Traveler when you arrive at the spa. Summary of “Traveler, when you come to Spa...”
Heinrich Böll
Traveler, when you come to Spa
The car stopped, but the engine continued to purr for several minutes; somewhere a gate opened. Light entered the car through the broken window, and I saw that the light bulb in the ceiling was also broken into pieces; only its base stuck out in the socket - several glittering wires with the remains of glass. Then the engine stopped, and someone shouted on the street:
Dead here, do you have any dead here?
Damn it! Are you not going dark anymore? - the driver responded.
Why the devil should it go dark when the whole city is burning like a torch, shouted the same voice. - Are there dead people, I ask?
Don't know.
The dead are here, do you hear? The rest of us go up the stairs to the drawing room, understand?
But I was not yet dead, I belonged to the others, and they carried me to the drawing room, up the stairs. First they were carried along a long, dimly lit corridor with green, painted oil paint walls and curved, old-fashioned black hangers tightly embedded in them; on the doors there were small white enamel plates: “VIa” and “VIb”; between the doors, in a black frame, shining softly under the glass and looking into the distance, hung Feuerbach's "Medea". Then there were doors with signs “Va” and “Vb”, and between them a photograph from the sculpture “Boy Pulling Out a Splinter”, an excellent, red-glowing photograph in a brown frame.
Here is the column in front of the exit to the landing, behind it is a wonderfully executed model - a long and narrow, truly antique frieze of the Parthenon made of yellowish plaster - and everything else that has long been familiar: a Greek warrior armed to the teeth, warlike and scary, looking like a disheveled rooster. In the stairwell itself, on the wall, painted yellow, there was everyone from the Great Elector to Hitler...
And on the small narrow platform, where for a few seconds I managed to lie straight on my stretcher, hung an unusually large, unusually bright portrait of old Frederick - in a sky-blue uniform, with shining eyes and a large shiny gold star on his chest.
And again I lay rolled to the side, and now I was carried past thoroughbred Aryan faces: a Nordic captain with an eagle eye and a stupid mouth, a native of the West Mosel, perhaps too thin and bony, a Baltic scoffer with a bulbous nose, a long profile and the protruding Adam's apple of a movie mountaineer; and then we got to another landing, and again within a few seconds I was lying straight on my stretcher, and even before the orderlies began to climb to the next floor, I managed to see it - a monument to a warrior decorated with a stone laurel wreath with a large gilded Iron Cross upstairs.
All this quickly flashed one after another: I was not heavy, but the orderlies were in a hurry. Of course, everything could only have been my imagination; I have a strong fever and absolutely everything hurts: my head, my legs, my arms, and my heart is pounding like crazy - whatever you can imagine in such heat.
But after the thoroughbred faces, everything else flashed by: all three busts - Caesar, Cicero and Marcus Aurelius, side by side, amazing copies; completely yellow, antique and important, they stood near the walls; when we turned the corner, I saw the column of Hermes, and at the very end of the corridor - this corridor was painted dark pink - at the very, very end, above the entrance to the drawing room, hung a large mask of Zeus; but it was still a long way off. To the right, in the window, the glow of a fire was red, the whole sky was red, and dense black clouds of smoke solemnly floated across it...
And again I involuntarily turned my gaze to the left and saw the signs “Xa” and “Xb” above the doors, and between these brown doors, as if smelling of mustiness, I could see Nietzsche’s mustache and sharp nose in a golden frame, the second half of the portrait was covered with a piece of paper with the inscription “Pulling Surgery” "...
If it happens now... flashed through my head. If it happens now... But here it is, I see it: a painting depicting the African colony of Germany Togo - colorful and large, flat, like an old engraving, magnificent oleography. In the foreground, in front of the colonial houses, in front of the blacks and the German soldier, who for some unknown reason was sticking out here with his rifle, - in the very, very foreground, a large, life-size bunch of bananas was yellowing; there is a bunch on the left, a bunch on the right, and on one banana in the very middle of this right bunch there is something scratched, I saw it; I think I scribbled it myself...
But then the door to the drawing room opened with a jerk, and I swam under the mask of Zeus and closed my eyes. I didn't want to see anything else. The hall smelled of iodine, feces, gauze and tobacco and was noisy. The stretcher was placed on the floor, and I told the orderlies:
Put a cigarette in my mouth. In the top left pocket.
