Exciting news: My very first book translation, ‘Winterberg’s Last Journey (Winterbergs Letzte Reise) by Jaroslav Rudiš, is coming out this summer with Jantar Publishing in the UK! However, we still have some up-front costs to cover, so we’ve launched a Kickstarter offering advance copies and plenty of other goodies to make up the shortfall.

Enjoy this free preview of the first ten pages, and if you like what you read, please check out our Kickstarter to order your own copy!

From Königgrätz to Sadowa

‘The Battle of Königgrätz runs through my heart,’ said Winterberg, looking out the foggy window of the train. He squeezed his breast so tightly, it seemed that he wanted to crush not only the thick wool of his old, grey coat, but his ninety-nine-year-old heart as well.

‘The Battle of Königgrätz is the beginning of my end,’ he continued, staring out of his horn-rimmed glasses at the snowy Bohemian landscape as it passed us by.

The small train moved slowly, swaying like a lonely ship without a captain on the high seas. The young conductor gazed at her phone and swayed along with it. As did we.

‘The Battle of Königgrätz is the beginning of all my calamities, the beginning of all our calamities, if you were born under the sign of the Battle of Königgrätz, you were lost forever. That’s why I’m lost, that’s why this country is lost, and that’s why you, dear Herr Kraus, are lost, whether you like it or not, yes, yes, there’s no escape, it’s not as easy as laying railway tracks across the Alps. The Battle of Königgrätz is like a trap, one that we set ourselves, which we lured ourselves into and into which we willingly fall, the Battle of Königgrätz is an abyss into which we all plummet, the Battle of Königgrätz grasps at our necks, it’s closing around my throat, it’s like a cord, like a noose, always getting tighter, yes, yes, like the rope with which we all hang ourselves in the end, whether we like it or not, yes, yes, and noose corpses aren’t a pretty sight, as my father always said,’ rambled Winterberg, still looking out of the window.

‘Look at that, Herr Kraus, the wild boar on the edge of the forest, aren’t they beautiful? I’d just love to paint them. I used to love to paint, especially peaceful winter landscapes like this, but even the boar are lost, yes, yes, the Battle of Königgrätz is an ever-sprawling Cornus sanguinea.’

Winterberg rambled on while I looked out at the animals on the edge of the forest.

‘Half a million soldiers back then, today half a million ghosts, you have to be able to imagine it, I imagine it, yes, yes, I see through history, yes, yes, I’m not historically blind, I don’t care what you think, dear Herr Kraus, whether you can or even want to imagine it. The battle is here, and so are we.’

‘Those were deer.’

‘What?’

‘Over there by the woods. Those weren’t wild boar.’

‘Exactly, wild boar, that’s what I said.’

‘But they were deer.’

‘Yes, yes, deer and boar and stags and foxes and people and houses and fields and forests and winter landscapes and picture-perfect panoramas, everything is lost, tragic, tragic. My grandfather was a hunter, and he said that killing animals was nothing good, but if you must kill an animal, then do it quickly, the Battle of Königgrätz knows no mercy, the Battle of Königgrätz is our deepest abyss, the Battle of Königgrätz is our downfall, and it has been for the last hundred and sixty years. Why can’t you see through history, Herr Kraus? You should really read something about history, then you would understand, then you would understand me, like the Englishman and my Lenka understood me, then you would know and understand what I mean by Cornus sanguinea. You wouldn’t just stare at me like a fool…’

‘Those were deer.’

Winterberg coughed lightly.

‘Deer?’

‘Yes, deer. The animals from before. A whole herd of deer.’

He continued to cough. I handed him a bottle of water. He didn’t want to drink.

‘What kind of deer?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

He fixed me with a serious look. Then he glanced over at the conductor. Then he looked back out of the window at the snowy fields. And then continued to ramble on.

