The Wall

by H. G. Adler

  So I stammered on about not wanting to be an intrusion, but that made no impression, and in fact I had to give in, for I would have collapsed on the spot if I hadn’t entrusted myself to the care of my companion. Also, a glimmer of hope rose within me that I might find some kind of mercy, a haven, one that perhaps would manifest itself under the roof of a proper apartment building. Perhaps Frau Meisenbach would suggest that I stay for an hour or so and rest until they decided where I could spend the night.

  With a rush of air the elevator arrived, and the boyfriend opened the door. I looked questioningly at him and hesitated once again, but it had been decided already. I was shoved forward, the outer door banged shut, the inner door was pulled close, it clanged, then it growled low and deep, the two of us rising continually upward. There was a mirror in the narrow car, but I closed my eyes. I think I slept on the way up, for I was aware of nothing. The door swung open wide as I opened my eyes with trepidation and gazed ahead, blinking into the milky light as if looking through dust.

  “We’re there, Herr Lan—”

  “Long …” No, don’t say the name! I was on my toes and quickly corrected him. “Long. No, it didn’t take all that long!”

  I didn’t give myself away and got out of a pinch, though what my stupid sentence said was the opposite of what I felt, and that immediately helped. For the first time since I had gotten off the train, I was awake and clearheaded, my self-confidence rising. Things were now steady, the experiences lining themselves up in an observable pattern and displayed across from me, readable as a wall and clearly something that was independent of me, not tangled up with me, which even made clear that I was myself, without question a being in an allotted place amid certain surroundings. I braced myself in order to remain strong, my worries capable of being shoved away, but my legs betrayed me and I faltered. The elevator that rose through the stairwell was cold and only caused me to sense that a clammy heat oozed from my pores. I looked around, a shadow in front of me covering up the sight of the young man who had gotten me into the elevator or had wanted to do so without my knowing.

  “You’ll send the elevator back down now, right? I can’t help thinking that it needs to be back down below soon.”

  This I said because I heard it moving and was pleased that the narrow chamber, with its dangerous mirror, was moving away. The strangeness of my talk no longer surprised the young man, for he had gotten used to my foolish demeanor. If he at all regretted having picked me up off the street, there was nothing to be done. Now he was indeed obliged to take me to Frau Meisenbach. He approached a door and I followed slowly, the light flickering before my eyes. The boyfriend pressed three times quickly on the doorbell, which gave off a shrill sound.

  “Three times so that she knows that it’s us.… I mean, you never know these days.”

  The young man intentionally ignored my words and said nothing, standing in front of the door with a broad chest and blocking it. I stood two steps to the side. As things began to stir in the apartment, I looked meekly in the direction of another door. “Peter!” my companion called out, and the door opened right up as I strained to decipher the letters on a nameplate, as if I weren’t with my companion. Not wanting to surprise anyone, I waited patiently to see if I would be invited in.

  “I brought someone along, Anna, who wants to speak with you.”

  There where I stood, half in darkness, I couldn’t be seen at all well. Twisting around to look at Anna, who peered searchingly out the door, I recognized her immediately. It was Anna Seiler, now Frau Meisenbach, the younger sister of Arno Seiler, whom I went to school with. I stepped toward her and said hello.

  “Perhaps you don’t know who I am. I’ve changed a lot, and it’s been a while, but once … How is your brother Arno? We went to school together.”

