They left their homes with only the essentials: a single suitcase to set out with. All other valuables that proved difficult to move or unnecessary for survival were locked away on departure, in the hope of seeing them again: the fine dinnerware, the woodcarvings, the velvet pillowcases, the crystal vases, the silver candlesticks. The soft light of home was replaced by the anonymous darkness of night, and at dawn by a smeared, gray gloom, for they had now been walking for long hours, without food or water, at an unstressed but determined pace toward the crossing. There must have been thousands or tens of thousands of people marching along the winding streets ahead and behind them, but in the thick of the crowd, all they could see was an endless mass of shoulders and calves. Now, as on the other days of the week, it was drizzling, with an occasional low rumble of thunder, followed by a faint flash of lightning; the sky seemed lazy to rouse its energies, and plodded along its marked course, more out of habit than anger.
The flow of people in front of them slowed and then stopped. They didn’t know what they were waiting for, but they were patient. Perhaps they had arrived? Someone stamped his shoe on the blistered mud, someone examined the windows of the blackened facades: if there was any life trapped behind them, if someone was grasping the curtains from the inside, because if you’re used to the bad, why leave; change is fraught with the possibility of error? Were there still shoemakers and bakers and locksmiths in the basements, who couldn’t leave their little empire, because then who would repair, who would bake, who would grind for the few who stayed? Someone wondered, who would stay here, under the reign of mean streets, grim and crumbling buildings, perpetual mire, perpetual wind, perpetual rain, who would not want the beauty that the future, now thought to be very near, promised? Someone was dreaming of that very future, of the fanciful tales of the distant acquaintances of the close ones: over there, sycamores, strawberry trees, Persian silks, and oaks lined the clean, dry streets, the fountains sparkled with vivid water, the walls of the houses were freshly painted, runner plants dangling from the balconies, people rode blue and pink bicycles and greeted each other jovially, clutching baguettes or Krapfens under their arms. And someone, even though he had come all this way, was still incapable of this excited anticipation, for all he knew was that here a fast-spreading, contagious pestilence had already wiped out everything human, every living thing that breathed with reason, every color, and every intention; and there was nothing left but this filth that they were now trampling on, and he felt that there was no way out of it, for the mud clung to the shoes in ever larger clumps, slowing and dragging the body down until it was completely stuck, and then it was not only impossible to start, to go on, to fight onward, but also useless—
They noticed that something, perhaps a piece of cloth, was twisting and turning with the wind above them, one or the other gaining strength, like wrestling opponents, grappling and squeezing each other, but then nature prevailed and threw the cloth to the ground. A boy quickly picked it up and held it aloft: “The flag! The flag!” And indeed, as they looked closer, it was their faded tricolor, thoroughly tattered. For a long time, they stared at the flag in the child’s hand, and though their thoughts piled up, they could not piece together a single sentence from the fragments of words that swarmed inside them. Eventually, of course, the confirming news trickled down to them: the national symbol had been torn from the top of the bridge’s pylon.
The stunned faces were shaken by a cracking sound. A tremendous roar and rumble echoed over the city, and suddenly, wedged between the narrow streets, a turbulent vibration ran through them, shaking not only their chests but the buildings as well: the window panes began to rattle, the dirty curtains to sway, the flaking plaster to peel; somewhere deep in a basement, a nail fell from the shoemaker’s hand. They looked to see if the sky had split in two, but saw nothing, a continuous gray mantle hovering above them, not a bulge or a crack in it, looking as dull as ever. A few muffled screams rose from somewhere far away, but whether they came from the bridge or from the end of the crowd snaking into the belly of the ungodly city, it was impossible to tell. Many whispered, “Has something collapsed?”
They all stood still and listened as the noises slowly faded. They might have guessed, but only those who stood at the front, on the riverbank, who had led the people this far, knew for certain that the other side was now unreachable.