The North Coast times-eagle., December 01, 2001, Page 7, Image 7

PAGE 7
NORTH COAST TIMES E A G L E , DECEMBER 2001
AFTER A WAR IS LOST
(NACH EINEM VELORENEN KRIEG)
WRITTEN BY GEORG KAISER
TRANSLATED BY KEVIN VIOLETTE
After a war is lost, when starvation and degradation rule, and all values are sold down
the river, a bunko artist sees his chance. He senses, because he is himself filled with basic
instincts, that he can rule everyone if he promises them a way out of the hopeless situation
And so he promises — promises the moon, if they will follow and obey.
And this folk that has lost everything and sees no way out, believes in its dullness his
empty rant, which bespeaks not the good of the many but only his own lust to power, to rule
At first the number of believers is small, but the shriek and hubbub grows ever louder, the lying
promises ever more audacious and cunning — uncontrolled and uncontrollable. Those who have
nothing to lose, who do not want to think or analyze, follow the siren song of the seducer Which
leads to ruin. Giddy with hunger, deafened by the tumult of the masses, driven by the longing for
peace and freedom, they scream for that which they crave
The Great Scoundrel has reached his goal — now he presses those who were deceived
by his lies into a tortured mass, which he exploits and toys with. His sadism drives him to have
a prison built next to his palace so that he can hear the chains rattle. The groaning and bleating
of the prisoners is music to him. Now he has the power over life and death. And every day, while
the mass hungers and suffers, a truck crosses the prisonyard to his palace laden with luxuries
of food and drink. His tongue is strengthened with bon-bons to tell sweet lies, which must remain
unfulfilled.
But slowly the folk realize that none of the promises have come true Their awakening
is strongly repressed, but the number of unbelievers grows swiftly. A whisper campaign begins,
a plan is formed: a plan to cast down the deceiver. One day the truck is wrecked and the sweet­
meats are spilled on the street for all the hungry to see. The signal is given. A few prisoners
succeed in wrenching loose from their chains — soon the guards are overpowered and the
palace stormed. The mob rushes in, intent on vengeance.
The object of their rage thinks quickly. He is far too cowardly to face the consequences
of his misdeeds, and he flees through a secret tunnel to his prison. He changes his hair and
beard just enough to deceive the casual glance. He cunningly chains himself to an iron ring and
then cries to be freed Upon his release he storms ahead of the mob, screaming for the blood of
the tyrant — himself He promises that he will free the people from their bondage, and again no
one notices his deception. He leads them on in search of himself, and jubilantly they follow the
very one they wish to destroy. He mocks and reviles the cowardly tyrant who has flown from
them. He puts a price on his own head and becomes a hero of the revolution. The folk willingly
follow him and do not learn that they have been deceived.
And he amuses himself before his expensive mirror, trying out new faces to deceive the
folk. What shall he be this time? A reporter who earns money writing muckraking exposés of
himself? Or perhaps a movie star ...
But no, he has a better plan He becomes a holy man, a man of God Fasting and
praying, he lives in a hut in the woods, and the folk he betrayed, whom no earthly power can
help, make the pilgrimage to him, the demigod. The ultimate victory is his! He can promise that
which he cannot fulfill, and be prayed to.
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Georg Kaiser, the author of Nach Einem Verlomen Krieg, was born in Magdeburg,
Germany in 1878. He lived in Buenos Aries from 1898 to 19C1. In 1921 he abandoned a career
as a merchant to become a freelance writer. In 1933 his books were banned by the Nazis, and
in 1938 he fled to Switzerland, where he died in 1945
Kevin Violette, who translated After The War Is Lost, is a third generation Oregonian of
French-Canadian descent He was raised in Garibaldi and worked for a number of years on his
father’s commercial fishing boat. He spent a year in Germany and is currently studying for a
teacher’s degree to teach German and Spanish He is a member of the famous Astoria rock
band, The Pagan Pancakes
EMIL NOLDE, ‘THE PROPHET (WOODCUT 1912)
LOOKING FOR TRUTH IN LABELING
BY MARGI SHINDLER
It's Friday night and I’m driving home after a good day’s
bookselling. There remains one last errand before my official
evening to myself begins. I have promised a customer I would
deliver his special order book, because it’s on the way and I’m
glad to do it. I have not met the man to whom I deliver this book
except over the phone. I find the house, verify twice that the
address is correct, and ring the bell. It takes a bit of time before
the doorbell can be heard between the loud voices of a talk
radio show Those self-importantly angry tones scare me these
days more than ever, but I have a book to deliver.
