The Brass Age

by Slobodan Šnajder

Genres: Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

The first English translation of a modern epic, a great Middle European novel spanning two hundred years, which explores a world destroyed by fascism, communism and nationalism.

Both a family saga and a powerful historical novel, The Brass Age is the story of the "Volksdeutscher", a German minority in North-Eastern Croatia (Slavonia) who emigrated there in the 18th century. These Germans, who were integrated into the local population, were in 1940 conscripted into the Waffen S.S. The novel's protagonist, the narrator's father, is forced into this military service and eventually deserts, despite the danger this involves.

At the core of the novel is the tragic love story of the narrator's parents; two characters shackled by their divided history. Former fighters in opposing camps – one a committed Partisan and the other a deserter from the German army – if they had met earlier, each would have killed the other. Captivating and poetic, The Brass Age reflects on immigration, identity and the existential meanings of art and life.

Release date: May 2, 2024

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 384

Sample

The Pied Piper of Hamelin

A hungry year in Germany.

Heavy rains, everything rotted. The potato had not yet been recognised as a friend of the poor, some grew it for its attractive flowers. The wheat had been battered by storms. And wars had played their part. A soldier doesn’t sow, he eats. The barns gaped empty, there was no livestock to be heard, but the houses whimpered with hunger. The poor have no friends.

In the autumn evenings, the men sat by an oil-lamp, silent, smoking pipes, the women cut up cabbage. Cabbage was all there was and everyone was heartily sick of it.

On one of those evenings, into the circle of feeble light stepped a stranger. No-one could remember afterwards who had let him into the house, or even heard any knocking. He was of medium height or rather less than that. When he removed his hat and bowed deeply, his forehead gleamed. His face was muzzle-like: he had a snout rather than a nose, and whiskers too. It could have been a human face, of rather long profile. But everyone vouched for the snout. People will always vilify a stranger. In that village, since the end of the war, they had not seen anyone who had not been born there. Whether it was a muzzle or a human face with a protruding nose remained undecided; but there was complete agreement that something about the stranger’s appearance made them recoil, not knowing why. But there was also a kind of thrill because he was not ordinary.

Starvation was tedious. The stranger brought something disturbing into this house. Boding well?

One of the more prominent figures in the village, certainly one of the burlier villagers, seized an axe from behind the stove, another grabbed his hand.

“Can’t you see this gentleman wants to tell us something?”

The stranger bowed deeply to his defender, drew himself up (to the end of their days some of those present persisted in their assertion that he folded his tail and pushed it into his trousers) and then began to speak:

“Good people! Allow me to address you in the name of my master, whose faithful servant I am. I would do anything for him, so were my master to say: ‘Go to the stream and submerge yourself,’ I’d do it at once. My master is well acquainted with your distress, I have come on his instruction to offer you salvation.”

The women clambered over the mountains of uncut cabbage to get closer and sat on the floor.

The stranger bowed again.

“Look around you: nothing but misery and suffering. No grain in the stores, the barns are empty, what livestock there was has been slaughtered, plague has come to the village from over the hills. The potatoes are black, the gruel poisonous.

“I know that others have come here before me on the same business. I know there are those who journey through the German lands stealing children and the Gypsies are blamed. Everyone throughout the German lands knows about the pied piper who slyly deceived the townsfolk of Hamelin in Lower Saxony and stole all their children, who vanished, quite simply vanished, in the mountains . . . Ah, what a weighty slander is that!”

. . . here the stranger waved his hand in one of his ceremonial gestures . . .

“Good people! Whoever heard of a mountain gaping open like a wolf’s jaws?”

“Whoever heard of a rat talking!” interrupted the oldest peasant who on his deathbed still affirmed that the stranger was a rat, albeit very large, something like a super-rat.

“Someone has to speak up. You’re all just suffering silently. If there was a real man among you, he would understand what I am trying to tell you. You need a Leader!”

“We know that, in Hamelin, near Hanover, a travelling charlatan promised to rid them of rats, and then he lured their children away with his playing and they were never heard of again. He should have been cut down with an axe.”

“It’s a sad story,” the stranger said. “Every story has two endings: one is told at the end of a hardworking day ploughing and digging. The other is told on God’s day.”