I felt someone else's hands rummaging in my pocket, then a match was struck, and there was a lit cigarette in my mouth. I took a drag.
Thank you, I said.
All this, I thought, does not prove anything. After all, in any high school there is a drawing room, there are corridors with green and yellow walls in which bent old-fashioned dress hangers stick out; after all, this is not proof that I am in my school if “Medea” hangs between “IVa” and “IVb”, and Nietzsche’s mustache between “Xa” and “Xb”. Sure, there are rules that say that's where they should hang. Internal regulations for classical gymnasiums in Prussia: “Medea” - between “IVa” and “IVb”, in the same place “Boy Pulling out a Splinter”, in the next corridor - Caesar, Marcus Aurelius and Cicero, and Nietzsche on the top floor, where already study philosophy. Parthenon frieze and universal oleography - Togo. The “Boy Pulling out a Thorn” and the Parthenon frieze are, after all, nothing more than good old school props passed down from generation to generation, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who has taken it into his head to write “Long live Togo!” on a banana. And the antics of schoolchildren, in the end, are always the same. And besides, it is quite possible that the intense fever caused me to become delirious.
I didn't feel any pain now. In the car I was still suffering a lot; When she was thrown around on small potholes, I started screaming every time. Deep funnels are better: the car rises and falls like a ship on the waves. Now, apparently, the injection worked; Somewhere in the darkness they stuck a syringe into my arm, and I felt the needle pierce the skin and my leg felt hot...
Yes, this is simply impossible, I thought, the car probably did not travel such a long distance - almost thirty kilometers. And besides, you don’t experience anything, nothing in your soul tells you that you are in your school, in the same school that you left just three months ago. Eight years is not a trifle; after eight years, will you really know all this only with your eyes?
I closed my eyes and again saw everything like in the film: the lower corridor, painted green, the stairwell with yellow walls, the monument to the warrior, the landing, the next floor: Caesar, Marcus Aurelius... Hermes, Nietzsche's mustache, Togo, the mask of Zeus...
I spat out the cigarette and screamed; when you scream, it becomes easier, you just need to shout louder; screaming is so good, I screamed like crazy. Someone leaned over me, but I didn’t open my eyes, I felt someone else’s breath, warm, smelling disgustingly of a mixture of onions and tobacco, and heard a voice that calmly asked:
Why are you shouting?
“Drink,” I said. - And another cigarette. In the top pocket.
Again a strange hand rummaged in my pocket, again a match was struck and someone put a lit cigarette in my mouth.
Where are we? - I asked.
In Bendorf.
“Thank you,” I said and took a drag.
Still, apparently I’m really in Bendorf, which means I’m at home, and if it weren’t for such a strong fever, I
7 CLASS
HEINRICH BELL
TRAVELER, WHEN YOU COME TO THE SPA...
(abbreviated)
The car stopped, but the engine was still loud; somewhere a large gate opened. Light flew into the car through the broken window, and then I saw that the light bulb under the ceiling was broken into pieces, only the scroll was still sticking out in the socket - several flickering darts with the remains of glass. Then the engine stopped, and a voice came from outside:
Dead men here. Are there dead people there?
“To hell with it,” the driver swore. - Are you not doing eclipses anymore?
An eclipse will help here when the whole city is on fire! - shouted the same voice. - Are there any dead people, I ask?
Don't know.
The dead are here, have you heard? And the rest go up the stairs to the drawing room, understand?
Yes, yes, I understand.
And I was not yet dead, I belonged to the others, and they carried me up the stairs.
First they walked along long, dimly lit corridors, with green, oil-painted walls, into which were embedded black, crooked, old-world clothes hooks; then doors emerged with enamel signs: 6-A and 6-B, between those doors hung, affectionately gleaming under glass in a black frame, Feuerbach’s “Medea” with a look into the distance; then there were doors with signs: 5-A and 5-B, and between them - “Boy taking out -” - a lovely photo with a reddish tint in a brown frame.
