CORDELIA HANEMANN
The Door to the Land
Before the door to the Land stands a gatekeeper
on guard. The hoards gather outside
the wall; they rush the gate, seeking
admittance, each a man, woman, child,
displaced and homeless.
"Entry, sentry?" they cry, "Is it possible?"
"It is. It is," replies the keeper of the wall gate,
"but not at the moment.
You must wait for permission."
His voice is coarse and matter-of-fact, like his face.
Those closest crane their necks to peer through
the open door, to see what is on the other side.
"Try to enter if you dare," taunts the gatekeeper.
"I am large. I am powerful, and I am not alone.
I am but one of many. And the doors beyond
this one are legion. You might think
the Land should be accessible, but it is not
for you to think."
He holds up the barrel of his large and ominous gun
to keep them away.
The crowd murmurs and presses close.
"Wait!" shout the ones being crushed against the wall
and the gun. "We will wait for permission."
Helicopters drop loaves and fishes in baskets
among those who wait and blankets for them
to sit on. But there are not enough loaves and fishes,
for the multitude. There are not enough blankets.
But they wait. They murmur and press.
"Let's make a list since there are so many of us,
and the door to the Land is so small," suggests one man.
So they make a list, and some of them go away
to find rest and food and shelter,
to assuage crying children, tend the old and sick.
There is talk among those who remain;
even the hoarse voice of the gate-keeper is heard.
Still there is no permission. There is only waiting
and more waiting.
More people come seeking entrance, wishing
to be put on the precious list, which grows
longer and more crowded by the day. The hours
pass, days pass. There are no more loaves
and fishes. The blankets are tattered or wet
or soiled or stolen. There is still only waiting.
Those who wait bring gifts--family heirlooms,
coins and jewelry stashed against future need,
even bits of precious food--to the gatekeeper.
The gatekeeper is grateful. These things
pile up around him in a frenzy of accumulation.
"What of our list," asks one man. "When will
our turn come?"
"Oh, the list is well," answers the gatekeeper.
"I know nothing about turns."
"Tell us about the Land," clamors another.
"I know nothing of the Land myself," replies the gatekeeper.
"I only know I must do what I do."
"What is it that you must do?" they demand.
"What do you think? I must guard the gate
to the Land," he retorts.
"But why is it that the list gets longer,
but no one goes through the gate?" they ask.
"Perhaps," suggests the gatekeeper, "this
is the wrong door for you."
"What?" shout the men.
"Don't you know there is a right door
and a wrong door?" says the gatekeeper
importantly. "Perhaps this is not
the right door for you."
"So," suggest the voices, "there are other doors?"
"I believe there are other doors, though I don't
know them," admits the gatekeeper. "I only
know this door."
"How can we know if this is the right door
for us," demand the crowd.
"That is not my problem. My problem is merely
to guard this door," rejoins the gatekeeper.
"Where are these other doors of which you speak?"
the crowd further demand, beginning again to press.
Raising his gun to keep them back, the gatekeeper
replies, "How should I know? I told you,
I know only this door."
One angry voice rises above the others, "Let us in
you buffoon." There were mutters and even
shouts of approval.
Immediately the crowd become belligerent,
the gatekeeper puffs up to twice his size,
his hoarse voice booming over the crowds
of pitiful people, straggly women, crying
children, the sick and dying, the dirty and
misshaven.
"I am the doorkeeper. This is my door.
It is not permissible for you to enter here
—Today," he roars.
Still riled up, the crowd insists, "When,
then, can we enter?"
"It is not for me to say," answers the gate-
keeper returning to his normal size.
"It is not for me to decide."
"Then, why must we wait endlessly
for someone who does not even know us
to decide our fate?" they gripe.
The gatekeeper looks at them with
some confusion, "You do not have
to wait. You are choosing to wait
and to call me names and to threaten
my position. But I tell you, you may call me
names, and you may threaten me,
and you may wait, but you will not
get through this door until it is decided.
"But you do not have to do any of these things.
Remember, no one has asked you
to come here. No one has made you stand
at the door and wait."
"But," they remind him, "you have said it is possible
for us to enter here. You have taken
our most valuable goods. Surely, that
must count for something?"
"I am grateful for your gifts," he admits.
"Bribes," mutters someone under his breath.
"But," the gatekeeper continues, "I ask you for nothing,
save only that you wait in a civil manner until
permission to enter is granted."
"But," voices again rise in outrage and frustration,
"when will that happen?"
"That," says the gatekeeper, "I do not know. It is not
for me to know. But you are free. You, unlike me,
may come and go. You can always go to another
door, or you can go on vacation to the Bahamas."
"Ha," laughs one man sardonically, "and what
would happen to you, sir doorkeeper,
if we all left?"
The gatekeeper shakes his shaggy head, "I would
certainly be lonely."
"Is that why you hold out the hope of possibility to us?
Why you insist on keeping a list that taunts us
with the future?" inquires another man.
"You misunderstand," reminds the gatekeeper,
"I did not invite you here. I did not insist that you stay.
I did not initiate the list. I do nothing but guard
the gate, night and day."
In frustration, the men who hear him
throw up their hands and turn away
deciding to leave this place, where
obviously there is no hope, except
for this made-up hope of the gatekeeper.
Surely, there is another door, as he suggests
with a more sympathetic gatekeeper.
They try to make their way through the throngs
at their back, only to find they can not.
The people wishing to enter the gate to the Land
have been gathering and gathering
over the days and weeks and months
behind them.