"It's going to be tough," said Karl, the groom, who had entered Lela's room with a box full of tools, and looked out into the street.
"What is it, Karl?"
Although Lela would have preferred to stay alone now, preferably in the dark wardrobe where her fairy tale had once lived, and there, covering her ears with both hands, had thought of Eva and her hands, the disturbance was quite right for her. "Oh, the flag is supposed to be hung out here. And it's quite long. And the window is not high at all." He thoughtfully examined the wall under the window. Manuela was looking forward to the flag. Flag always meant a celebration of some kind. This time it meant, the emperor was coming. Then there was no school and everything was with flags, and military music and parade all the time, and Dad put on the helmet with the plume that she was allowed to comb, and then the bells rang, the wonderful bells of the cathedral. Even the "Mutte" rang. It was an ancient, big, thick bell, it had a crack and was therefore only allowed to be rung very rarely on terribly solemn occasions. And then always alone, and the sounds were far apart, because such a note took so long to finish. One had to wait a lot until the next one came. Karl hammered iron cramps into the wall below the window. He hammered and laughed.
"Why are you laughing, Karl?"
"Well, because I don't think the French will be very pleased with the Prussian flag, the black and white one there. If it were still a German one, but like this . . ."
Frau Käte had probably also had this concern and had hurriedly sewn together a wide band of black, white and red stripes so that the flag get another ribbon. The flagpole was also painted black and white and had a golden point on top.
"Fräulein Manuela can't completely close the window tonight; because the pole is in between."
"Oh, it doesn't matter, Karl." Manuela was proud that the flag hung near her, from her window and not from another one. She had asked for it and finally, her wish was granted.
"Karl, will we be illuminating?"
"Of course, madam has already bought candles. And there's a tattoo also."
In the afternoon, preparations began in all the houses. Fir garlands wound from window to window. Carpets hung from balconies. Ladders were employed and decorations of black, white and red cloth were fixed above the doors. In the shop windows stood the painting of the emperor decorated by a wreath of paper oak leaves. Little flags were sold. All the windows were full of candles.
Manuela had a lit candle in her hand and held the lower end of another to warm it. When it was soft, she pressed the candle onto the windowsill and held it until it was cold. There were twelve candles in each window. She could hardly wait for darkness. The torchlight procession was to go through the main street, past Meinhardis' house.
While Manuela and her Mother were lighting the candles all around the window, they heard the command calls of the tattoo from far away. Then the music started.
"Mum," said Lela, looking anxiously down at the unsafely lit street, "there's a man who always looks up; he's been standing there all afternoon." "Oh, that's a detective, child, he keeps an eye out." "Mum, for us?"
"No, silly. For the emperor, so that no one harmed him and not attempted to assassinate him. Wherever he goes, he is guarded. That's why Dad is here too; he has to watch out too."
Lela took pity on the emperor. How terrible it must be when one has entertainment for him, and he is actually afraid all the time.
"Mum, is the emperor afraid?"
"No, darling. The emperor is never afraid. Only we are afraid that the evil French will hurt him."
A drum roll sounded in the distance. Then there was a moment of dead silence, and then a triple, rough, eerie-sounding "Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!" and the march music began.
On the street below, people crowded. The soldiers, who had long been standing there as the barrier, now were holding their rifles crosswise in front of them and were pushing the crowd back onto the pavement. The candles in the windows flickered uncertainly. A damp evening wind moved the colorful flags. It smelt of fir green. People on the street became quiet. The music came closer. Music on horseback. The wind instruments cast yellow lights. The horses wore red tufts on their ears and gold-embroidered saddle pads. The road was so narrow that the horses touched the soldiers.
Now an eerie, yellow-red glow came over everyone. Lela reached for her mother's hand—torches. A sea of fire. High in raised hands, many hundreds of students carried the burning staves. The flame lay above their heads, flickering red and having black smoke. With every step, they walked in tightly packed rows. The music moved away, and now the bells triumphed over everything. Starting slowly, they started from all sides.