And now there is the column in front of the exit to the staircase, and the long, narrow frieze of the Parthenon behind it... and everything else that has long been familiar: a Greek hoplite, armed to the toe, powerful and menacing, looking like an angry rooster. On the estate itself, on the wall painted yellow, they all stood proud - from the Great Elector to Hitler.<...>
And again my stretcher fell, they floated past me... now examples of the Aryan breed: a Nordic captain with an eagle look and a stupid mouth, a female model from the West Mosel, a little lean and bony, a Baltic bad laugh with a bulbous nose and the dark-colored long profile of a supreme leader from the movies ; and then the corridor stretched out again... I managed to see it too - a table with the names of the fallen, intertwined with a fireplace laurel wreath, with a large golden Iron Cross at the top.
All this went by very quickly: I’m not heavy and the orderlies were in a hurry. It’s not a miracle if I dreamed of it: I was burning all over, everything hurt - my head, my arms, my legs; and my heart was pounding as if frantically. What can you imagine in your delirium!
And when we passed the exemplary Aryans, everything else emerged behind them: three Pogrudians - Caesar, Cicero and Marcus Aurelius... And when we turned the corner, the Hermes Column appeared... On the right in the window I saw the glow of a fire - the whole sky it was red, and black, thick clouds of smoke solemnly floated across it.<...>
And again, I casually glanced to the left, and again I saw doors with signs: 01-A 01-B, and between these brown doors, as if soaked in soot, I saw Nietzsche’s mustache and the tip of his nose in a golden frame - the second half of the portrait was covered with paper with the inscription: “ Light surgery."
If now, - flashed through my head, - if now. And here he was, he had already seen it - a view of Togo... a wonderful oleography... in the foreground of the picture there was a large, life-size bunch of bananas - a bunch on the left, a bunch on the right, and it was on the middle banana in the right basket that there was something... it's scratched; I saw this inscription because, it seems, I scrawled it myself.<...>
The doors of the drawing room opened wide, I moved there under the image of Zeus and closed my eyes.
I didn't want to see anything else.<...>
The drawing room smelled of iodine, feces, gauze and tobacco and there was a hubbub.
The stretcher was placed on the floor, and I told the orderlies:
Place a cigarette in my mouth, at the top, in my left pocket.
I felt someone groping in my pocket, then they rubbed it with a cheesecake, and there was a lit cigarette in my mouth. I took a drag.
Thank you, I said.
Everything where, I thought, is not proof. In the end, in every gymnasium there are drawing rooms, corridors with green and yellow walls and crooked, old-fashioned hooks in them; ultimately, the fact that “Medea” hangs between 6-A and 6-B is not proof that I'm at my school. Apparently, there are rules for classical gymnasiums in Prussia, which say that this is where they should hang... After all, the jokes are the same in all gymnasiums. Besides, maybe I started delirious due to the fever.
I didn't feel any pain. I felt very bad in the car... But now, perhaps, the injection began to work.<...>
This can’t be possible, I thought, the car simply couldn’t travel such a long distance - thirty kilometers. And one more thing: you don’t feel anything; no instinct tells you anything, only your eyes; not a single feeling tells you that you are in your school, in your school, which you left just three months ago. Eight years - don’t worry, would you really, after studying here for eight years, know everything about yourself only with your eyes?<...>
I spat out the cigarette and screamed; when you scream easier, you just need to scream harder, screaming was so good, I screamed like crazy.<...>
What?
“Drink,” I said, “and another cigarette, in my pocket, at the top.”
Again someone touched my pocket, rubbed a match again, and they stuck a lit cigarette in my mouth.
Where are we? - I asked.
In Bendorf.
“Thank you,” I said and took a drag.
Apparently, I’m still in Bendorf, that is, at home, and if I didn’t have this terrible fever, I could say for sure that I’m in some kind of classic
gymnasiums; at least that I am at school is indisputable. Didn’t that voice below shout: “Those remaining in the drawing room!” I was one of the rest, I was alive, the living, probably, made up the “rest.”<...>
Finally he brought me water, again the scent of tobacco and onions wafted over me, I involuntarily opened my eyes and saw a tired, old, unshaven face in a fireman’s uniform, and an senile voice said quietly:
Drink, buddy!