“Tell us the first ending.”

“Death, of course, but you can die anywhere.”

“And the Sunday ending?”

“Transylvania.”

None of those present had ever heard of that land.

There was a silence in the room, which spread under the other roofs as well. The whole village was listening.

“I ask you to listen, good people, not to interrupt, for I will lose my thread, and if I lose my thread, you too will be lost.”

The one who had at first wanted to leap at him seized the axe again.

“Good people,” the stranger bowed, “listen to what I have to say, and then attack me if you are intent upon killing a stranger. That’s always easy. But why, when I’m bringing you good news, a new gospel?”

“There are legions of such folk. At market you can buy good news for a trifle from a hare or a bearded lady.”

“But you know nothing, so you don’t know where fortune awaits you. Beyond the seven hills, of which you have some knowledge, there are many more you don’t know. Between them flows a great river along which, with a little luck, it is possible to sail at no great cost. When it leaves the mountains behind, the river flows through a valley: the soil is black and so potent that a week after casting seed, you can harvest it. It’s on the other side of the great forests that belong to no-one and where no-one will have you birched for an armful of firewood. There, far away, lies Transylvania. There is the life for you. Here there is no life, you will all perish, as will all the rats with you, you don’t need a pied piper of Hamelin to steal your youth; you’ll perish from hunger or be battered to death by drunks in uniform.”

There was silence. All that could be heard was the rain, which, yet again that hungry year, was sheeting down.

“If this land is so good, why does no-one cultivate it?”

“You hardly need a plough there.”

It was quiet under the roof, as though the rain too was stilled.

“If the land is so good, it can’t be that it belongs to no-one.”

The stranger nodded. “Of course. All good things in this world have an owner.”

“If you ask me,” someone said, “this fellow is raising an army. It would be best,” he whispered, “to take him out and give him a good hiding.”

Although this was whispered, the stranger heard the whispering.

“At least let me tell you everything to the end. My master has many estates in Transylvania. There’s no hunger there, no cold.”

“But if the earth is so productive, why doesn’t your master himself work those fields?”

At that point some of the villagers decided there might be something in what this man was saying.

Two parties formed under this roof. Some were in favour of beating up the stranger behind the house, others of giving him a chance. The more prominent men withdrew into the next room to decide what to do.

When they returned from behind the wall of cabbages, the stranger said: “Good people! I can see that you are at odds. That is why such great misfortune has come upon you, why your stomachs are protesting. You need a leader. Even one you would kill on the spot would be better than none. I can’t serve you for that purpose, for I am myself led. But you will find no-one better than my master, I guarantee, for I have not found one myself. May I now take my leave?”

That was approved because the voting had been inconclusive.

“Get ready. When the time comes, you will know more. Then, not before, I will be back!”

The stranger vanished, but, they all swore, not through the door. It seemed he had disappeared through a hole in the wall no-one had ever spotted before. One might have thought that he was like an idea from the past. It did not occur to anyone that this stranger could have come from the future. Ideas, even the most terrible ones, know no impediments. They usually do not show their true colours, they pass through walls, they travel fast. “I will be back!” – the words with which the stranger had departed went on ringing in the villagers’ ears. They could not decide whether that was a threat or a promise of good fortune. Transylvania? A land beyond seven mountains? On the other side of the forests?

In the judgment of the sharpest minds present, that must be a long way away, somewhere at the very edge of the Earth. From that edge it would not be difficult to leap into nothingness, but then where was good fortune? That would be like – drowning.

The way all the rats of Hamelin drowned. Admittedly, only for the unwelcome visitors to appear the next day in a different town, so the whole sham could begin again. That piper of Hamelin was a villain, smeared with all possible greases, painted all possible colours. But the young are gullible and no-one can ever be taught.

The saga of the stranger, perhaps a rat that spoke with a human voice, spread at once through the German lands at the speed thoughts travel. But it vanished as soon as the young sap in the fruit trees began to rise, as soon as the new corn began to sprout.