The door opens and the smiling friendly faces of a
couple somewhere in their 70s greet me. The petite woman
is drying her hands on a dishtowel 6:00, so they are either
preparing dinner or cleaning up after it. The house is filled with
cute things, a homey, modest little abode. I am warmed by their
smiles and the familiar domesticity of this couple, reminiscent
of my grandparents I greet them and hand the book to the man
They both tell me they are so grateful that I would do them the
kindness of delivering their book. I smile, enjoying the effect of
this small town customer connection thing
“Anytime!’’ I say, thinking of how our little store relies
so heavily on the locals to keep us alive I almost begin to say
goodnight, but not before one more exchange.
The man looks at me expectantly. “You must be a
Christian!"
I am like a deer caught in the headlights What am I
to say? I do not want to offend, and yet I have sworn myself to
uphold ideological honesty
“No, I'm not." Their faces fall. They look pained for a
response. I implore them with my eyes to see me as they had
only a minute ago. A woman delivering a book, in a second­
hand skirt, sensible shoes, plain hair and a non-threatening
personage The girl my parents raised me to be
“You just seem like you must be Christian." The man
does not want to let this go.
“Well, I was raised Catholic."
“Oh, well, that’s Christian," they both chime in. glad to
have a label.
“But I don’t practice it anymore." Confused looks “I don't
do religion," I emphatically add Why do I feel bound by social
convention to replace the lack of a label with something? I
cannot just be, in their eyes, no religion, but I do not feel like
explaining my spirituality to strangers. This would feel like taking
my clothes off. Why should I be bound to expose something as
personal as my spiritual quest to someone I don’t know?
This is what frustrates me about religion. It allows an
easy label, and those who adopt it, especially if it is the socially
accepted label, feel safe and protected behind it The mere word
“Christian” has been given massive connotations in our culture,
despite its actual denotations.
Think about it — Christian = good person. Atheist is the
only other word for the absence of religion Atheist = ? Hard
hearted, antisocial, amoral, going to hell The word is literally
political suicide.
I am not an atheist either, but Pat Robertson would
probably call me that. While I’m on that subject, he is one with
whom I could never share the same label in any form, any at all
WHOM
After Sept 11, 2001 New York City.
Washington. DC.
Pennsylvania field
To whom am I speaking?
To all now gone, and (see) right here
to the cattails along the slough,
to the lightning beyond the tamarisks in the gully,
to the owl’s call intro first light,
to the groans of schist at the great canyon's bottom,
to the rising of our mothers’ laughter, and to our fathers' grins;
to our children, who are loud with life, but whose voices
now
fall like first
drops of rain
on silky stone —
halting, silence-infused, here
Luxury is whom you’re with
-CAROLYN DUNN
All the years of philosophical arguments with my good
father (who took such comfort in making sure I was baptized)
have not left me with the answer for these folks There is no
pithy, succinct response which explains the frustrations of my
spirit, what Christians call my “immortal soul."
“Well, it just seems like everyone is turning to religion,
now that we’re at war." The man is trying hard to figure me out
“I’m a pacifist," I finally add. They both nod in under­
standing and relief to have a familiar label for me once again.
“I don't believe war is the way to solve anything, and it is wrong.”
They seem to agree as we all three shake our heads at
the way the world is going I stammer something about humans
evolving past violence They seem to take this into account
I bid goodnight before I have to navigate any further into an
awkward exchange. As I drive home I wonder what impression
I have left with them, especially in the area of a business
relationship Will they call me again to order a book, or is there
just a bit of reticence now’ I feel unsettled, unlike I usually feel
after a simple book delivery My cheeks feel hot, the familiar
sense of self-consciousness which originated back when I was
just a little kid in Catholic school My idealistic heart grew in a
strange mix with the child who prayed hard and took confession
seriously I still carry an overdeveloped propensity to seek
acceptance and validation Combine this with the cognitive
dissonance of what religion is and what it does in the world,
and I can find no immediate sense of where to put this dilemma
So I write
I am a rat caught in the maze into which I was born
It could be worse. (I hear that phrase a lot these days ) I could
have been born a female under Islam, which is a notion best
described as cold comfort
Should it matter when, why or to whom the phrase "Do
under others..." was first written or spoken’ Isn't the important
thing that it is a darn good motto, and deserves our attention?
There is another one I like, “Give peace a chance " If
I must wear a label, this is one I can live with
Forgive them, for they know not what they uo
Margi Shindler lives in Gearhart She is a member of
the Oregon Coast Chapter of the Pacific Green Party