I started drinking, it was water, but water is a wonderful drink; I could feel the metallic taste of the cauldron on my lips, I realized with pleasure that there was still a lot of water there, but the fireman suddenly took the cauldron away from my lips and walked away; I screamed, but he didn’t look back, he just shrugged his shoulders tiredly and walked on; the wounded man lying next to me calmly said:
There's no point in making noise, they don't have water, you see.<...>
What city is this? “I asked the one who was lying next to me, Bendorf,” he said.
Now there was no longer any doubt that I was lying in the drawing room of a certain classical gymnasium in Bendorf. There are three classical gymnasiums in Bendorf: the Frederick the Great gymnasium, the Albert gymnasium and - maybe it would be better not to say this - but the last, third, was called the Adolf Hitler gymnasium.
Wasn’t there such a bright, such a beautiful, huge portrait of old Fritz hanging on the staircase in Frederick the Great’s gymnasium? I studied in that gymnasium for eight years, but couldn’t such a portrait hang in another school in the same place, so bright that it immediately caught the eye; as soon as you step on the second floor?<...>
Now I heard heavy guns firing somewhere... confidently and measuredly, and I thought: expensive guns! I know it's mean, but that's what I thought... For me, there's something noble about guns, even when they're firing. Such a solemn moon, just like in that war that they write about in picture books... Then I thought how many names would be on that table of the fallen, which, perhaps, will be nailed here later, decorating it with an even larger golden Iron Cross and adding more large laurel wreath. And suddenly it occurred to me that when I was actually at my school, my name would stand there, carved into stone, and in the school calendar next to my name it would be written Left school for the front and died for...”
And I still didn’t know why, and I didn’t know for sure yet, I was at my school, I now wanted to find out about it.<...>
I looked around again, but... My heart did not respond. Wouldn’t it have started calling even then if I had ended up in that room where I spent eight whole years drawing vases and writing fonts? Slender, beautiful, exquisite vases, beautiful copies of Roman originals - the art teacher always put them on a stand in front of us - and all kinds of fonts: rondo, plain, Roman, Italian. I hated those lessons above all else in the gymnasium, I spent hours perishing with boredom and was never able to properly draw a vase or write a letter. And where did my curses go, where did my burning hatred for these stiff, seemingly rotting walls go? Nothing in me blinked, and I silently shook my head.
I erased it every now and then, sharpened the pencil, erased it again... And - nothing.<...>
I didn’t remember how I was wounded, I knew one thing: that I wouldn’t move my arms or my right leg, only my left, and even then only half-covered. I thought maybe they had tied my arms so tightly to my body that I couldn’t move them.<...>
Finally, a doctor stood in front of me; he took off his glasses and, blinking, silently looked at me... I clearly saw behind the thick glasses large gray eyes with barely moving pupils. He looked at me for so long that I looked away, and then quietly said:
Wait a minute, it's your turn soon.<...>
I closed my eyes again and thought: you must, you must find out what kind of wound you have and that you are really in your school.<...>
The orderlies entered the hall again, now they picked me up and carried me there, behind the board. Once I swam past the door and, as I swam, I noticed another sign: here, above the door, there once hung a cross, as the gymnasium was also called the School of St. Thomas; They later removed the cross, but in that place on the wall there was a fresh dark yellow mark left from it. Then they angrily repainted the entire wall, and the mark... The cross was visible, and if you looked closely, you could even see an uneven mark on the right end of the crossbar, where a beech branch had been hanging for years, which the watchman Birgeler had been clinging to.<...>All this flashed into my dining room in that brief moment while I was being carried behind the board, where a bright light was burning.
They put me on the operating table, and I clearly saw myself, only small, as if shortened, at the top, in the clear glass of the light bulb - such a short, white, narrow scroll of gauze, as if a chimeric, fragile cocoon; that means it was my reflection.
The doctor turned his back to me and, leaning over the table, rummaged through the instruments; an old, overweight fireman stood in front of the board and smiled at me; he smiled tiredly and mournfully, and his overgrown, expressionless face looked as if he was sleeping. And suddenly, behind his shoulders, on the unerased other side of the board, I saw something that for the first time since I found myself in this dead house, my heart responded... There was an inscription in my hand. At the top, in the highest row. I know my hand; seeing your letter is worse than seeing yourself in the mirror - much more likely. I could no longer doubt the identity of my own letter... There it is, still there to this day, the expression that we were told to write then, in that hopeless life that ended just three months ago: “Traveler, when will you come in Spa...”