The Imperial Envoy

A new hungry year – 1769 – since the birth of the Saviour. The Kempf family too were hungry, including the young Georg Kempf, born into its bosom. He was agile and handsome, with skilful hands. He had worked for a while as an apprentice to a wheelwright, but then returned to his father’s house because hands were needed on the land. This meant he had half-learned his craft. It was time for him to be married, but that autumn there had been no wedding feasts: what could be put on the table for the guests?

Nevertheless, the Kempfs decided to send marriage brokers to one of the village girls. She was not among the ugliest and had a dowry of sorts. But something was drawing young Kempf into the larger world. He got it into his head that he was born for something better.

It was raining heavily when a stranger knocked at the door. Had it not been raining, they would not have let him in at this hour, though their dogs were quiet. Besides, he was very polite; and he had the additional recommendation of the uniform of an imperial official.

The stranger bowed and introduced himself:

“I have been sent from Vienna! I come by order of her Imperial Majesty, bearing papers from the Vienna Chancellery.”

They brought out what they had to offer, which was almost nothing. They were not afraid because many houses in the neighbour­hood had recently had similar visits.

The man declined the plate offered him, saying he was not hungry, but they clearly were, terribly hungry, he said, that was obvious.

“There is misery and pain under this roof. How much land do you have?”

“Little,” replied old Kempf. “And whatever we sow is trampled by the masters of the village when they go hunting hares.”

“Don’t you be hares. Be foxes and wolves. Do something with your lives. It’s high time.”

“Why? Has the plague come over the mountains again? Are they preparing for war at court? We will survive.”

“Perhaps you will survive, but why should you not live? Why rot away here, suffering shortages and the wilfulness of your masters . . . Do they molest your women?”

“No,” old Kempf frowned, “not now.”

“The count can’t be up to it anymore.”

“He’s on his last legs. But then his sons will come from Paris and it will all start again.”

The villagers were silent.

“And a new war is on its way, that’s true.”

“Anything but that!” cried old Kempf.

“But here’s good news for you, a new gospel: Her Majesty Empress Maria Theresa wishes to settle her frontier lands. She knows of your troubles.”

“That she knows the peasants’ troubles is not something we would dare believe. How is the Empress?”

“The Empress is sorrowful.”

“Whoever heard of an empress being sorrowful?”

“How would you feel if you had to look at fields filled with weeds, empty barns, burnt ruins where houses once stood . . .”

“That would be sad to see.”

“Well, that’s why she’s sorrowful.”

“You say that the earth there is good, that it is easily ploughed and fertile. So why is no-one cultivating it?”

“At last one of you shows some sense. It was cultivated until yesterday by the Turks.”

“And they no longer wish to?”

“They would, but they have been driven out. And now no-one is there. It is a while since the great commander Eugen of Saxony celebrated his victories there. The fields are overgrown, the roofs collapsed. Even the graveyards are disappearing. Those lands are now the possessions of the Empress. Be her colonisers!”

“How could I, a sack of old bones?” said old Kempf.

“Let the youngsters go. Once things go well for them, when they have feathered their nest, they will summon you.”

“If the count’s servants could hear what’s being said under this roof, they would beat the life out of us.”

“The Empress will watch over you. She is the wisest ruler the world has ever seen. You will journey down the great river called the Danube, and that can be done at little cost. We will pay for your transport.”

“Where is that land?” the young Kempf finally asked, already half-decided to let himself be led by the envoy.

“Beyond seven mountains, on the other side of the great forests: Transylvania.”

“Do milk and honey flow there, is that the land of Canaan? The Promised Land?”

“I do not promise you milk and honey, and countries are called by whatever names they have. But I vow to you, as I stand here in the trappings of the Empress’ loyal servant, that where I am taking you anyone who works honestly in the sweat of his brow, and who lives a decent life, will live well and in relative plenty. Vienna is giving every coloniser land for a house, an individual household plot, a field, a plough and a cow . . . as I’ve said, she will settle the cost of the raft . . . A priest will be appointed to every village.”

“She’ll give us land, a plough and a cow?” exclaimed the young Kempf. They had eaten their own cow a month before. “And a priest?” A cow was far more important than a priest, he thought.

“And what land! You spit into it, and in a week, you’ll be scything and harvesting. The court will turn a blind eye to tithes for the first five years, until the colonisers have found their feet. In other words, you will not pay tax.”