Lela looked up into her Mother's face, which had an unreal colour from the glow of the fire. Mother spoke. She moved her mouth. But Manuela could not hear what she was saying. She could only see her flickering eyes. As hard as she could, she pressed Mother's hand as if she had to hold it, as if it were in danger of floating away. Over there, the wall of the house lay in the light like neighbouring houses look in big fire. You stare at them and think, You could burn down too. Why not? It can reach anyone. This time they will save you, but next time . . . The faces of the people in the streets in the firelight were silent. One had the feeling that a celebration had been prepared, and for some reason, it had not quite succeeded. The bells were silent now, and from the neighbouring cathedral, high from the tower, came first soft, then louder sounds, carried by the wind, over a silent town in firelight and candlelight, over thousands and thousands of a listening crowd, wind instruments and trombones—with power and certainty—shouted to people,
"I pray to the power of love
Revealed in Jesus . . ."
Lela folds her hands. Her chorale, her favourite chorale, that is played in her Protestant church, sounds from the high Catholic cathedral. As the last notes fade away, with a jerk, the old "Mutte" begins its gruesome-serious song.
The candles in the windows go out, the street becomes darker. "Now they're throwing the torches together," someone says, and the "Mutte" rings and rings, and its shouts vibrate boomingly so that the window panes rattle and one feels something like physical pain in ears. Individuals on the street who had been impassive now raise their heads and look up at the tower as if they had been called. "Mutte" is French, Lela thinks, and Amélie is probably happy that it's ringing the bell. Lela is glad that Amélie and the others have fun too, but she doesn't say that. Her eyes quickly closed shut in bed. The street became empty. Diagonally opposite, a window was still bright. A door from the street led to a tavern. There was noise and smoke. Confusion and discussion. Here and there a voice called for silence. Here and there policemen patrolled by. They kept an eye on the pub; they stopped and consulted among themselves. But then they walked father slowly. Frau Käte stepped into Lela's room again and peered out into the street. At the moment, everything was silent. Then she came to Lela's bed. The child was sleeping peacefully. This was not always the case. Frau Käte had noticed long ago that Lela tossed and turned and dreamt in her sleep. As if she were afraid of something. As if she were suffering persecution in a dream. Yes, she screamed sometimes. Childish things, like, "The French are coming!" or, "They're shooting, they're shooting!" Then she woke her child and whispered calming words to her. She touched her forehead gently, and Lela went back to sleep quietly, without complaining the next day, indeed, she wasn't even aware of it. Quietly, Frau Käte crossed Lela's forehead.
She closed the door silently, and Lela was left alone, in a deep child's sleep now, and still, like in old times, holding her two beloved Sweeties in her arms.
Loud, cheerful voices in the street did not wake her. A pair of drunken figures staggered out of the tavern. Their drunken French was incomprehensible. There was no wind and the flag hung motionless and low. Who grabbed it? Who pulled? Who helped? The heavy end of the huge flagpole in Lela's room had been lifted up suddenly. With a loud crash, the iron staples tore out of the wall and hit the window-panes. Something fell and someone screamed below. From pain or happiness?
One end of the flagpole is holds on the windowsill still. A wild disorder. Fabric tears, wood crashes, Lela stands dead pale in the middle of the room. "Mother, Mum, Mum!" But her voice is stuck in her throat, no sound comes. The door of the tavern bursts open. Man upon man pour out of there. Dark figures. Arms in the air. They make leaps. They tear off a rag. They stomp it into the wet, dirty street. Only one thing Lela hears, "A bas les Prussiens! A bas les Prussiens!" (Down with the Prussians!)
She knew this motto. These were the first French words that had stuck in her ear, "Prussiens" and "à bas." The flagpole is gone. Shards lie in front of Lela's bare feet. The window is cracked wide open. Slowly, fearlessly, Lela walks towards the window. There is no one left, not even the flag. Far away it yells and roars—the Marseillaise.
When Lela woke up, she was in Mum's bed. Her hand was firmly in Mother's hand. Her head was on Mother's shoulder. It was warm and good. Only the eyes opened with such difficulty. They were swollen as if from long crying. Has she been crying in the night? How did she get into Mum's bed? Something had happened, the flag . . . Oh, yes! The child presses closer to the mother. Nothing can happen to her here. Dad always says she's too big now to crawl into Mum's bed; it's only for small children, but nevertheless, she was there now, and that was good. If only one had never had to leave again. She belonged here and nowhere else. Alone in bed was so cold. However, the Sweeties—but they also wanted to take the Sweeties away from her. She was too big. What about the flag? The French had torn it down. Why had they done this? Lela sighed.
Frau Käte awoke to this.
"What is it, darling?"
"Mum, if we are all very good to the French now, don't you think they will console themselves that they have lost the war?"