Anarchistbanjo's World

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 12

What’s happening in the city isn’t really clear.

One is fed with rumors. Terrible massacres are said to have taken place. It’s heard that fighting broke out at Am Hof. It’s heard that the people are being held under siege by soldiers at Michaelerplatz and that two cannons stand at the great gate to Franzensplatz, with gunners holding burning fuses beside them. But it’s also heard that the chief fireworker there refused to shoot when Archduke Maximilian d’Este gave the order. It’s even heard that the citizens’ militia has marched out and joined forces with the people.

One hears all this and a hundred other things, and the excitement among the masses locked out of the city grows ever greater. They want to do something; they don’t want to remain idle, whether the people inside are being slaughtered or Metternich is getting his comeuppance.

Above all, it’s the workers from the Gloggnitzer Railway machine factory, it’s the masses of the unemployed who say something must be done.

“The machines are to blame for everything,” the unemployed shout, “the machines take our bread.”

Primeval forces awaken, howling for destruction. Factory gates crash open; they go for the machines—wheels, boilers, pumps, ovens burst under axe blows; drive belts are cut to pieces. “We want soles for our shoes!”

“It’s the consumption tax,” the unemployed cry, “the consumption tax makes our bread more expensive.”

Toward evening, a vast crowd rolls toward the consumption tax office on Mariahilferlinie. They have beams, stones, and clubs. What can the handful of tax guards do against this roaring human wave? The gate splinters under the beam strikes, the windows shatter under stone throws, the clubs smash the office equipment to bits. They overturn cabinets and desks; paper flutters out—paper, paper, consumption tax slips, files, files. The tax guards have long fled, except for one who didn’t escape in time and is now hiding in the cellar.

On the street, a fire blazes, well-fed by files and debris from the furnishings. It grows dark, but the fire shoots higher and higher, and then a second splendid torch joins it—the burning roof truss of the tax office.

Some bakeries and butcher shops have been looted, providing bread and meat for a victory feast. A nearby wine cellar fills the tin mugs, washbasins, and tubs of the tax officials with hearty drinking.

It’s quite cozy; they’re among themselves.

No, they’re not entirely among themselves. A worker woman, who has taken on the role of cook for a group and is searching for wood for the fire, discovers a woman in the shadow of one of the tax office gate’s pillars, standing completely still as if she doesn’t want to be noticed. She’s a woman in a light, layered lace dress with a green silk mantilla and a bonnet adorned with green foliage. A lady, then—and does a lady belong here? The worker woman finds this immediately suspicious; what’s a lady in a green silk mantilla and bonnet doing now at Mariahilferlinie, where the working people are asserting themselves in the name of freedom? She grabs the stranger’s arm with a rough grip, drags her into the fire’s light circle, plants herself in front of her, and plants her hands on her hips: “What’s this fine lady looking for here with us? Does she think this is a theater?”

The woman in the green silk mantilla gives no answer. She has a strange look—motionless eye axes, reflections of the flames in her pupils—but one can’t tell if she sees anything of what’s happening around her. At any rate, she gives no response, and this disregard drives the woman into a rage. She shakes the lady by the shoulder, jostles her back and forth, shouts in her face: “Has the fine lady lost her tongue? Is our kind too low for her to answer? What brings this noble lady here then?”

The men by the fire take notice. A ragamuffin with a multiply stitched coat looks up, sticks his hands in his pockets, hitches up his trousers, and approaches swaying like a wrestler. “Well, well, who do we have here?” He ducks under the brim of the bonnet; a pale face meets him in silence, strange eyes float spacelessly—yes, it’s a fine lady, no doubt! Just the brooch on the front of the mantilla alone is worth a pretty penny, and the cross on the gold chain too. She’s one of those who have no idea what need is, one of the well-fed who are quite content if everything stays the same. It’s really incomprehensible what she wants here, where the working people are about to break the chains of their servitude.

But she gives the man standing before her no answer either. What’s one to make of that? The women surround the stranger; they berate her—yes, that’s how one of them could never dress; they must run around in rags so such ladies can wear lace and silk; they and their children must go hungry so the ladies can stuff themselves. These ladies bathe in milk—yes, it’s been heard before, they bathe in milk to keep their skin fine and white; naturally, then the children have no milk; one can’t buy milk when this lady needs it all for bathing.

