than the deeds of all those who have ever waged victorious wars.
If the War Goes On Another Two Years
End of 1917 *
Ever since I was a boy I have been in the habit of disappearing now and then, to restore myself by immersion in other worlds. My friends would look for me and after a time write me off as missing. When I finally returned, it always amused me to hear what so-called scientists had to say of my ‘absences’, or twilight states. Though I did nothing but what was second nature to me and what sooner or later most people will be able to do, those strange beings regarded me as a kind of freak; some thought me possessed; others endowed me with miraculous powers.
So now, once again, I vanished for a time. The present had lost its charm for me after two or three years of war, and I slipped away to breathe different air. I left the plane on which we live and went to live on another plane. I spent some time in remote regions of the past, raced through nations and epochs without finding contentment, observed the usual crucifixions, intrigues, and movements of progress on earth, and then withdrew for a while into the cosmic.
When I returned, it was 1920. I was disappointed to find the nations still battling one another with the same mindless obstinacy. A few frontiers had shifted; a few choice sites of older, higher cultures had been painstakingly destroyed; but, all in all, little had changed in the outward aspect of the earth.
Great progress had been made toward equality. In Europe at least, so I heard, all countries looked the same; even the difference between belligerent and neutral countries had virtually disappeared. Since the introduction of bombing from free balloons, which automatically dropped their bombs on the civilian population from an altitude of fifty to sixty thousand feet, national boundaries, though as closely guarded as ever, had become rather illusory. The dispersion of these bombs, dropped at random from the sky, was so great that the balloon commands were quite content if their explosive showers had spared their own country – how many landed on neutral or even allied territory had become a matter of indifference.
This was the only real progress the art of warfare had made; here at last the character of this war had found a clear expression. The world was divided into two parties which were trying to destroy each other because they both wanted the same thing, the liberation of the oppressed, the abolition of violence, and the establishment of a lasting peace. On both sides there was strong sentiment against any peace that might not last forever – if eternal peace was not to be had, both parties were resolutely committed to eternal war, and the insouciance with which the military balloons rained their blessings from prodigious heights on just and unjust alike reflected the inner spirit of this war to perfection. In other respects, however, it was being waged in the old way, with enormous but inadequate resources. The meagre imagination of the military men and technicians had devised a few new instruments of destruction – but the visionary who had invented the automatic bomb-strewer balloon had been the last of his kind; for in the meantime the intellectuals, visionaries, poets, and dreamers had gradually lost interest in the war, and with only soldiers and technicians to count on, the military art made little progress. With marvellous perseverance, the armies stood and lay face to face. Though, what with the shortage of metals, military decorations had long consisted exclusively of paper, no diminution of bravery had anywhere been registered.
I found my house partly destroyed by aerial bombs, but still more or less fit to sleep in. However, it was cold and uncomfortable, the rubble on the floor and the mould on the walls were distressing, and I soon went out for a walk.
A great change had come over the city; there were no shops to be seen and the streets were lifeless. Before long, a man with a tin number pinned to his hat came up to me and asked me what I was doing. I said I was taking a walk. He: Have you got a permit? I didn’t understand, an altercation ensued, and he ordered me to follow him to the nearest police station.
We came to a street where all the buildings had white signs bearing the names of offices followed by numbers and letters.
One sign read: ‘Unoccupied civilians 2487 B 4’. We went in. The usual official premises, waiting rooms and corridors smelling of paper, damp clothing, and bureaucracy. After various inquiries I was taken to Room 72 and questioned.
An official looked me over. ‘Can’t you stand at attention?’ he asked me in a stern voice.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘Because I never learned how,’ I said timidly.
‘In any case,’ he said, ‘you were taking a walk without a permit. Do you admit that?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That seems to be true. I didn’t know. You see, I’d been ill for quite some time . . .’
He silenced me with a gesture. ‘The penalty: you are forbidden to wear shoes for three days. Take off your shoes!’
I took off my shoes.
‘Good God, man!’ The official was struck with horror. ‘Leather shoes! Where did you get them? Are you completely out of your mind?’
‘I may not be quite normal mentally, I myself can’t judge. I bought the shoes a few years ago.’
‘Don’t you know that the wearing of leather shoes in any shape or form by civilians is prohibited? – Your shoes are confiscated. And now let’s see your identification papers!’
Merciful heavens, I had none!
‘Incredible!’ the official moaned. ‘Haven’t seen anything like it in over a year!’ He called in a policeman. ‘Take this man to Office 19, Room 8!’
I was driven barefoot through several streets. We went into another official building, passed through corridors, breathed the smell of paper and hopelessness; then I was pushed into a room and questioned by another official. This one was in uniform.
‘You were picked up on the street without identification papers. You are fined two thousand gulden. I will make out your receipt immediately.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ I faltered. ‘I haven’t that much money on me. Couldn’t you lock me up for a while instead?’
He laughed aloud.
‘Lock you up? My dear fellow, what an idea! Do you expect us to feed you in the bargain? – No, my friend, if you can’t pay the trifling fine, I shall have to impose our heaviest penalty, temporary withdrawal of your existence permit! Kindly hand me your existence card!’
I had none.
The official was speechless. He called in two associates; they conferred in whispers, repeatedly motioning in my direction and looking at me with horror and amazement. Then my official had me led away to a detention room, pending deliberations on my case.
There several persons were sitting or standing about; a soldier stood guard at the door. I noticed that apart from my lack of shoes I was by far the best-dressed of the lot. The others treated me with a certain respect and made a seat free for me. A timid little man sidled up to me, bent down, and whispered in my ear: ‘I’ve got a magnificent bargain for you. I have a sugar beet at home. A whole sugar beet in perfect condition. It weighs almost seven pounds. Yours for the asking. What do you offer?’
He moved his ear close to
