Aladdin's Problem Read Free Page A

simple.
    Aside from that, I had nothing against the drill per se; this may be a rudimentary memory. There are moments of universal consent, when everything works.
    My ancestors also achieved a thing or two in that respect, especially during the Baroque period. After all, running a gauntlet is no piece of cake. But there was something else next to it, below it, and above it, which, at least in hindsight, mellows if not sanctions the suffering. It was part of the era; this is proved by buildings and artworks — from songs and paintings to handicrafts: pewter, silver, porcelain. These things still comfort us today in sounds and sights; plus the free thought of the great systems to the point of self-irony. Once, at the mounting of the guard at Potsdam, Frederick the Great, "Old Fritz," asked one of the generals: "Do you notice something?" The general had no answer, and the old king said: "There are so many of them and so few of us." Perhaps that was the day on which James Boswell, a Scottish liberal, indeed an anarch, was thrilled by the spectacle.
    Compared with their uniforms, which the ladies also liked so much, ours are ugly and gray. We live in times that are unworthy of an artwork; we suffer without apology. Nothing will remain but the sound of Sheol. Today, coercion is still approved. Yet, at the same time, grief grows, spreading all the way to the Africans, and my melancholy takes part in it.
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    Needless to say, I racked my brain about how to get rid of my tormentor. A war was out of the question (it automatically solves many problems). I pictured us marching out, to the accompaniment of music, and reaching the front. As soon as we fanned out in the skirmish line, I would kill Stellmann. This was a delight — you have to know your enemy. But there was no chance of war, although everyone was talking about it; besides, in case of war, the men on the army list stay behind in the orderly room. They are the least expendable.
    Naturally, I also thought about deserting; but there were snags. The borders were almost impassable, and many obstacles had to be overcome before you reached the mine belt. Only choice men were detailed there as guards. At the very least, you had to find a buddy — but who could be trusted? Anyone might be an agent. I rejected the idea; I'm not one for foolhardiness.
    Aside from that, the word "desertion" does not sound appealing to me. I am backward in such matters — not, of course, because I would honor contracts made with atheists. Even atheists do not renounce an oath of allegiance, although they may have another word for it. I was indifferent to that, but not to my self-respect. Finally, I could shoot myself at the rifle range or while cleaning my gun. Stellmann, no doubt, would have labeled this a self-mutilation, and he would not have been mistaken. Self-mutilation is regarded as second only to suicide, the acme of desertion. That is why there are extremely shameful rules for interring suicides. Who does not know the night of sorrow? Tossing and turning on my straw pallet, I became a shadow of my former self Physical destruction was preceded by moral destruction. In the end, such a case inevitably calls for prayer.
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    I cannot judge whether it helped. In any case, there was a turn of events, whatever may have led to it.
    Escalading was one of our captain's obsessions; no exercise went by without our being driven across a series of obstacles. The captain stood there with a stopwatch. We leaped over hurdles and ditches, clambered up scaling ladders, squeezed underneath barbed wire. At last came the escalade wall; it was high. That morning, I had made good time. Normally, you climb down the other side using only your hands; I wanted to do something extra, so I jumped down. The result was a broken leg; the medical orderlies had to carry me away.
    When they x-rayed me at the hospital, they found a spiral fracture. I underwent several operations; I had to spend three months lying flat on my back,