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Wanderer, if you go to a hot spring, ...

Heinrich B?ll [Germany]

After the car stopped, the motor rang for a while, and somewhere outside the car, a door opened. The light shone into the car through the broken window, and then I saw that even the light bulb on the roof was broken, only the screws were left on the lamp holder, and three or two thin tungsten wires and light bulb fragments were shaking. After a while, the beeping of the engine stopped, and only someone outside the car shouted, "Bring the dead: are there any dead people there?" "Shit," the driver replied loudly, "Did you turn off the light?"

"The whole city is on fire. What's the use of a power outage!" The strange voice shouted, "I ask you, are there any dead people?"

I don't know.

"Bring the dead here! Did you hear that? Everybody else, take it upstairs! Take it to the art classroom! Do you understand? "

"All right, all right!"

But I'm not dead. I belong to others. They carried me up the stairs. First, I passed a long dimly lit corridor, where the walls were painted green and the old-fashioned black curved clothes hooks were nailed to the walls. There are enamel signs on both doors, which say "Class A, Grade One" and "Class B, Grade One". Feuerbach's Medea hangs between two doors, with soft light flashing, and the portrait is staring into the distance behind the black-rimmed glass; Then, after passing the doors with the signs of "Class A in Senior Two" and "Class B in Senior Two", there is a "picky boy" hanging between these two doors. This beautiful photo is set in a brown frame, reflecting the red light.

Just across the stairs, a big pillar stands in the middle. Behind the pillar is a long and narrow plaster replica, which is the lintel of the pillar of Athena Temple in ancient Greece. It is exquisite in workmanship, light yellow in color, antique and lifelike. Then I saw it, as if it were deja vu: the colorful, majestic Greek warrior with feathers in his head looked like a rooster. Even in this stairwell, the walls are painted yellow, and the portraits hanging on the walls are arranged in order: from the great elector to Hitler. ...

When the stretcher passed through the narrow aisle, I finally lay flat again. There is a particularly beautiful large colored old Fritz statue here. He has a pair of bright eyes, wearing a sky-blue military uniform, and the big star on his chest shines.

Later, the stretcher I was lying on tilted again, and I hurried past the face of the race: here is the captain of the north, with eagle-like eyes and thick lips; There are women in the mozer Valley in the west, who are a little thinner and a little stricter; There are green vegetables and garlic noses in the east; Then there is the profile of the southern mountain people, with a long face and a big Adam's apple. In another aisle a few steps away, I lay flat on the stretcher again. Before the stretcher was carried up the second flight of stairs, I saw a small monument to the fallen soldiers. At the top of the monument is a huge golden iron cross and laurel wreath stone carving.

All this passed quickly before my eyes, because I was not heavy, so the stretcher bearer walked quickly. Maybe all this is an illusion; I have a high fever and my whole body aches. Headache, arm pain, leg pain, heart pounding. What won't appear in front of people when they have a high fever!

After wearing the racial mask, it changed into another category: the busts of Caesar, Cicero and Marcus Aurelius were vividly reproduced, dark yellow, in the style of ancient Greece and Rome, and arranged majestically against the wall. When the stretcher wobbled around the corner, the oncoming Hermes train was unexpected. At the end of the corridor-the rose is painted here-is the art classroom, and the ugly face of the great Zeus hangs above the door of the classroom; Now it is far away from Zeus' ugly face. Through the window on the right, I saw the fire, the sky was red, and the thick black smoke cloud drifted away solemnly. ...

I couldn't help looking to the left again and saw the small sign on the door: "Class A, Grade 9" and "Class B, Grade 9". The door is light brown and smells moldy. There is a gold frame hanging between the two doors, from which I can only see Nietzsche's moustache and nose tip, because someone posted a note on the upper part of the portrait, which read: "Simple surgical operating room" ...

"If now," I flashed an idea, "if now …" But Togo's large-scale landscape paintings have now appeared in front of my eyes, with bright colors and no depth of field like old-fashioned copperplate prints, and the printing is very beautiful. In front of the screen, in front of the immigrant house, several blacks and a soldier stood with guns for no reason. There was a bunch of bananas painted very realistically, one on the left and one on the right. I saw something painted on the banana in the middle of the rope on the right. Could it be that I made it myself? ...