“It’s a police spy!” someone shrieks; an old man with a broad-brimmed hat and a coat too long, so he wears the sleeves turned up.

“Most obedient servant, Frau von Metternich!” the man shrieks in a high, old-womanish voice. He tips his hat, dirty yellow hair falls out, and he makes a mocking bow.

It’s nonsense, sheer nonsense, but dangerous nonsense. It sears through their minds, clenching their hands into claws.

Somewhere comes a deafening whoop, a shrill outcry from a single voice against the roar of hundreds; the men around the unknown woman crane their necks. What’s happening? Oh, something hugely amusing is afoot—a great hunt! The people rummaging through the burning tax office have made a catch. They’ve discovered a trembling man in the cellar—the unfortunate tax guard—dragging him out, driving him with prods, beating him over the head with sticks.

“Into the fire with him!” “Throw him into the fire!”

The tax guard writhes, ducks under the blows, screams from his wide-open mouth, “Mercy, mercy!”

“So, mercy! Did you have mercy, you dog? Aren’t you to blame for our hunger?”

For the moment, everything else is forgotten—the bubbling cauldron over the fire, the strange lady—all press forward to see the tax guard roasted.

A hand grabs the woman’s arm; a voice whispers breathlessly: “Come! Come quickly!”

Meanwhile, four men have thrown the tax official to the ground, seize his arms and legs, swing him rhythmically back and forth, and hurl his body into the flames of the collapsing building. Ah yes, that’s justice, that’s finally an equalizing for all—hunger, need, servitude, and the shot ones inside the city—oh, that feels good. Let it happen to all, all oppressors of the people!

When they remember the strange woman again—the Frau von Metternich, haha, the police spy—she’s no longer there. She’s gone, walking beside Reinhold through dark, quiet side alleys.

“Gracious lady!” he says, “what possessed you? What madness to mix with the excited crowd?”

But Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel gives him no answer, just as she gave none to the woman or the big man with the stitched coat. She walks beside Reinhold, quite obediently, but if he dared to look under her hat, he would encounter the same motionless, almost fixed stare in her eyes as the woman or Ferdl Latschacher.

“They’re out of control,” Reinhold continues, “and there are bad characters among them.”

It doesn’t truly occur to Reinhold to receive special thanks and be praised as a knight and savior. But still, he believes he deserves a word of recognition—aren’t they witnesses to the horrific fate the mob prepared for the poor tax official? She should shudderingly realize the danger she herself escaped.

Sometimes small groups of hecklers come toward them, seeming intent on stopping them.

“Long live freedom!” Reinhold calls to them, showing his bandage. The people reply: “Long live freedom!” and let the like-minded pass.

It could be a beautiful and proud feeling to be the guide of this woman, adored from afar, through the uproar and people’s fury—if it weren’t all so strange and inexplicable. Reinhold doesn’t understand at all how the Hofrätin ended up among the crowd, and no matter how much he presses her with questions, he can’t get her to utter even a word of explanation. She should say something, for God’s sake—an excuse, if she doesn’t want to share her secret with him.

“We can’t return to the city,” he begins again, “the gates are locked. We must spend the night out here.” He hesitates and stammers: “Gracious lady, we must spend the night in an inn.”

The Hofrätin offers no reply to this either, and this time Reinhold can interpret her silence as consent. He stands before the inn “Zum blauen Hund,” where he’s often had gatherings with his comrades. It lies silent, dark, and unwelcoming, having shut itself against the street’s tumult. Prolonged knocking finally forces light and a gruff inquiry about their business. Then, after the innkeeper recognizes the friendly voice and assures himself of proper intent and urgent need, the fortress creaks open. They climb the stairs.

“One room? Two rooms?” asks the innkeeper, already somewhat back in the mindset of his trade.

Reinhold wards off, startled: “Two!” It’s a sweet shock after so many gruesome and crushing events of the day and night.

“This is the room for the lady!” says the innkeeper and opens a door.

Reinhold is accommodated on the same hallway, three doors down. He waits a while, but then feels he must check on Frau Reißnagel once more—he couldn’t even say good night.

Is it permissible to enter after knocking five times without a response? Reinhold dares it; he cautiously pushes himself into the room. In the middle stands the Hofrätin, still as she was when Reinhold left her—the mantilla around her shoulders, the hat on her head.