from Prague?” I was turning, ready to agree and put on my smile, when the voice continued. “You’re not like the rest of them – thank God.” He barely stopped for breath. “I can grant you three wishes. But you have to be quick, for they will soon be after me.” And I must have been thinking of his previous offer, for my requests came without hesitation. “Make me worthwhile,” I said. “Give me someone to love,” I said. “Grant me oblivion,” I said. And he looked past me, seeing white coats in the distance – or, perhaps, French and American soldiers. Or – perhaps – he could just not look into my eyes. “They are yours.” He spoke, preparing to flee. “The wishes are yours. But…” he paused, just long enough to add, “…not necessarily in that order.”

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A Question From Kafka: “Me, Myself, and I – Who are we?”

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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30 May 1918

          If wishes were horses; K, The Herr Doktor of Laws, and Frankie – perhaps, most of all, poor Frankie – would mount and ride toward the mountains, toward the sea, toward that place where we would not be we.

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Kafka Hopes To Prove His Worth On A Farm (from “Kafka In The Castle”)

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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27 May 1917

          I shall visit Ottla. She asks that I come. She has been gone six weeks to the day. I could go next Saturday morning and stay two nights. I doubt the Director would mind. I could be back by noon, and work into the evening. Perhaps bring him eggs, or other farm produce. It would be appreciated with the shortages. She wrote that she could put me to work, if I’m worried about getting in the way. I know that she’ll really let me do what I want, but I actually would enjoy some chores. Some wood chopped, some earth hoed. More than the vapour which is the only result of thought. I’m sure she could find something for which I’m competent. I should do no worse than the other dumb animals.

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Will Kafka Slip/Slide His Way Through May?

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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22 May 1917

          There was even some snow. 

         They spoke of it at the office. Further down the river some snow and thunder together. 

               Hysteria traced the words of one man, who claimed he had good information – which he could not reveal – that the enemy has a great machine which can control the weather. That is how they are going to win the war. Freeze us in May, and destroy all our crops. 

                “And where are these giant weather engines?” somebody asked. 

                “In France,” was his reply, but he said it with such hesitancy that I knew it was a guess. 

                 “No machine could cause us trouble from that far away,” said another, and there was laughter before work resumed. 

                  Laughter without a touch of mirth.

DE

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Franz Kafka And May Day

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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30 April 1918

            If one can love and loathe the same thing, I do so with travel. Even as short a trip as the afternoon train to Prague. Regardless of the destination. And I don’t really mind so much, once I’m on the conveyance and moving. It’s having to get ready. It’s having to think about it.

     Ottla – of course – had all my things together and in the waggon before breakfast. I took a last walk around the village, as unobtrusively as possible, for I had said any `good-byes’ I wished to make the day before. And to Farmer L. the day before that. I was tempted to go past Fraulein G’s door – to be able to look at her one last time. She will fade in my mind. Faces and bodies always fade. But I did not.

     I went along the road which leads to Oberklee, and sat beneath my favourite tree for a short while. But, as is my habit, I became late, and had to hurry back to Ottla’s. Before the past and future started to mingle as I stared across fields and hills. O. insisted I have lunch, and then the hired hand drove us to the station. There were a few waves and farewells from people, which I had to return. My fingers to my hat.

     The wait at the station was not long, since the train was on time and we nearly were not. And the ride was uneventful. The day was clear and crisp, and I looked at the farms and countryside with new understanding. New curiosity. I saw where a field had just been started, and could guess which meal the farmer might have tonight. The condition of his boots. The gratitude for this Tuesday sunshine.

     And such things kept me thinking of Prague. Until it was in the distance. Until the landscape changed. Until the outskirts surrounded us. Until Prague filled the windows, swallowed the train whole, scraped us from the living earth. Then I was home.

01 May 1918

            It is like the day after the funeral.

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Good Friday From A Slanted Angle

Jesus Has Doubts On Good Friday
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If Kafka Welcomes Spring, Can Summer Be Far Behind?

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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08 April 1917

I seem to end in the most absurd situations. This afternoon, before Sunday dinner, Ottla took me away for some gardening. Rooting around in the earth, with the frost barely gone. Only Ottla could find such a plot of ground in Prague, or expect me to grub about in it like some hungry animal.

It was obviously some sort of communal land – such places are popular during this war. There were even families at work. Children also. One small boy was caught between his interest in the garden, and his desire to be a small boy. And what a dilemma it was. He’d work in the ground for awhile, following the example of his mother, then suddenly race around, exploring like a small boy. He came over to Ottla and me, and hunkered down beside us. He shook his head with a sigh of exasperation, and reached over to put his hands on mine. “Mummy says that’s wrong,” and with great patience and determination, began to show me how to prepare the earth. I thought there could be no better proof to Ottla of how inept I was.

I followed the movements of his hands, and between us, we dug quite a hole. At last the little fellow stood, obviously satisfied. “I go now,” he said, and ran away to see some other entertaining oddity. Ottla hadn’t laughed for fear of offending the boy, but she didn’t show such restraint when we were finally alone.

It fell to me to find the flowers.

Such things prove God’s sense of humour, for I have no interest or understanding for flowers. There was a fellow at university who could talk about flowers for hours. Otherwise, he was quite pleasant to be with. So it seems a joke that I would find them, between a pile of rubble and the wall of a house.

I had been exploring, much as the little fellow had done. In fact, he was running past when I found them, so I showed him also. They were white, with frail leaves close to the ground. Quite nondescript. But the boy was fascinated. He put his face close, although he didn’t touch them.

“Can I tell Mummy?” He obviously thought they were my flowers. “Yes,” I said, and he ran to get her. She followed him as he chattered all the way, and then she too hesitated, looking at me cautiously. “Perhaps your wife would like to see them,” she suggested. It took a moment to realize she was referring to Ottla. The flowers had become my possession. “Yes,” I said, “And tell anyone you like.”  “The first flowers of Spring,” she said, and she went to tell the others, taking care to stop at Ottla first.

Tiny white flowers.

I can still not believe the looks upon their faces, as they crowded around. Even the children were silent.

The relief they showed.

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