Oh, I remember I didn’t have enough board, and the art teacher shouted that I didn’t calculate it properly, took capital letters, and then he himself, shaking his head, wrote in the same font below: “Empty, when you come to Spa...”
It was written there seven times - in my script, in Latin script, in Gothic italics, in Roman, in Italian, and in rondo: “Traveler, when you come to Spa...”
At the doctors' quiet call, the fireman stepped back from the board, and I saw the entire statement, only a little spoiled, because I did not calculate properly, chose large letters, took too many points.
I was embarrassed, feeling a prick in my left thigh, I wanted to get up on my feet and couldn’t, but I managed to look at myself and saw - they had already unwound me - that I didn’t have both arms, I didn’t have my right leg, that’s why I immediately fell on his back, because now he had nothing to lean on; I screamed; the doctor and the fireman looked at me in fear; and the doctor just shrugged his shoulders and again pressed the plunger of the syringe, slowly and firmly went down; I wanted to look at the board again, but the fireman was now standing very close to me and replacing it; he held me tightly by the shoulders, and I heard only the spirit of grease and dirt that came from his uniform, I saw only his tired, sorrowful face; and suddenly I recognized him: it was Bergeler.
“Milk,” I said quietly...
Translation Yes. Grief
Why is G. Bell's story called "Traveler, when you come to Spa..."?
The famous German writer Heinrich Böll was a Wehrmacht soldier for six long years and fought against his will on the fronts of World War II. The theme of the inhumanity of war became the leading one in his work.
In the work “Traveler, when you come to Spa...” Heinrich Bell tells about the fate of one young soldier who was at war for only three months. And now he, seriously wounded, crippled, was brought to the hospital, carried along the corridors, and the young man, holding back the pain, was surprised to see the familiar walls with signs: 6-A, 6-B, photographs, drawings, portraits of painters and politicians. He doesn’t want to believe that he is in his own school, because it often happens that the corridors and classrooms are similar: “What can you dream of in your delirium!”
It is light, it is carried smoothly on a stretcher, and the young man sees engravings familiar from childhood. He is not sure of his assumptions and persuades himself that “in every gymnasium there are drawing rooms, corridors with green and yellow walls and crooked, old-fashioned nooks and crannies in them; in the end, the fact that “Medea” hangs between 6-Ai 6-B is not proof that I am in my school. Apparently, there are rules that say that is where they should hang. Internal regulations for classical gymnasiums in Prussia." He chalks it all up to fever, which prevents him from concentrating and analyzing what he sees. Nothing in his soul responded or suggested that this was his native school, because the car that was carrying the wounded man could not travel thirty kilometers so quickly from the front to the city where he was born and raised.
The orderlies, with an indifferent, tired look, again raised the stretcher and carried the young man to the operating room, which was in the drawing room behind the blackboard. They put him on the table, and suddenly, behind the shoulders of the orderly, on an unerased board, the guy saw an inscription, and for the first time his heart responded: “somewhere in a hidden corner, a fear emerged, deep and terrible, and it pounded in my chest - my writing was written on the board.” hand." In art class, he was writing a statement and didn't have enough board to finish it. So “Traveler, when you come to Spa...” remained unfinished, although both he and the teacher tried seven times to squeeze the word Sparta into the line, but they never succeeded.
The soldier raised his head a little, and a terrible pain pierced his whole body, but he managed to look at himself and saw that he was missing both arms and his right leg.
The title of the story “Traveler, when will you come to Spa...” is a silent question to the readers. How now will this innocent soldier approach the board and where will he get his hands to finally write this “beginning of the famous epitaph to the three hundred Spartans who, defending themselves from the invasion of the Persians, fell at Thermopylae?
Who will remember, who will write the epitaph for the millions who died in the world war?
Heinrich Bell does not name the hero of the story, does not name the city where the events take place, and does not complete the work. Will this young man survive, who, falling into oblivion before the operation, asks for milk? How will he, so crippled, live on? The fate of one young soldier, like a mirror, reflects many destinies of other people whose lives were disfigured by the war. With each of his works, Heinrich Böll calls on humanity not to repeat mistakes, to take care of the world and fight for it.