“Who could believe such miracles!” old Kempf protested. “One needs strength for belief, my good sir.”

The imperial envoy stood up.

“Where are you going, sir, in this rain?”

“To your neighbours. There is nothing better than a neighbour settling next to his old neighbour.”

“We’ve said nothing as yet,” said old Kempf.

“Look around you. Consider what awaits you here. And how things could be over there. When the time comes, you will know more.”

“Things could not be worse,” said young Kempf, and the imperial servant looked at him as his acquisition. His earnings were counted in souls.

 

Two weeks after the imperial envoy’s visit, the Kempfs were sitting round their oak table after the evening meal, if what they had eaten could be called that. The men were smoking pipes, the women cleaning cabbage, the children, those tousle-haired little monkeys, hunting lice under the table.

Young Kempf was the most lost in thought.

The evening was passing in almost complete silence. Mice could be heard scratching in the wall, and also the rat running wild in the larder, where there was virtually nothing stored. It was in fact beginning to lose faith in humans, a fatal condition for any rat. It had been raining relentlessly for five days, a black cloud had settled on the gable of the house like a saddle, and every time the cloud shifted new ramrods of torrential rain would beat down on the house.

The young Kempf had spent the previous day at the cemetery beside the church, where the Kempfs had been buried for hundreds of years, talking with the priest but saying nothing about the imperial envoy. The conversation had turned to the soul, and whether it was a terrible sin to leave the home of one’s birth and set off into uncertainty. To his surprise, the old priest had replied: “God will be with you everywhere.”

Apart from the old priest, Kempf had no-one to talk to. The gravestones washed by time had nothing to say to him, neither “yes” nor “no”. Kempf tried to remember whether there had ever been a conversation around the table about where the Kempfs had come from. No, that had never come up. He concluded that they had sprung up here, around the house, like maize or peas. But that had been in the golden age, when God had walked the earth, and there were not only people multiplying as though sprouting over the fields, but for all who sprang up there was abundant maize and peas. There was no excess of mouths to feed. But the golden age passed, for some time people lived reasonably well in the silver age, then wars started up over the length and breadth of the earth, with people slaughtering one another on every threshold, sowing the furrows with hatred instead of seed. Iron ploughs were better than wooden ones, and the swords cut more precisely than bronze ones, while in the contest between ploughs and swords, man was the loser. For man is, of all creation, the creature always on the losing side, and progress is, it seems, nothing other than his steady loss. That is what was going through Kempf-the-younger’s mind, as he splashed through the puddles: a new Hesiod had appeared in Germany, but left no trace. This book is the first and only mention of him.

It was still pouring, but there was a hint in the air that the shackles of winter were being loosened. True enough it was still not the weather for a stroll, but he had wanted to take advantage of his last opportunity to visit the graves of his forebears. New thoughts kept overtaking one another in his head, each new one stumbling on the one before. Kempf returned home, and everything on him was soaked. He spent the rest of the day brooding on the stove. Who would there be to walk behind the plough when his place on the stove was empty?

Everyone in the household understood that something was happening to him, no-one dared disturb him in his half-sleep.

Shortly before midnight, Kempf-the-younger got down from the stove, thumped his hand hard on the table and shouted: “I’m off to Transylvania!”

Old Kempf, unexpectedly, did not oppose him. He even said that it had been clear to him for days that Georg would leave. He gave him his blessing and his old pistol, from the days when these parts rumbled with the sound of that great war of evil memory, during which Catholics and Lutherans pursued one another, inflicting on each other cruelties unimaginable until then.

“Wherever you go, know that God is one,” said his father, and Georg kissed his hand. “Be true, beware of wicked people and crazy women. Stay well, honour God, don’t steal, and don’t forget us.”

His mother withdrew to get her son ready for his journey, it was already past midnight, the hours were now breathlessly chasing each other. She didn’t rightly know what to prepare for her son for such a lengthy journey. What should he take to Transylvania? The catapult his father had carved for him when he was a child? The pipe he had made for himself? A rod and hook?

 

They were fleeing in the night while the count’s servants were sleeping because an encounter with them and the count’s dogs could have been fatal.