  Anna’s gaze remained fixed; she gave no sign of recognition. Peter shook his head for reasons that remained unknown to me, perhaps out of anger, though I spoke to her again. The apartment appeared to consist of only one room, it being large, but also seeming narrow, because it was chock-full of furniture and bookshelves to the ceiling. I was offered a chair, which surprised me. Anna was dressed in black—in fact, all in black. Was she in mourning? It wasn’t at all clear, for it could be that she chose the dark material to set off her pale cheeks. Anna waited to hear what I had to say, Peter pacing back and forth in the room, the narrowness of the room forcing the chair to be leaned up against the wall. I was tempted to say how much his restless wandering bothered me, yet I kept quiet, since it didn’t appear to bother Anna. Discontented or embarrassed, I sat through this annoying back-and-forth through the narrow passage for a while, hoping futilely that Peter would finally come to a stop and say something. Yet there was no help coming from him, and I had nothing to say. How I had gotten here now seemed distant. I was only happy that I could rest, though I shuddered to think how I might save myself in the next hours. Anna made my situation no easier and seemed clueless. She stood there puzzled, looking concerned and becoming more and more serious, thoughts full of worry pressing at her countenance. Then I remembered that I hadn’t introduced myself. She had not recognized me at all and was wrestling with the reason for my visit. I owed her an explanation, but I didn’t want to divulge my name. Finally, I broke the silence.

  “Sometimes one goes to other people and doesn’t know what one wants. That’s what I’ve done. A chance encounter in the street”—I nodded obligingly to Peter—“a fleeting incident, then a request—one is invited”—again I nodded—“and is too weak to say no. Then you are there, sitting down, bringing confusion in tow and remaining powerless to speak or admit your mistake. I thank you for your hospitality and ask your forgiveness.”

  With that I wanted to rise, bow deeply to the lady, wave to Peter, and get out of there. But I was detained.

  “You can’t just leave now. It’s too late; I’ve prepared a meal. Peter is hungry, and you must eat with us.”

  I would have been happy to lie and say that I had already had dinner and that this evening I had an important appointment, but Anna could read the falseness of all possible protests in my eyes.

  “It can only do you good to get some sustenance. If you want to leave, we can talk later. But I’ve prepared plenty of food.”

  Turning her attention away from me, she brought out everything needed. It all looked lovely, but not as one would expect in a regular household. Plates, little serving bowls, a little basket, and the silverware—all of it mismatched and well used. Clean as each object was, everything still had a strange glow, as if it were broken, or didn’t belong to Anna, almost as if it were something accidentally or hastily passed along, and which the new owner had not gotten accustomed to yet. Peter had finally ended his restless wandering through the room and attentively helped Anna, yet somewhat clumsily and childlike. I would have been happy to help out, and offered to do so, but they refused, for it didn’t take much and everything was soon done. Then I asked if I could wash my hands, as I had not yet been home today and wanted to freshen up a bit. Anna said she was sorry that the bathroom was so full of stuff, for she had too many things that she didn’t know what to do with, nor would the hot water be on now. Peter showed me the way and then disappeared, but then soon knocked on the door again, Anna having sent a fresh towel.

  I was happy to be able to collect myself alone and also give them the chance to talk about me, given the circumstances. I would have loved to figure out how I could finally conclude my visit, how I could reveal who I was and, after a credible explanation of why I had come, get out of there as fast as I could. Yet since I couldn’t come up with any kind of clever plan I simply decided to take things as they came, such that in general anything I said would be as close to the truth as I could make it. Then I would ask Peter whether or not he could recommend a cheap place to bunk for the night. He’d be happy to do so and would give me some suggestions. If he didn’t know of any, then I would just have to ruefully and quietly creep back to the train station, w
here they would have to send me to a homeless shelter or to a police station to sleep.

  When I came back into the room, everything was nicely laid out. The two of them were already sitting, though they had waited for me to start eating. Anna looked much fresher than earlier; Peter’s boyish resolute face remained open and curious. The food, good and simple, tasted wonderful. I was pampered, the two of them having given me the best portions. They had decided together to feed me properly before they let me go. It tasted good, for it had been many hours since I’d eaten, but I was no smarter. I not only had no idea what they intended to do with me; I didn’t know whether Anna had actually been told by Peter the reason for my visit. During the meal there was only a bit of light talk, then Anna cleared the table and Peter made coffee. I wanted to start talking right away and say to Anna that I owed her an explanation, but she was the one who turned to me.