The car stopped, but the engine was still purring; where a large gate opened. Then the engine fell silent, and a voice came from outside:
- The dead are here, have you heard? And the rest go up the stairs to the drawing room, understand?
- Yes, yes, I understand.
But I was not dead, I belonged to the others, and they carried me upstairs.
First we walked along a long, dimly lit corridor, with green, oil-painted walls.
From the darkness of the corridor, doors with signs 6-A and 6-B emerged; between those doors hung Feuerbach’s “Medea”. Next came the doors with others
Signs, between them - “Boy, takes out thorns” - a pink photo with a reddish tint in a brown frame. And on the staircase, on the wall painted yellow, they all stood proud - from the Great Elector to Hitler.
A portrait of old Fritz floated past in a sky-blue uniform, an example of the Aryan breed. Then everything else appeared: a bust of Caesar, Cicero and Marcus Aurelius, a column with a horn for Hermes, on the left in a gold frame - a mustache and the tip of Nietzsche’s nose (the rest of the portrait was covered with the inscription “Minor Surgery”)... “And before the orderlies began to go to the third floor , I managed to see it too - a table intertwined with a fireplace laurel wreath with the names of the fallen, with a large gold Iron Cross at the top.”
If now, it flashed in my head, if now... Yes, here it is, I’ve already seen it - that landscape, large and bright, flat, like an old engraving... in the foreground there is a large bunch of bananas, on the middle one there was something scratched , I saw the inscription, because, it seems, I scribbled it myself...
I was taken into the drawing room, above the door of which hung an image of Zeus; it smelled of iodine, feces, gauze and tobacco, and it was noisy. All this, I thought, is not yet proof. Finally, in every gymnasium there are drawing rooms, corridors with green and yellow walls, and finally, the fact that “Medea” hangs between 6-A and 6-B is not proof that I am in my school. “... Not a single feeling tells you that you are in your native school, which you left just three months ago... My heart did not respond to me.”
I spat out the cigarette and screamed: when you scream, it becomes easier, you just have to scream louder, screaming felt so good, I screamed like crazy. I asked for a drink and another cigarette, in my pocket, at the top. They brought me water, only then did I open my eyes and see an old, tired face, a firefighter’s uniform, and the spirit of onions and tobacco wafted over me...
- Where are we? - I asked.
- In Bendorfi.
“Thank you,” I said and took a drag.
Perhaps I’m in Bendorfi, that is, at home.
There are three classical gymnasiums in Bendorfi: the Frederick the Great Gymnasium, the Albert Gymnasium and (maybe it would be better not to say this), but the last, third one is the Adolf Hitler Gymnasium.
Now I heard heavy guns hitting everywhere. The guns beat confidently and measuredly, like solemn organ music. Just like in the war, which they write about in books with pictures... Suddenly it occurred to me that my name would be on the table of the fallen, carved into stone, and in the school calendar next to my name it would be written “I left school for the front and died.” for...” But I still didn’t know why, I didn’t know for sure yet, I was at my school, I wanted to find out something about it now.
I spat out the cigarette into the passage between Solomyanik and tried to push my hands away, but I felt such pain that I screamed again.
Finally, a doctor stood in front of me, looked at me silently, he looked at me for so long that I averted my eyes. Behind him stood a fireman who gave me something to drink. He whispered in the doctor’s ear...
- Wait a minute, it’s almost your turn...
I closed my eyes again and thought: you must, you must find out what kind of wound you have and that you are really in your school. Everything here was so alien and indifferent to me, as if I had been brought to some museum cities of the dead, into a world that is deeply alien to me and uninteresting. No, it couldn’t be that only three months had passed since I was drawing vases and writing fonts here, and during the breaks I slowly went downstairs - past Nietzsche, Hermes, Togo, past Caesar, Cicero, Marcus Aurelius and went to Birgeler’s watchman to drink milk - in a small, dim closet.