‘The Battle of Königgrätz doesn’t just run through my heart, it also runs through my head, and through my brain, and through my lungs and liver and stomach, it’s part of my body and my soul. Two of my ancestors lost their lives, dear Herr Kraus, one on the side of the Prussians, and the other on the side of the Austrians, Julius Ewald and Karl Strohbach, yes, yes, I can seek out either side, but in the end I’m laying with both of them in the grave, I don’t know if you can imagine that, I want to understand it, I want to finally understand everything in my life, you understand, dear Herr Kraus, that’s why we’re here now, in order to understand it, you understand, dear Herr Kraus, here at Königgrätz was where the entire tragedy began,’ rambled Winterberg, still looking out of the window. ‘Shouldn’t we be in Sadowa? This must be Sadowa. We’ve got to get off this damned cold train.’

‘No, that’s not Sadová. That’s… agh, it doesn’t matter.’

Winterberg wasn’t listening to me.

Winterberg never listens to me.

‘The Battle of Königgrätz tears me in two,’ he rambled on, while the conductor sat down on the bench across from us and briefly closed her eyes. ‘The Battle of Königgrätz robs me of sleep. It was because of the Battle of Königgrätz that I lost my first wife, and because of the Battle of Königgrätz that my second wife went mad, yes, yes, she grew up in Berlin in the Stresemannstraße, which used to be called the Königgrätzer Straße, that can’t just be a coincidence, dear Herr Kraus. We met in a dance hall in the Skalitzer Straße, yes, yes, that’s right, you’re correct, dear Herr Kraus, the whole affair isn’t a happy coincidence of history, it’s a tragic accident of history, a misunderstanding that one can never make right, yes, yes, it’s all because of the Battle of Königgrätz that I suffer from history and from historical fits, yes, yes, dear Herr Kraus, I know what you’re going to say, the Battle of Königgrätz isn’t as easily overcome as the Alps by the railway, there are too many fault zones, if you know what I mean by that, dear Herr Kraus.’

I wanted to say that I had no idea what he meant by ‘fault zones’, but I knew that there was no point. His head is one big fault zone. I nodded as I always nodded when I listened to him and thought what I always thought when I listened to him. Winterberg coughed again and I handed him the water bottle. He didn’t want to drink.

‘There was also some quite heroic combat near Skalitz in 1866, we have to go there, too, it’s all in my Baedeker. And also to Trautenau and to Jitschin, the city of Wallenstein, which he chose to be the capital of his empire, yes, yes, we have to go there, there was also fighting around Jitschin, many Saxons and Austrians drowned in the pond there, and many Prussians later in the beer, when they stormed the Jitschin brewery.’

I wanted to say that I was once in Jičín back in my childhood, with my parents, but it was impossible; Winterberg could not be stopped.

‘A good friend of mine in Berlin lived in the Gitschiner Straße, my best friend in Berlin, he was also a tram driver, before the war he played football in Oberschöneweide. Of course you don’t know, because you don’t see through history, but for a long time the stadium was called Sadowa, yes, yes, after Sadowa here in Bohemia, where we’re getting off the train, yes, yes, precisely, named after the glorious Prussian victory and the glorious Austrian defeat. But the victory became a rather notorious defeat for the Prussians later on, like all victories throughout history, yes, yes; how often I allowed myself to be tortured by an unrelenting football game there, football had really never interested me, yes, yes, it was only because of Sadowa, only because of Königgrätz, that I went. No one else cares, but I know it, everything is connected to Königgrätz, yes, yes, our entire calamity began with Königgrätz, and I know what you’re going to say, dear Herr Kraus, mad, it’s all mad. You’re right, it is mad,’ Winterberg continued, without looking at me once the entire time.

He looked out of the window at a sleepy field.

At country houses.

At an old church.

At two children with a dog on a country road.

‘It’s beautiful here, so beautiful, truly “the beautiful landscape of battlefields, cemeteries and ruins,” as the Englishman always said.’

‘Him again.’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘But who was he?’