But then someone opened the door of the art room and I was shaken under the statue of Zeus, and then I closed my eyes. I don't want to see anything again. The art classroom smells of iodine, feces, garbage and tobacco, which is very noisy. They put me down, and I said to the stretcher bearer, "Please put a cigarette in my mouth and put it in the upper left pocket."

I felt someone reach into my pocket, then struck a match and stuffed a lighted cigarette in his mouth. I took a drag and said, "Thank you!"

"These are not evidence." I thought to myself. After all, every liberal arts middle school has an art classroom, the corridors are painted yellow-green, and the old-fashioned curved clothes hooks are hung on the walls; Even Medea between Class A and Class B in Grade One, and Nietzsche's moustache between Class A and Class B in Grade Nine can't prove that I am at my alma mater now. There must be a clear rule that Nietzsche must be hanged. The environment layout of Prussian liberal arts middle school is as follows: "Medea" hangs between Class A and Class B in Grade One; "picky boys" is placed between class a and class b in senior two; Kay withdrew, and Marcus Aurelius and Cicero were in the corridor; Nietzsche hangs upstairs-the students upstairs have already studied philosophy. There are lintels on the pillars of Athena Temple, which are colorful paintings of Togo. The picky boy and the lintel of the pillars of Athena Temple have become beautiful and ancient school furnishings handed down from generation to generation. And what is certain is that on a whim, I wrote "Long live Togo!" On the banana. I am not the only one. Students play the same practical jokes at school. Besides, maybe I have a fever and am dreaming.

I can't feel pain now. It's even more painful when I take the bus: whenever I hit a small crater, I can't help shouting; Better drive past the big pit. The car climbed up and down again, just like sailing in the waves. Now the injection is working. On the way, they stuck a needle in my arm in the dark; I felt the needle stick into my skin, and then it became warm under my thigh.

This can't be true. I think so, too. This car can't run so far. Almost thirty kilometers. In addition, you have no feeling, except your eyes, your other senses have lost consciousness; I don't think I told you. Now you are in your own school, in your alma mater, which you just left three months ago. Eight years is not a small number. Can you recognize everything in eight years with only a pair of naked eyes?

I recalled all this with my eyes closed, and scenes passed in my mind like a focused plane: the corridor on the first floor was painted green; Go upstairs, painted yellow here to commemorate the fallen soldiers, the aisle; Go up the stairs again, Caesar, Cicero, Marcus Aurelius ... Hermes, Nietzsche's moustache, Togo and Zeus. ...

I stubbed out my cigarette and started shouting. It always feels better to shout a few times, but you have to shout; Just shout. I shouted like crazy. Someone leaned over to observe my situation, but I still didn't open my eyes; I feel a heat wave that strangers breathe, smelling of tobacco and garlic. A voice asked calmly, "What's the matter?"

"Give me something to drink!" I said, "another cigarette, in the upper left pocket."

Someone felt in my pocket, struck a match and stuffed the lighted cigarette into my mouth.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"Bendorf."

"Thank you!" I started smoking when I said this.

It seems that I'm really in Bendorf, so I'm home. If I didn't have such a high fever, I'm sure I stayed in a liberal arts middle school-it must be a school. When I was downstairs, wasn't someone shouting "Someone else took it to the art classroom"? I belong to "others" and I am still alive; Obviously, "others" refers to these living people. This is the art classroom. If I can hear you clearly, why don't I have a good look? That's for sure. I did recognize Caesar, Cicero and Marcus Aurelius, who only existed in liberal arts middle schools; I don't believe these three guys will be put against the wall in the corridors of other schools.

He finally brought me water, and I smelled the mixture of garlic and tobacco he exhaled. I can't help but open my eyes: this is a tired and old face, unshaven, wearing a fire brigade uniform. He said softly in an old voice, "drink, brother!" " "

I drink. This is water. How sweet it is. My lips touched the cooker. I think it is made of metal. How comfortable it is to think that a lot of water will be poured into your throat! But the fireman took the cooker from my mouth. He walked away. I gave a cry, but he didn't look back. He just shrugged sleepily and walked away. A man lying next to me said calmly, "it's no use shouting, they have no water;" The city is burning, you can see it. "

Through the curtains, I saw the raging fire. Outside the black window, red light and black smoke are intertwined in the night sky, just like a newly added coal stove. I see it: yes, the city is burning.

