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In the evening he went to the small brook behind the meadow where the forest begins. Maybe he could think more clearly there, he reasoned. But after hours of looking into its fast flowing water, he found no answers. The problem was too great! Already he felt that he was no longer his own master. He felt pushed into something he hated to think about, but he felt pressured by the realization that as soon as the long-range transmitter stations become operational, the chance to do something big for humanity would no longer exist, and perhaps never come again. This was his chance to affect history, to alter the world for the better, to make his being alive meaningful. He finally decided that he would most certainly do it if he could be assured that his conclusions about the project were not just a product of his imagination.
Except, how could anyone be sure about a thing like that? He couldn't just ask if it was OK to launch an ICBM with sixteen large warheads against the United States of America. No one would as much as admit that a safety procedure exists. He began to hate that he had offered to serve at the construction project.
Angry and disappointed, he walked back to the center from the brook, through stands of tall grass. On the way, he suddenly stopped. It came to him most clearly that he didn't have to do anything, that he was still his own master. No one was demanding anything directly. No one was forcing him against his will. He was a free man!
On the day the equipment arrived, however, he felt differently. He felt that by simply going along with the project, he would keep his options open. He could render a final decision later. With these thoughts in mind, he began his job at the construction site the next day.
Of course, he worked mostly after dark. His official excuse was that it was cooler at night. The real reason was that he couldn't afford to have people around. The other reason was that practice alerts, so far, always came at night.
As it was, he managed his time well. He was always alone at night. He drove both the truck and the bulldozer. The commissar gave him a free hand in this. The second night he spent ten consecutive hours working at the pit, and all this besides his regular duties. The commissar praised him for his "outstanding initiative."
Only when the excavation had progressed to the point where the cable could be reached at any moment did he cut his efforts back and began to wait. The project had become a game. He was quite aware, that even at this reduced level of working he had at the very most four days of work left. Once all the bulldozing was complete, his chance would be forever gone. On the other hand, his involvement would also be over at this point. This meant that the practice alert would have to be called within this four-day time frame.
"Then, the tormenting will stop," he said to himself, searching for a comforting thought. Strangely, there was no longer any comfort in this prospect either, because then, his nightmares would never end.
At the point he was at, he knew exactly where the cable was located. He had uncovered it briefly, and then covered it up again. Oddly, the cable was not nearly as deeply buried as was indicated on the drawing. Was this a clerical oversight, or was it part of the plan that even included an alibi for him? This oversight meant that no one could hold him responsible if the cable were damaged. It wasn't his fault that the plan was drawn up incorrectly. But this argument, too, left a bitter taste.
So once again a feeling that he had been systematically set up overwhelmed him. Everything seemed to have been taken care of. The care and precision, with which the plan had been prepared for him, amazed him. Only, who was responsible for all that was happening? Who had drawn up those plans that included these vital combinations of mistakes? Who was that person that now masterminded his life? Or was it all, in spite of the complexity, nothing more than a series of unrelated errors and coincidences?
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Stories
about
Healing
from novels by Rolf A. F. Witzsche
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