So the orderlies lifted me up and carried me behind the board, and I saw another sign: here, above the door, there was once a cross, as the gymnasium was also called the School of St. Thomas; The cross was then removed, but a fresh dark yellow mark remained on the wall, so expressive that it was, perhaps, even better visible than the old man himself, a small, thin cross. Then, in their hearts, they repainted the entire wall, and the painter was unable to match the paint, and the cross appeared again. They argued and nothing helped. The cross was visible, you could even see the trace of the beech branch that the watchman Birgeler had attached when it was still allowed to attach crosses to schools...
So they put me on the operating table and I saw my reflection in the light of a light bulb. The heavy fireman stood in front of the board and smiled at me, he smiled tiredly and sadly. And suddenly, behind his shoulders, on the unerased other side of the board, I saw something that made my heart beat in my chest - there was an inscription on the board in my hand. Everything else was not yet proof: neither “Medea”, nor Nietzsche, nor Dinaric’s profile of the Verkhovinsky from the film, nor bananas from Togo, nor even the cross above the door, all this could have been according to all other schools. But it’s unlikely that other schools would write on the boards with my hand. There it is, still there, that expression that we were told to write then, in that hopeless life that ended only three months ago: “Traveler, when you come to Spa...” Oh, I remember how I accepted the oversized letters and the art teacher shouted. It was written there seven times - in my script, in Latin, Gothic, italic, Roman, Italian and rock: “Traveler, when you come to Spa...”
I jerked, feeling a prick in my left thigh, I wanted to rise to my elbows and could not, but I managed to look at myself and saw - they had already unwound me - that I had no both arms, no right leg, that’s why I immediately fell on my back, Since I now had nothing to rely on, I screamed; and the doctor just shrugged his shoulders, I wanted to look at the board again, but the fireman was now standing very close to me and was replacing it; he held me tightly by the shoulders, and I heard only the spirit of smoldering and dirt emanating from his uniform, saw only his tired, sorrowful face, and suddenly I recognized him: it was Birgeler.
“Milk,” I said quietly.
Create similar things:
- Concepts and things and people in Tolstoy lose their uniqueness and integrity. In one of the Russian magazines of the 30s it was written: “Psychological problems about man now attract our attention most of all......
- It’s hard to write about Shevchenko. For many reasons...Taras Shevchenko is more than a writer. This is a man who has long become a symbol, a sign, a legend. His work is not just poetic poems, but philosophy, wisdom, appeal....
- Ch. T. Aitmatov Jamilya It was the third year of the war. There were no adult healthy men in the village, and therefore the wife of my older brother Sadyk (he was also at the front), Jamilya, was sent by the brigadier...
- G. H. Andersen The Ugly Duckling The ducklings hatched. One of them was late, and outwardly unsuccessful. The old duck scared the mother that it was a turkey chick, no less, but it was swimming...
- On a sultry summer day I was returning from hunting in a shaking cart. Suddenly my coachman became worried. Looking ahead, I saw that a funeral train was crossing our path. It was a bad omen, and the coachman...
- N. N. Nosov Hide and Seek Vitya and Slavik are neighbors. They always visit each other. One day they started playing hide and seek. Vitya was the first to hide. He hid three times in a row...
- I was driving home from hunting in the evening alone, in a racing droshky. On the way I was caught by a strong thunderstorm. I somehow hid myself under a wide bush and patiently waited for the end of the bad weather. Suddenly, with a flash of lightning...
- N. N. Nosov Blob The boy Fedya Rybkin loved to make the whole class laugh, it was even a habit. Once he got into a fight with Grisha Kopeikin over a bottle of mascara. And accidentally one drop fell...
- It was the tenth of July. I lay down to rest after a successful hunt for black grouse, when Ermolai came in and said that we had run out of shot. He offered to send it...
- A. Serafimovich Sparrow Night On the shore, near the ferry, there was a small plank house. The ferryman Kirill and a boy of about 10 years old Vasya (Kirill’s assistant) were sleeping in the room. In early spring, Vasya’s mother brought him...
- Oscar Wilde The Selfish Giant Every day after school, the children played in the wonderfully beautiful garden. But one day the giant returned - the owner of this garden. He kicked out all the children and forbade them to return. He was...
- According to the author himself, this happened in the spring of 1942, when, having arrived in Moscow for some time, he, looking at his notebooks, decided to “revive” the old hero. However, this did not mean...