  “You asked about Arno. So, then, what can you tell me about him?”

  “About Arno.… It’s been a long time. I’ve hardly seen him since we were in school.”

  “Hardly.… Okay, you say hardly. But maybe that’s right. I mean, you know … something about his last days. Before it was over.”

  But there was nothing for me to know. Arno, that was long ago. I had nothing to do with him. Because of the war, I had not had anything to do with him for ages, and I had hardly seen him in the years before then. In the earliest school years, I had always liked him a lot. He was clever. Professor Prenzel praised some of his essays, he being always eager, always smart, too much for me, one of the brave who believe they have seized hold of life, rather than being led by life, a force of nature. But later I was not so fond of Arno, and his opinions hardened. Only when I happened to bump into him did I exchange a few fleeting words.

  “I don’t really remember.”

  “Don’t go easy on me! I already know a lot. He is not the first one that I’ve lost.”

  “Arno is dead? How terrible! He shouldn’t have died.”

  Those were careless words. I was shocked at my coldness. This Arno, a person, how dumb … What did that have to do with anything? The poor soul—I should be sympathetic, for he was dead.… Anna didn’t draw back from what I said, so my tone had not sounded so cold after all.

  “Don’t you know? I thought, even if different people meet different fates and your questions at the start revealed that you didn’t know anything about his end … Nonetheless, one tries.… Well, yes, you have come for completely different reasons.… Peter already told me.”

  “No. I don’t know anything about Arno. I am really very sorry. I never saw him, never heard anything about him. Really. Which is why I can’t help you. I can only express my regret. My sincere regret. Too many have been lost.”

  “I am always trying to learn something.”

  “To learn something, of course … Who isn’t?”

  Anna looked blank and hopeless, but not destroyed. The brother wasn’t her only sorrow. Peter thought for a minute, needing to explain something.

  “Arno was political.”

  “Political? Yes, so many were political. It’s always the same story, whenever …”

  I sought for words in vain and felt how much I looked the fool. I should have apologized for this nonsense, but to my surprise it was Anna who offered words of forgiveness.

  “Now the survivors are coming home, and indeed they were away, for sure.… One can see it. Please understand, whenever I meet one of them, then I think that perhaps I can learn something more specific from him.…”

  “Does one want to know?” I asked.

  “Perhaps … perhaps one doesn’t. But when it touches you personally, then you must. And you said you had been at school with him. We heard that he’s dead. Someone wrote us. He supposedly was a cobbler there. People learned to do new things. Then he got sick … his heart … dead. It’s what killed my father years ago.”

  I murmured something, nothing but empty blather, there being no real sympathy in my words.

  “Don’t worry. I understand. It was all too much, it all went wrong. I can imagine how there was no one there who knew him at the end. But you always think that something will happen, and someone who was there will show up and pass on a greeting, a last message, a little memory that you can hold before your eyes and really believe.”

  “No, I wasn’t there. There were so many places where we were. It must have happened someplace else.”

  Anna said the last word she had from Arno had been more than three years ago. Everything fine, just as she had gotten used to hearing every month—he was healthy, confident, almost carefree—and then ten days later the official word: it was all over. Despite diligent care and good medications, or so it said. Nothing did any good. Anna’s account, indeed, was full of regret and sadness, yet I remarked all the more keenly that my having been at school with him was simply not enough for the sister, for she was looking for certainty. That I could see for sure.

