spaces beneath some flight of stairs or another, waiting for their time, which, so it seemed, had now come. Before long they flowered on the façades of the buildings round the square, restoring the equilibrium of bright accents between foreground and background. A wind blew up, opening the flags and setting them aflutter. This was the most emphatic sign that something hadchanged. The flags multiplied in windows; there were more and more of them by the minute. No one had known previously just how many had been lying about in various corners, but nor was anyone surprised. For of all the things one can think of, flags are the easiest to sew; no kind of faith or hope is required for the job.
And what about that other square, in a different story, of necessity vacated and closed down? And the suddenly interrupted threads of stories entwining it? And the inhabitants, removed from their own homes by a peremptory decree? Up till now they had lived where they belonged, uninitiated into the mysteries of the freight railroad, uninformed about the layers of sand shifting beneath the foundations of their houses or the economies made in the construction of the walls, far away from the notary and his safe. They did not know the overalled masters and they did not know whose account they were paying for; otherwise they never would have resigned themselves to the wrong they had suffered. Misfortune is easiest to accept when it is beyond comprehension. And now, unlike the notary, these people no longer had anything to worry about. The worst had already happened. In the place where they had lived till now, the ground had been pulled from under their feet.
So it should come as no surprise if they now begin to emerge from the streetcar at the stop in front of the local government offices. First just a handful of them â letâs say one family, like a sign that is a prelude to the arrival of crowds. Someone has totake the first step, and this first step is from a later perspective nothing more than the presage of an already familiar continuation. Thus, the streetcar comes to a halt and the first refugees appear on the square: a small group of dark figures of different ages, in thick winter overcoats, caps with earflaps, head scarves, mufflers, and thick gloves. They tread unsurely, disoriented by the sudden downturn in their fortunes. The question of whether they may have come at the wrong time is the last thing they would wish to ask themselves. They too were not asked whether an explosion would be convenient for them. They hand down suitcases and bundles and arrange them on the sidewalk as if they believed â without so much as a hint of gratitude â that it had now been given over into their possession in return for the home they had lost. The streetcar cannot move on till they have finished unloading their belongings â till with the help of their children they have dragged out all the cardboard boxes tied with string, the sled, the teddy bear, the gramophone with its huge trumpet, and the canary in a cage. While theyâre maneuvering all these objects, they have something to do, and while there is something to do, there is also hope. Afterwards things will only get worse.
The moment the streetcar pulls away, theyâll begin to look around helplessly, not knowing what to do with their luggage or themselves. Theyâll check whether they have brought the tureen with the gold band, a memento of the large service of best porcelain that they could not fit in their cases. Theyâll havea slight quarrel, allowing their raised voices to drift all the way up to the windows of the apartments. Then theyâll press their ears to the trunks to check which one contains the ticking dining room clock. But ticking is nowhere to be heard, so they have to open the trunks and make sure that the clock is safely where they packed it, wrapped in a blanket. If it hadnât been for the haste imposed by unexpected events, they
And what about that other square, in a different story, of necessity vacated and closed down? And the suddenly interrupted threads of stories entwining it? And the inhabitants, removed from their own homes by a peremptory decree? Up till now they had lived where they belonged, uninitiated into the mysteries of the freight railroad, uninformed about the layers of sand shifting beneath the foundations of their houses or the economies made in the construction of the walls, far away from the notary and his safe. They did not know the overalled masters and they did not know whose account they were paying for; otherwise they never would have resigned themselves to the wrong they had suffered. Misfortune is easiest to accept when it is beyond comprehension. And now, unlike the notary, these people no longer had anything to worry about. The worst had already happened. In the place where they had lived till now, the ground had been pulled from under their feet.
So it should come as no surprise if they now begin to emerge from the streetcar at the stop in front of the local government offices. First just a handful of them â letâs say one family, like a sign that is a prelude to the arrival of crowds. Someone has totake the first step, and this first step is from a later perspective nothing more than the presage of an already familiar continuation. Thus, the streetcar comes to a halt and the first refugees appear on the square: a small group of dark figures of different ages, in thick winter overcoats, caps with earflaps, head scarves, mufflers, and thick gloves. They tread unsurely, disoriented by the sudden downturn in their fortunes. The question of whether they may have come at the wrong time is the last thing they would wish to ask themselves. They too were not asked whether an explosion would be convenient for them. They hand down suitcases and bundles and arrange them on the sidewalk as if they believed â without so much as a hint of gratitude â that it had now been given over into their possession in return for the home they had lost. The streetcar cannot move on till they have finished unloading their belongings â till with the help of their children they have dragged out all the cardboard boxes tied with string, the sled, the teddy bear, the gramophone with its huge trumpet, and the canary in a cage. While theyâre maneuvering all these objects, they have something to do, and while there is something to do, there is also hope. Afterwards things will only get worse.
The moment the streetcar pulls away, theyâll begin to look around helplessly, not knowing what to do with their luggage or themselves. Theyâll check whether they have brought the tureen with the gold band, a memento of the large service of best porcelain that they could not fit in their cases. Theyâll havea slight quarrel, allowing their raised voices to drift all the way up to the windows of the apartments. Then theyâll press their ears to the trunks to check which one contains the ticking dining room clock. But ticking is nowhere to be heard, so they have to open the trunks and make sure that the clock is safely where they packed it, wrapped in a blanket. If it hadnât been for the haste imposed by unexpected events, they
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