"What's the name of this city?" I asked the man lying next to me.

"Bendorf." He replied.

"Thank you!"

I stared at the row of windows in front of me and looked at the roof from time to time. The roof is still intact, white and smooth. The four sides are inlaid with slender classical clay sculpture patterns. But the roofs of art classrooms in all schools are in this quasi-classical pattern, at least in decent old liberal arts middle schools. This is very clear.

Now I must admit that I am lying in the art classroom of a liberal arts middle school in Bendorf. There are three liberal arts middle schools in Bendorf: frederick the great Middle School and Albertus Middle School, but the last one, the third one, perhaps I don't need to say, is Adolf Hitler Middle School. In the stairwell of frederick the great Middle School, isn't the statue of old Fritz particularly gorgeous and big? I studied in this middle school for eight years. Then, why can't this picture be hung in the same place in other schools? And so clear and conspicuous. As soon as I boarded the second floor, I immediately came into view.

Now, I hear heavy guns roaring outside. If there were no guns, there would be almost silence around; I only hear the occasional sound of fire devouring and the loud noise of gables collapsing somewhere in the dark. The gunfire was even and rhythmic. I was thinking: what an excellent artillery team! I know guns are usually like this, but I still think so. Oh, my God, what a comforting and pleasant cannon sound, deep and rough, like soft and elegant organ sound. It's elegant anyway. I think cannons are elegant even when they roar. The sound of guns is so elegant, really like the war in the picture book ... Then I thought, if another memorial to the fallen soldiers is built, with a bigger golden iron cross on the top and a bigger laurel wreath stone carving, how many people's names will be engraved! It suddenly occurred to me that if I were really at my alma mater, my name would be engraved on the stone tablet; In the history of the school, my name will be written at the back: "I went to the battlefield from school for ..."

But I still don't know why, and I don't know if I really returned to my alma mater. Anyway, I want to make this clear now. The memorial to the fallen soldiers is featureless and inconspicuous. It's the same everywhere. They are all mass-produced in one format. Yes, you can get them from any central point if necessary. ...

I looked around this spacious art classroom and all the paintings were taken down. There are some stools piled up in the corner. Like an ordinary art classroom, there is a row of long and narrow high windows to fill the room with light. What can you see from these stools and high windows? I don't remember anything. If I were in this Xiaotian yard, would I remember nothing? Because this is where I learned to draw vases and practiced writing various fonts for eight years. There are excellent replicas of slender and exquisite Roman glass vases, which are placed on the shelf in front of the classroom by the art teacher Chen Fang. The fonts are various: round, Latin printing, Rome, Italy ... Among all the courses in the school, I hate this course the most. I'm bored these days. I've never painted a vase or painted calligraphy and painting well once. In the face of this dull and monotonous echo, where are the things I curse and hate? I can't remember anything, and I silently shook my head.

At that time, I used an eraser to erase, and I sharpened the pencil. I rubbed and ground ... I don't remember anything. ...

I don't remember how I got hurt; All I know is that my arm can't move, and my right leg can't move, only my left leg can move. I think they may have tied my arm so tightly that I can't move.

I spit out the second cigarette butt and landed in the aisle between the hay mats. I tried to move my arm, but I couldn't help crying because of the pain. I shouted again, much more comfortable. Besides, I'm angry because my arm can't move.

The doctor came up to me, took off his glasses and looked at me sideways. He did not say a word. Behind him stood the fireman who gave me water to drink. He whispered to the doctor for a while, and the doctor put on his glasses again, so I clearly saw his big eyes with the pupils turning slightly behind his thick glasses. He stared at me for a long time, so long that I had to look away, then he said softly, "Wait a minute, it's your turn soon ..."

Then, they lifted the person lying next to me and sent it behind the board; I looked at them. They have pulled the board apart and placed it horizontally. There is a sheet hanging between the wall and the board, and the lights behind the board are dazzling. ...

I couldn't hear anything until the sheets were pulled open again and the person lying next to me was carried out; Tired and indifferent, the stretcher bearer hobbled him to the door.

