The Bowling Alley

[This is the first story of On this Tuesday. It opens Part One: In the Snow, in the Clean Snow.]

We are the bowlers.
And we ourselves are the bowling balls.
But we are also the pins,
which topple.
The bowling alley, upon which they thunder,
is our heart.

The Bowling Alley

Two men had made a hole in the earth. It was quite roomy and almost cozy. Like a grave. You endured it.
In front of them they had a gun. Someone had invented it so that you could shoot it at people. Mostly you did not know the people at all. You did not understand their language. And they had done nothing to you. But you had to shoot at them with the gun. Someone had ordered it. And so you could really kill lots of them, someone had invented the gun so that it shot more than sixty times per minute. That’s what had been paid for.
Somewhat farther off from the two men was another hole. Out of it peeked out a head that belonged to a person. It had a nose that could smell perfume. Eyes that could see a town or a flower. It had a mouth, with which he could eat bread and say Inge or Mother. This head saw the two men, to whom someone had given the gun.
Shoot, said the one.
He shot.
So the head was broken. It could no longer smell perfume, no longer see any town and no longer say Inge. Never more.
The two men were in the hole many months. They broke many heads. And those always belonged to people whom they did not know at all. Who had done nothing to them and whom they could not understand. But someone had invented the gun that shot more than sixty times per minute. And someone had ordered it.
Gradually the two men had broken so many heads that you could have made a big mountain out of them. And when the two men slept, the heads began to roll. Like at a bowling alley. With quiet thunder. That woke the two men up.
But someone still ordered it, whispered the one.
But we have done it, cried the other.
But it was frightful, groaned the one.
But sometimes it was also fun, laughed the other.
No, cried the whisperer.
Yes, whispered the other, sometimes it was fun. That’s really it. Real fun.
For hours they sat there in the night. They did not sleep. Then the one said:
But God made us this way.
But God has an excuse, said the other, he doesn’t exist.
He doesn’t exist? Asked the first.
That is his only excuse, answered the second.
But we, we exist, whispered the first.
Yes, we exist, whispered the other.
The two men, whom someone had ordered to break a lot of heads, did not sleep at night. For the heads made quiet thunder.
Then the one said: And now here we sit.
Yes, said the other, now here we sit.
Then someone called: Make ready. It’s getting started again.
The two men stood up and took a hold of the gun.
And always, if they saw a man, they shot at him.
And always it was a man whom they did not know at all. And who had done nothing to them. But they shot at him. For that purpose someone had invented the gun. He had been paid for that.
And someone—someone had ordered it.