The rain had stopped, the sky was bright, and the Milky Way more luxuriant than ever. Crickets could be heard, for the first time that year.

In the small hours a column of young men set out, some of them still children, with sacks on their backs, trunks and bags of bread. They were led by the imperial herald, and now for the first time it was obvious that he was a little lame. After three miles of marching towards the east as the sun was rising, they were met by a cart the imperial envoy had hired for them. The shared aim of the procession, in which Kempf felt lonely because he knew no-one, was Ulm, where a raft belonging to the good Empress was waiting for them. For the next two to three weeks the raft was to be Kempf’s home on the water.

As soon as he had slipped out of the house, Kempf realised that he was the only one from his village who had made the decision. Whether it was for good or ill remained to be seen.

Kempf-the-Ancestor Floats to Transylvania

Kempf’s home on the water was as colourful as a tent at a church fête; in that tent were displayed various exemplars of the human race as well as other elements that populate the Earth in the name of wonder. Admittedly there were no bearded ladies or two-headed calves and no-one was loudly promoting his miracu­lous lotion. But there was a Turk, a merchant travelling from afar, from Hamburg indeed, where he had a carpet warehouse; a Hasidic Jew from Poland; there were Lutherans, whose anxiety was rising as they drew near the border . . . behind a wooden barricade pigs were squealing. What a varied world, thought Kempf.

The Turk had wide trousers of bright red homespun cloth, a long kaftan with a broad belt shot through with gold threads, and a turban, white with a violet top. The captain of the raft, experienced as he was, knew that the Turk was a Sunni and a merchant. If in no other way, then because of his turban. Green was the colour reserved for the Holy Porte. The Turks set great store by colour and form.

The Turk’s servants were travelling with him. They ministered to him constantly, particularly when he didn’t need anything, they were forever on their feet, following his every move. Sometimes he dispersed them as if they were flies. The Turk was travelling on this terrible raft to a place called Wolkowar, where he intended to join a caravan. His ultimate destination was Sarajevo. He was surprised that Kempf had not heard of Sarajevan moccasins, which he thrust right into his face. The man used a language the well-disposed might have acknowledged was a kind of German dialect. Finally, he had a warehouse in Hamburg, he was prosperous and well travelled. As soon as they left Ulm, the Turk got busy having the pigs moved to the other end of the raft, as their stench and grunting would not let him rest.

The Jew wore a black coat and black boots. But the most striking thing about him was on his head: his hat – shtreimel was what his people in Galicia called it – the Hasidic Jew never took it off. It must be expensive, thought Kempf. Of course it was: it was made of seven sable tails. Kempf had learned this in his native village because it was not unusual to meet travelling merchants who were Jews. However, in the case of this Jew, it was impossible to count the number of sable tails, and Kempf did not feel it appropriate to ask. The Jew sat scowling on his barrel, entirely lost in his own world.

Counting his tails – that would be like counting his fleas. No, it wouldn’t have been right.

The captain’s forehead was furrowed with deep lines, he had a prominent nose. That could have made one think of a leper. But since a leper was prohibited from approaching a healthy person by less than a lance’s length, no-one would have entrusted the raft to him. Kempf plucked up the courage to ask one of the crew members about those furrows and mentioned the captain’s large nose as well. The answer was that the captain had been born crumpled, as though his forehead was a handkerchief, and his nose was the result of boozing. The captain treated the staff roughly, and all but assaulted the passengers. The vessel moved as though of its own accord along the great river which played with it from time to time as with a toy. Oars, one of which was used to steer the raft from a raised board in its centre, were the only way of avoiding a fatal whirlpool or some other disaster, such as crashing into a rock. The raft, enormous logs bound together with thick rope, floated at the mercy of the river towards its distant mouth. From time to time one saw nags hauling a raft upriver and that was a painful sight. Most of them pitied the suffering of those innocent animals. The captain said that every creature lived its own destiny. “They too are God’s creatures,” muttered some. “It’s not good to mistreat beasts of burden.”

At one point, judging by the actions of the crew and the captain’s suddenly serious expression, Kempf realised they were heading towards danger.

