The Coincidence [Der Weg 1948-01]
An original translation of "Der Zufall"
Source Documents: German Scan
Note(s): This article appears in “Der Weg”, a German-language magazine founded in Buenos Aires, Argentina in the years immediately following the destruction of the Third Reich. See the links above for more information on the magazine and its contents.
Title: The Coincidence [de: Der Zufall]
Author(s): The Editor
“Der Weg” Issue: Year 2, Issue 1 (January 1948)
Page(s): 18-19
Referenced Documents: None.
The Coincidence
In the lofty chamber of the Berlin Palace, Voltaire stood face-to-face with the returned King.
"He has grown old and weary,"
the Frenchman could not help but think, his cold, gray eyes tracing the bent form of Friedrich, who leaned heavily upon his crutch. Yet aloud he proclaimed,
“Sire! The laurel of immortality crowns your brow. Already they name you the Great!”
The King, who had just stepped to the window to cast a glance over the wintry garden, turned sharply and fixed the philosopher with keen, searching eyes as he bowed with reverence.
“So that’s how it’s done,”
he murmured, a faint mockery in his voice, tinged nonetheless with a strangely bitter undertone.
“And you too, Voltaire, would grant me immortality...?”
The Frenchman inclined his head, pausing briefly to gather his thoughts. Then, with pursed lips, he muttered haughtily,
“I do not lessen myself in doing so, Sire!”
The King nodded, concealing a smile. Growing solemn once more, he said,
“You are a great philosopher—without question! I am a great king... But what would I be without my valiant musketeers and without... heaven?”
Voltaire started.
“Ah, Sire, you astonish me!”
he murmured, almost shaken, yet swiftly regaining a tone of superior mockery.
“Have you struck a pact with the Lord God of Monsieur de Ziethen?”
Friedrich stamped his crutch upon the floor in anger and displeasure.
“Not so, Voltaire!”
But he soon mastered himself again.
“You laugh at it—and at the brave Ziethen! Well now, you have never stood in battle, nor has any man died for you. You have never been wholly humbled; perhaps that is why you shall never be wholly great.”
“Sire!”
the Frenchman ventured in protest, his voice edged with discontent.
“Sire...!”
“Silence!”
cried the King, his eyes flashing.
“Let him hear the story instead! It came to pass on the eve of Leuthen. I was with old Ziethen at the forward sentries, observing the campfires of the Austrians. Little hope of victory remained, for their numbers were nearly twice our own. I could not even count the fires along the horizon.
Ziethen and I paced the lines, exchanging password and watchword when the sentries hailed us, speaking with the common soldiers and the stout lieutenants. From the outpost nearest the river, we took a cornet—Werner von Bülow—to guide us through the thickets of the riverbank to the next post.
He was a young, half-grown lad, this Werner von Bülow, striding ahead in silence and certainty, a rare thing to see in one so youthful. He knew his way through the pitch-black night as though it were broad daylight. Thus we came to a clearing in the wood. Young Bülow bent the underbrush aside to let me pass—then suddenly trembled, stood frozen for an instant, seized my sleeve abruptly, and stammered something. Irritated with the boy, I barked at him, demanding what he meant. He shook his head, striving to speak, yet clung to me still. Meanwhile, old Ziethen drew near. ‘He must fear the clearing,’ he jested to the cornet. The lad rallied himself—I thought I saw him grit his teeth, straining desperately to force out words. Then, all at once, he shook himself free, leapt before me, and stepped into the clearing. He had scarce taken two paces when he convulsed and fell as though hewn down.
Aye, Voltaire, it was a stray bullet, loosed by some foe across the lines, fired by mere chance! Coincidence—blind, cruel coincidence—that the boy stepped into its path and not I!
We dragged Werner von Bülow back into the thicket. He wheezed faintly. As Ziethen ran to summon aid from the sentries near the outpost, I crouched beside the lad and sought to staunch the blood of his wound. It was in vain, as I saw at once. Yet beneath my hands, he opened his eyes, sought me out, and knew me.
‘I am no coward,’ he whispered haltingly, groaning through his pain, ‘but I saw the bullet coming... And if I might now die for you...’
I snapped at him to cease such foolish talk. But then he laughed in my face with a strange, knowing air.
Meanwhile, the musketeers arrived with a stretcher. We laid him gently upon it and bore him to the watchfire. The lieutenant there had already sent for a field surgeon.
Too late, by the time he came. Werner von Bülow was dead—had reared up, cried ‘Fridericus!’ and choked upon his own blood!‘The Bülows all have such a second sight,’ the lieutenant assured me, scarce holding his composure. ‘At noon, the boy had already charged him with what to write and say to his old mother, for he must die that night.’
I bore the tidings of his death to the old woman myself, for we won the battle the next day, and my brave regiments encamped upon the field, singing their Now Thank We All Our God—though it cost me an extra day to reach Berlin.
But I had to tell you this tale today, Voltaire, and at once! You shall not mock Ziethen’s Lord God, nor Providence, nor the manifest truth that something dwells between heaven and earth.”
With these last words, the King had turned away and stepped again to the window. He would not let his face be seen.
The Frenchman gnawed his lower lip.
“Strange, wondrous coincidence!”
he murmured.
“To which the Prussians owe a victory, and the world a great king! One might be tempted to pen the history of chance...”
Friedrich pressed his brow against the cold glass.
“Go!”
he muttered with effort.
“Leave me be!”
Voltaire, only now perceiving the King’s emotion, flinched and whispered in dismay,
“Sire!”
But Friedrich struck his crutch upon the floor and pointed with his free hand to the door, growling once more in a harder tone,
“Go, in the name of three devils! And send me Ziethen!”