- Oscar Wilde Star Boy A poor woodcutter brought into the house a baby with an amber necklace around his neck, wrapped in a cloak with gold stars - he found him in the winter forest on the spot...
- The grandmother sends the boy to buy strawberries. And if he tries hard and picks a lot of berries, then she will take them to the market and sell them, and then she will definitely buy her grandson a gingerbread...
- If we try to define Vysotsky’s place in the history of our culture in one word, then the most accurate, in my opinion, will be: the personified conscience of the people. That’s why he’s the people’s favorite, and that’s why there’s a mass pilgrimage to...
- R. Akutagawa Cobweb One morning, Buddha wandered alone along the shore of the paradise pond. He stopped in thought and suddenly saw everything that was happening at the bottom of the Lotus Pond, which reached the very...
- Long Daphnis and Chloe The action takes place on the island of Lesvos in the Aegean Sea, well known to the Greeks, and not even on the entire island, but in only one village on its outskirts. Lived...
.
Summary of “Traveler, when you come to Spa...”
Heinrich Belle Traveler, when you come to Spa...
The story is told in the first person.
The car stopped. The voice commanded that those who were still alive be carried to the drawing room. There were painted walls on the sides, signs on the doors, and a photo from the sculpture between them. Next is a column, a sculpture, photographs. And on the small platform where we stopped there was a portrait of Friedrich. Then the hero was carried between Aryan faces and reached the next platform, where there was a monument to the warrior. They carried it quickly, but the hero had the thought that he had seen this somewhere. This is probably due to poor health. Further down the corridor there were three busts of emperors, and at the end of the corridor, above the entrance to the drawing room, hung a mask of Zeus. And again there are signs on the doors, a painting by Nietzsche. The hero foresaw what should appear next. And indeed, he saw a map of Togo. He was carried into the drawing room, which had been converted into a surgery, and given a cigarette. The hero consoled himself with the fact that everything he saw could be in any gymnasium.
He felt no pain. He began to think that he was in the same gymnasium that he graduated from eight years ago. But how could he end up here, she’s far away. Closing his eyes, he again saw the whole string of objects. And he screamed. They gave him a cigarette again and told him that he was in Bendorf, which meant he was home. And he could say with confidence that he was at the gymnasium. They gave him water, but not much. There was little water, the city was burning. The hero looked around and realized that he was in the drawing room of a classical gymnasium. But there are three of them in the city, which one exactly. Artillery salvos could be heard outside the window. The hero began to continue examining the drawing room. His feeling did not tell him that he was in his native gymnasium. He began to remember how he learned to draw and write fonts. It was boring and nothing worked for him. And now he was lying and could not move his arms. He did not remember how he was wounded, and screamed again. The doctor and fireman looked at him. Then they took someone who was lying nearby and carried him behind a sheet, behind which a bright light was burning. The hero closed his eyes again and began to remember his school years. Everything here seemed cold and alien. The orderlies took the stretcher with the hero and carried him behind the blackboard, behind the sheet, where the light was on. And he noticed another coincidence, a mark from a cross above the door. Near the operating table stood a doctor and a fireman who smiled sadly. The hero saw his image in the lamp, and turning his head, froze. On the scribbled side of the board, he saw an inscription in calligraphic handwriting: “Traveler, when you come to Spa...”. It was his handwriting. Nothing he had seen before could be proof. And now he remembered how several times he tried to write this phrase, and each time he did not have enough space on the board. At that moment he was given an injection in the thigh, and he tried to get up, but could not lean. Having examined himself, he discovered that he had been unswaddled, and he no longer had his arms and right leg. He screamed. The doctor and fireman looked at him in horror and held him. He recognized the fireman as the janitor of his school and quietly asked for milk.
Searched here:
- traveler will come when you go to the spa summary
- traveler when will you come to the spa summary
- Traveler when will you come to Spa
- Who is an Electric Gas Welder?
- Rating of the best pedagogical universities in Russia Pedagogical universities in Russia: MSPU
- Job description of a chemical analysis laboratory assistant. What is the category of work for a chemical analysis laboratory assistant?
- Business portal paths to success Obtaining a Ph.D.