  “Yes, I agree, one wants to know. When we don’t witness the death of our parents or siblings, when we can never be taken to a cemetery and told that they are here under this mound, then they are gone and remain gone, but they are not dead. We have no peace and must look for them. Often, you are startled and believe, there they are. You hear voices, mistake others for them. There is no peace to be had—sleep and dreams and truth comingle and cannot be distinguished from one another. That’s how it is for me. It confuses me, makes me afraid and overly sensitive. You look for a witness, someone who was there when it happened. The most unbearable truth is more bearable than the somewhat familiar fog of sweet uncertainty. With Arno it’s not as bad as it could be, Frau Meisenbach. The authorities at least let you know that he is dead. Terrible that he’s dead, and yet good that he’s dead, something certain around which different ideas can form. Certainly he suffered a great deal, all of it inhuman, violence, abuse, murder, harrowing and beastly, especially if it went on for many days before the light was extinguished or he met a final coup de grâce. There was nothing graceful about it. But the end is certain, it is recorded, it can’t be changed. You can, you must, believe it. But how when there is nothing, neither an end nor a continuance?”

  Peter wanted to know what I meant by that, whether the lot of those missing is more terrible than the fate of those who have fallen and been killed. I didn’t know how to answer him, saying that it remained to be seen if it was a fate at all, for it was without name, and I was not at all certain if the nameless could have a fate.

  “Those are just words,” he replied. “The missing and those known to be dead—there is no real difference between them. The cases where someone returns will, nonetheless, remain rare.”

  “Ah, it’s not about whether it’s rare or never or often. If one turns up and is there, then he will speak. But the condition of the missing who have gone away is that they are away, far away, not a word from them, even the place where they have been taken unknowable, whether they have been shot or poisoned and the bodies burned and the pulverized ashes scattered; no one wrote it down and preserved the names, because it is memory that has been murdered more and more thoroughly than a speaking life. That is not fate. That is worse than the missing in action. A marked departure into the unknown. A war memorial will have a name that one can think about. But the ones I mean are never even allowed to be called missing. They are the non-missing, of whom there is no account. Completely and utterly done away with. Unwanted and therefore not missed. Disappeared, the loss of their memory met with derisive laughter. Released from all fates, expelled from the worst of fates. People who existed until a certain yet unknown date, then no longer, no longer people, not even dead people but, rather, nothing at all. Do you understand that, Herr Peter?”

  The young man turned red, snorted several times, and shrugged at what I said, but he didn’t take it in at all.

  “Just Peter, not Herr Peter, please! Oh, God, people! Of course that’s awful, yet all are expendable. We mourn, but the world doesn’t. An
d later we probably won’t mourn, either, and our descendants certainly won’t any longer. One doesn’t weep for one’s great-grandfather. But things of value that are lost are irreplaceable. Burned-out galleries, Gothic domes, Baroque palaces—these are the true losses. That’s what I think.”

  What Peter thought was completely understandable, but I couldn’t understand it then and was insulted, and it took a while before I could trust what I thought I had heard. I said with a weak voice: “A person, a single person who survives, is equal to all the destroyed treasures on earth!”

  This was not at all what the young man had meant. He said that I was upset, the war having done in the nerves of many, yet I needed to think clearly and admit that people value themselves too much, the self-love of their hungry will to live, but works are worth infinitely more than their creators.

  “So, then, you believe,” asked Anna, “that the world is worth more than God?”

  The young man fell silent and lifted his shoulders ambiguously. I didn’t want to get tangled up in such deep matters, such heavy words, but there was one thing I wanted to know from Peter.

  “Things went well for you in the war, yes?”

  “Yes, I suppose you could say that. Indeed, they did. I was neither in battle nor locked up.”

  “And nothing happened to you?”

  “No. Nothing at all, really.”

  “And no loved one died, nobody disappeared?”

  These questions bothered Peter, as he fidgeted in his chair, grabbed the coffee pot, and poured me some. But he didn’t give any answer. So I pressed harder.

  “You said to me earlier on the street that you knew that many had died, especially older people. Do you remember? You weren’t at all affected?”

  “Not a single old person of mine. Please don’t grill me! There was plenty of bad news in my family. My oldest brother was burned in a plane attack. I loved him very much. I will never forget him. But to always think about that? My God, what good does that do when one wants to live? I want to live. I don’t want to perish.”