I closed my eyes again and thought, "you must find out what injury you have suffered;" Besides, are you at your alma mater now? "

I feel that everything around me is so cold and heartless, as if they took me through a dead city museum and a strange world that has nothing to do with me. Although my eyes know these things, they are just my eyes. It's impossible: three months ago, I was still sitting here, drawing vases and writing. I take my jam, butter and bread downstairs during my break. Before passing the portraits of Nietzsche, Hermes, Caesar, Cicero and Malcus Aurelius, I slowly went downstairs to the corridor where Medea hung, and then went to Bilger Le, the doorman, to drink milk and even risk smoking in his dark little room. How is that possible? They must have carried the man lying next to me to the place where the dead were put downstairs. Maybe those dead people are lying in Bill Geller's gray hut, which once smelled of hot milk, dust and Bill Geller's inferior tobacco. ...

The stretcher bearers finally came in again, and this time they were going to carry me behind the board. Now I've been rocked through the door. At this time, I saw what I would definitely see: when the school was called Thomas Middle School, there was a cross hanging on the door, but later they took it away, leaving a fresh brown mark on the wall, which was cross-shaped, deep and clear, and more eye-catching than the old, light cross; This cross mark was cleanly and beautifully left on the faded white wall. At that time, they repainted the wall in a rage, but to no avail, the painter didn't choose the right color, the whole wall was painted rose, and the cross was brown and still clearly visible. They cursed for a while, but to no avail. The brown cross remains clearly on the rose wall. I think they must have no money to buy paint, so there is nothing they can do. The cross is still here. If you look closely again, you can see that there is an obvious oblique mark on the beam on the right, where boxwood branches have been hung for many years. It was put on by the porter Bilger. At that time, crosses were allowed in schools. ...

When I was carried through this door and came behind the brightly lit board, in this short second, I suddenly recalled all this.

Lying on the operating table, I saw my figure clearly reflected on the transparent glass of the light bulb above, but it became very small, shrinking into a small white ball, like a swaddling gauze, like an extraordinarily delicate premature baby. This is me on a glass bulb.

The doctor turned and stood at the table with his back to me, rummaging through the surgical instruments. The tall and old fireman stood in front of the blackboard. He smiled at me, tired and sad, and his dirty face full of stubble seemed to be asleep. My eyes swept over his shoulders and fell on the back of the drawing board. What do I see on this? After coming to this morgue, it touched my heart for the first time, shocked a secret corner of my heart and made me horrified. My heart began to beat violently: there was my handwriting on the blackboard. On the top, in the first row. I recognized my handwriting, which was clearer and more disturbing than looking in the mirror. I don't need to doubt anymore. It's my own handwriting Nothing else is enough, whether it's Medea or Nietzsche, whether it's the profile of Dina Mountain people or the bananas in Togo, even the cross marks on the door can't be counted. These are the same in other schools, but I never believe that anyone in other schools can write on the blackboard with my handwriting. Only three months ago, on that desperate day, we all had to write this sentence. Now this inscription is still impressive: "Wanderer, if you go to the Spa" Oh, I remember. At that time, because the blackboard was too short, the art teacher scolded me and said that I was improperly arranged and the font was too big. He shook his head, but wrote in the same big words: "Wanderer, if you go to April 8 ..."

Here, I save my handwriting in six fonts: Latin font, German font, italic, Roman, Italian and round. He wrote clearly and neatly six times: "vagrant, if you go to the Spa"

The doctor called the fireman to him in a low voice so that I could see the complete inscription. It's almost intact because my handwriting is too big and takes up too much space.

I felt a needle prick on my left thigh, and my whole body suddenly trembled. I want to help myself up, but I can't sit up. I looked at my body, and now I see it, because they have untied my bandage, and I lost my arm and my right leg! I suddenly lay down on my back because I couldn't support myself. I lost my voice, and the doctors and firemen looked at me in surprise. But the doctor just shrugged and continued to push his syringe, and the barrel heart slowly and smoothly pushed to the bottom. I want to look at the blackboard again, but now the fireman is standing in front of me and blocking the blackboard. He pressed my shoulder tightly, and I smelled a smoky smell of paste and dirt coming from his greasy uniform. All I saw was his tired and sad face, and now I finally recognize him-that's Bill Geller!

"Milk," I whispered. ...