The nightmare for all those sailing downstream from Ulm on the Danube in the eighteenth century was called the Dipstein Crags, in those days a two-day journey from the small town of Engelhartzelle; the name was spoken in a half-whisper among rafters on the Danube. But people still travelled because they had to.

A source states: “The oars were berthed and the crew asked the travellers to start saying the Lord’s Prayer or something similar, each in his own language.”

Notably, in this place a terrible whirlpool summons travellers into an underwater castle where the Emperor of the Danube reigns, while the dark-grey reefs threaten the raft in their own way. On the river bottom gleams a glass palace, in the middle of which is an enormous table at which sit the emperor, in the guise of a huge catfish, and his subjects, while great glistening fish cast the brilliance of their scales over the feast; on the table are glass jars, like those in which preserved fruit is stored; these jars contain the souls of the drowned.

The Turk immediately spread out his prayer mat and started praying; the Jew sent an urgent message to his God; the Christians said the Paternoster out loud.

Jahve Gott Allah

were called on and each of those zealous prayers on the raft knew that he was

ONE.

Only the Christian God was divisible by three.

With the arrival of the whirlpool, all trace of courage vanished, they had no strength even for a whisper . . .

Allahu ekber . . . Almighty . . . Only Father . . . Allahu ekber . . . Supreme . . . All-powerful . . . Our Father who art . . .

Like sterling silver – a weave of gold or silver thread – on the cloth of water that was here dark, almost black, the floating Babel inscribed its messages in a mixture of Arabic, South-German, Hebrew, Polish . . . The raft had suddenly shrunk, seemingly a helpless splinter controlled by a terrible force . . . However small, this raft was now turning in the whirlpool like a devotee under the sign of a cross, like a synagogue, like a mosque.

It seemed that this Babel jumble would not trouble the One and Only. These people would not be building a tower of Babel in order to scratch the Almighty’s feet, but at the end of the journey, wherever that might be, they would scatter like dandelion seeds. What is more, the travellers did not converse with one another but addressed their God on high directly. Why muddle their languages?

God would grant their prayers, and those of the captain and crew, who were no longer praying but holding firmly to the pieces of wood, barrels, chests in which they put their trust, rather than in God the Father, if the whirlpool were to take hold of the raft or the current hurled them against the crags. They knew full well that their prospects were in the balance. On the other hand, the travellers on the raft were all People of the Book, there were three such peoples, and three books, although there was just one Book. For them it was the first time.

Everyone on the raft was thinking contritely about the ultimate, about the first and last things. Even the better dressed among them now behaved like penitents in hair shirts. The travellers, not to mention the crew, were aware of the risks. The agents in Ulm had of course reassured them, but they all knew that every second raft was wrecked, and nothing more was ever heard of many who had sailed this way. Their raft too, the raft of Kempf-the-ancestor, was now in God’s hands. Their fate was in the balance.

The travellers grasped the railing firmly, if a few stakes hammered into the logs could be called a railing, and endeavoured to calculate how many seconds remained before the main impact: until the moment when the raft would again spin in the maw of the largest whirlpool and then perhaps break up against the cliff. Each prayed to his Father the way he had been taught, the Jew with the long beard chanted a psalm, the Muslim kept falling prostrate on his prayer mat . . .

The raft got through.

 

The raft got through, for had it broken up I would not have been born and this book would not exist, which might not have been such a great shame.

It’s not clear which prayer did the trick. It’s possible that God appreciated the fact that there were so many. Or the water level of the Danube was sufficiently high after the spring snow melt? Or else it was low enough that the whirlpool was calmed? That is to say, I don’t believe that God on High had a particular interest in my birth: he was father to so many.

The Dipstein Crags had drowned many a hope. At one moment or another God cannot have found in the assortment of languages one that he could understand without a dictionary. It’s possible that it was not God’s day. Although God is a polyglot, he had in his time lamented greatly over Babel: no-one likes thick dictionaries. The captain had also taken the risk that a sinner had crept onto his raft, one who could not, in the eyes of God, be saved. He excluded himself, a murderer and pickpocket. Besides, he, the captain, was also an entrepreneur, that is the patron of several rafts, and now he was carrying a colourful collection of mostly poor people, imperial colonisers, who had sold ever