‘The Englishman could see through history, unlike you. Why don’t you read any history books, dear Herr Kraus? You could have long known all of this, with Cornus sanguinea and Königgrätz and Sarajevo and the railway. It’s all because of the Battle of Königgrätz that my third wife was deathly ill. It’s all because of the Battle of Königgrätz that I had to care for her for thirty years. It’s all because of the Battle of Königgrätz that you had to care for me. Why can’t you see through history? That factory there, isn’t that the Sadowa sugar factory, dear Herr Kraus, where the Austrian infantry so bravely made their stand?; yes, yes, the famous Bohemian-Moravian-Austrian sugar industry, I didn’t know for a long time that sugar cubes come from Datschitz in Moravia, did you know that, dear Herr Kraus?; now where was I, yes, yes, the Austrians wouldn’t melt like sugar, they turned the sugar factory into an Austrian fortress, and on the wall they wrote in tall words: “Behind us is Vienna”, I read about it all. But it was in vain. Within three hours they were all dead.’

‘No, we’re not in Sadová yet, and that isn’t a sugar factory, it’s an electrical substation,’ I said, but Winterberg wasn’t listening, and he was trembling as he often did during his historical fits.

‘That must be the Bistritz river, which was fiercely contested. And that over there, that must be the famous Svíb Forest! A paradise of Cornus sanguinea, yes, yes, we must go there, to the Road of the Dead that winds through the forest, we’ve got to go there. We may even find the two graves right there, the graves of my Prussian great-grandfather from Tangermünde and my Austrian great-grandfather from Ottersheim near Linz, one grew up on the Elbe, the other on the Danube, both killed on the same day, here, at Sadowa, at Königgrätz, on the third of July, 1866, the German war in the Bohemian Paradise, madness, madness, I know, you’re right, dear Herr Kraus, it makes no sense at all, and yet it does make a sort of sense, Cornus sanguinea, the Road of the Dead. We’ve got to go there.’

I nodded as I always nodded and thought what I always thought. I couldn’t stand Winterberg for much longer.

‘I know, I know; quiet down now, everything’s all right, yeah? We’re not at war.’

I cracked open a beer. The foam dripped to the floor.

‘You shouldn’t drink so much, or else you’ll get foggy again, just like yesterday and the day before, beer corpses aren’t a pretty sight, as my father always said, and he had to know, he saw many beer corpses and drank beer himself, tragic, tragic, it isn’t good that you drink so much, it’s not healthy, it’s not proper, you won’t get to be ninety-nine like that, you won’t get to be as old as the Republic of Czechoslovakia, as old as the Feuerhalle, yes, yes, you won’t get to be as old as me like that.’

‘I don’t care, I don’t want to be that old. I don’t want to live in pain.’

‘I’m not in pain. I still feel young, I’m not transparent.’

‘Transparent?’

‘Transparent. For the women, I mean.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It doesn’t matter. You should drink less.’

‘But I want to drink. I like beer. And you should drink more, too. You haven’t had anything to drink yet today.’

‘I did have something to drink.’

‘You didn’t.’

‘You have no place telling me whether I drank or didn’t drink, yes, yes, I know when I drink and when I don’t drink, yes, yes, perhaps I drink too little, but you, dear Herr Kraus, drink too much.’

‘Someone has to do it. That’s how we achieve balance, as my father used to say. Some drink and others don’t.’

The train drove on, and I thought about how I hadn’t really wanted to start drinking again so soon. During a ‘crossing’, I never drink. Only after it’s over.

I drink to forget.

To free myself.

To be able to start anew with the next crossing.

But this time it was different. It was the first crossing that had been interrupted. And so, I had to drink.

Otherwise, I would be long gone, and Winterberg, too. Without the beer, I would have done away with him already, and then myself soon after, because who would be able to stand this ridiculous journey without beer? No one. Just me.

The train ran along a small river, and perhaps it really was the Bystřička, because at that moment the conductor suddenly announced: ‘Sadová.’

Winterberg sprang to his feet.

Two abandoned and slightly crooked railway tracks. An abandoned station building. And an abandoned dog pissing into the wind.

Otherwise: nothing.

We were the only ones who exited the train. I helped Winterberg out of the carriage, which he did not appreciate. The train drove off, and I lit up a cigarette.

‘You shouldn’t smoke so much, dear Herr Kraus,’ said Winterberg, and coughed again.

He took in a deep breath of the cold winter air.

‘Beautiful, it’s so beautiful here. Something very beautiful is hanging in the air, yes, yes, we had excellent luck with the weather, dear Herr Kraus. The battle may have taken place at the height of summer, hopefully you know that, but the weather back then was just like it is now in November, after a couple of hot days came a day like an early winter, yes, yes, a day like today. A shift in the weather, as they say, with much mist and rain, yes, yes, and the fog of war on top of that, yes, yes, that’s how it has to be with a shift in the weather, wonderful, wonderful, we have excellent luck with this bad November weather, dear Herr Kraus. I love bad weather, because you can usually be alone wherever you want to be. I don’t need any tourists around, no, no, certainly not, tourists are historically blind, like you, it’s difficult to discuss history with you, too.’

‘Don’t we want to get going?’

‘What?’

‘Or do you have something more to say?’

Winterberg was silent for a moment and glanced at the abandoned station building. The empty, broken windows. The bricked-up door. The damp grey walls. I lit my next cigarette, took a few steps, and looked over at a couple of teenage boys sitting in a car parked on the main road. They were watching us, smoking, and snickering.

‘Beautiful, it’s beautiful here by Königgrätz, much more beautiful than I imagined it. Look, it’s starting to snow. My last wife didn’t like bad weather, she always wanted to spend holidays at the beach, tragic, tragic, a misunderstanding right from the beginning, you can’t even imagine, dear Herr Kraus, what luck we’ve had with the bad weather. My Lenka loved bad weather and solitude, yes, yes, if you were born in Reichenberg, you had to love bad weather and solitude, always nothing but rain and mist and snow, often from October to April just snow and wind and solitude, it’s because of the mountains, they surround the city like a great wall, yes, yes, and that’s how it is in the whole country, if you were born in Bohemia, you have to love the bad weather and the solitude, bad weather makes many people melancholy, the bad Bohemian weather drove many of our fellow countrymen to madness, it didn’t matter whether they spoke German or Czech, yes, yes, but Lenka loved the bad weather, she loved when it was snowing, like it is right now, yes, yes, my Lenka, the first woman in the moon.’

Winterberg calmed down and looked up at the sky. It was true, the first delicate snowflakes were already drifting down towards us. I was cold. I thought, tomorrow we’ll both be lying in the hospital with hypothermia. I would finally have my peace over a tea with rum, Winterberg would be transported by helicopter back to Berlin, and there he could ramble on about whatever he liked. And I would finally drown myself in beer and schnapps like I do after all my crossings, and forget everything.

I thought, maybe I’ll stay here.

In the country that I left.

That I had to leave.

That left me.

‘We were lucky with the bad weather, wonderful, wonderful, of course the train station wasn’t here back then, they didn’t lay tracks in this part of Bohemia until later, but let’s not allow ourselves to be disturbed or distracted by it. Over there, look, on the main street, that must be the inn! A simple inn near the battlefield, as it says in my Baedeker, yes, yes, it’s all just as it was back then, just as it was in 1913, when my book was written, just as it was in 1866. We’ll go there first, every soldier needs a bit of reinforcement before the battle, even a soldier from the Army of Last Hope, yes, yes, a soldier like you, dear Herr Kraus, since a bit of hope is all a geriatric nurse like you can offer, you’re completely right. Change the diapers of the dying, that’s all you can do. Nothing more.’

For once, Winterberg was right.

That’s all for now – to read more, please check out our Kickstarter to order your own copy and support our project!