The Wall

by H. G. Adler

  “My dear Frau Singule,” offered Frau Haarburger. “Take our young friend under your wing! Tell your husband about him!”

  “But of course, with the greatest pleasure. I will see to it.”

  She nodded at me and smiled promisingly. Then I was presented to Professor Kratzenstein, who put to me the most clever questions in the world. Soon Fräulein Zinner joined us, yet she didn’t say anything, but instead just took it all in with lowered gaze. The professor found my scholarly plans interesting, but he felt that a sociology of oppressed people would indeed be too great a challenge. I countered by saying that I was not proposing to advance a complete system, but that I wished to work out the underlying cause, to delineate the contours of the problem and stake out the borders. Kratzenstein explained that this sounded interesting, but he was just concerned that the closer I came to explaining it more precisely such a knowledgeable man as myself might allow my theme to get bogged down in ethical matters, thus getting all tangled up in such nonsense, whereas what was needed was simply to state the facts—this and that happened—just put it down, detail the sources, interview witnesses, compare statements, consider the psychology behind them, measure the evidence statistically, and then something useful would come of it all.

  “However, whoever was actually there is rarely right for such a task. Anything subjective is dangerous, I warn you. How can that lead to any kind of precise research? Each of us thinks differently, even about morality. You really have no idea what one can imagine that involves, and scholarly integrity suffers when in the presence of half-truths, just as it must from the implementation of any prevailing value system.”

  “I don’t wish to present it so simply.”

  “Not at all simply? It’s very, very complicated! And indeed because of that it has to be simplified in order to provide the mind with the structure of reality, all of it able to be taken in. Facts—it all depends on the facts.”

  “Of course, the facts. But then from those to begin something, to grasp, to think, to conclude.”

  “Not the way you imagine it! To let go of empiricism? A fundamental mistake! Scholarship must present its material in a pure manner. Everything else is almost always a metaphysical joke or nonsense. I’m warning you. Consequences are not the purview of science, for it’s up to society to work them out before the politicians do.”

  “But that’s not what happens.”

  “Ho ho! Not so fast!”

  We went at each other fast and furious. I spoke all the more frankly the more the Professor came at me. He maintained that the times had passed me by. It was understandable and regrettable. Whoever was unlucky enough to have been condemned to such isolation, such a one couldn’t understand matters correctly, even if he was stuck in the middle of it. Because, as a result, not only had one lost contact with life; one had also lost the proper standards. In order to counter that, I had to first free myself of all judgments. That I had been a witness to the catastrophe was all well and good, but I had long since lost any inherent right to research such material, rather than only be a part of it.

  “If I were you, I would just write a short, clear account about how you got through it all, what you experienced and observed. Just that. Reflections about it all should be left out. They will only muddle your account, making it too emotional, such that no one will take it seriously. All of that is worthless. I don’t mean to sound so harsh, but that’s how it is.”

  Frau Haarburger approached, took Resi Knispel by the arm, and was pleased to see Kratzenstein talking with me so animatedly. Good for Dr. Landau, said the housewife, such excitement is always productive. She then deftly assured the Professor that it would be well worthwhile to provide all the necessary concrete support for my highly ambitious plans. The famous sociologist nodded obligingly, saying one would certainly have to think about it, although right now the situation was especially complicated, for there were always higher and higher demands, and that, incidentally, he believed that Herr Dr. Haarburger would be the most fitting person to use his immense influence here to set up the proper circle of contacts that would best suit my purposes. Frau Haarburger felt flattered and agreed, but couldn’t help underscoring that her Jolan was also heavily burdened and that, even without this, he was doing everything in his power that he could. To her regret, she had to admit it couldn’t amount to much. She had tossed it around with her husband and they came to the conclusion that it would be best to help Dr. Landau give a lecture at the International Society of Sociologists.

  “That’s worth considering. Obviously, I will need ahead of time a more precise understanding of what Herr Dr. Landau is really proposing. The thesis must be narrowly focused and new as well. It has to be absolutely clear. Understand? Perhaps you could give me a call. But not this month. I have to go to a conference in Paris on statistical reconstruction, something very interesting, but I’m expected to give a paper, which is always demanding, and then I have to be in Amsterdam for a week at the invitation of the Dutch government. As I understand it, Herr Dr. Haarburger will be there at the same time. I’ll certainly see him there, won’t I?”

  “Naturally, Jolan is looking forward to it immensely. Maybe I’ll also tag along.”

  “That would be lovely, my dear.”

  “Wouldn’t it?”

  “But excuse me, Herr Professor, when should I get in touch with you? Next month?”

  “Excellent! Somehow it will happen. You have plenty of time, don’t you?”

  “But of course.”

  “Fine. Then best would be to let me catch my breath a bit after I return. Let’s say around the middle of the month.”

  “Well, then, just past the middle of next month, if I’ve got that right?”

  “That would be fine with me. Just call Frau Fixler, my secretary, at the ISS.”

  “ISS? How’s that?”

  “Yes, it will be my pleasure. You can count on my secretary. But I should tell you now that at best, even if a lecture were to be announced, it couldn’t happen this year. The schedule is too crowded already, nor do I even know what to do about it. But we’ll nonetheless find an open date for next year.”

  During this explanation Herr Dr. Haarburger had approached us.

  “My dear Professor, next year, isn’t that a bit far off? Don’t you think that there’s some way you could indeed arrange something for our friend in the next few months?”

  “Unfortunately, that will be quite difficult. But wait, I have an idea. Who’s to say that it has to be a lecture only by him? That doesn’t even work that well for someone who is not well known. Listen, Dr. Landau, perhaps you could work on a concise text, only the results of your research, that you could present as a lecture in the regular meeting of our small working group. But the lecture shouldn’t be longer than ten, at the most fifteen minutes. By doing that, you’ll get to meet a lot of people.”

  “Would that really be possible in the coming months?” I ventured to ask.

  “I do believe it would. Though you will have to be patient and wait until late autumn. Beyond this, all I can do is make a recommendation. But we’ll see. As soon as we’ve talked about it in greater detail and we’ve come to an agreement, I’ll give it all my attention. You can count on that.”

  Professor Kratzenstein smiled at me indulgently. I looked into his face for reassurance or something, but to no avail. He had become almost invisible, the Zurich press agent having breathed into his ear, perhaps saying something to him, though nothing sociological, and then he disappeared. I sensed that I would not be able to find him again, for I simply didn’t exist for him. “Get away, get away from here!” That’s what I heard, and later heard ever more often, but something kept me there. The Haarburgers had gathered these guests for my sake; I couldn’t just secretly disappear. Yet I was disappearing on my own, even though a hope rose within me: I exist. For I had also not given up. I had shown up; someone would take me in. This belief made the hope true. I stood, I went into the glittering salon—glasses swung
toward me, sweets fell into my hand, I chewed and staggered onward. Then Professor Kratzenstein was there again. I looked at him; he was surrounded. “It only takes one word from him and you will be a made man!” Someone whispered that to me. The encouragement felt good, but for the moment I had forgotten the sociologist once again.

  “Who do you mean, and how so am I a made man? Please, introduce me to him!”

  “You’ve been talking to him for a good while. Don’t you know whom you’re talking to?”

  Ah, I see. I had been talking to someone, to that gentleman there, tall and gaunt, such a man, a knowing, guilty face. The whispering voice continued on.

  “You should pay more attention to Professor Kratzenstein! He’s important. Flatter him!”

  “You think? I tried to. He didn’t like it.”

  “You have to take advantage of the opportunity!”

  But there wasn’t another opportunity. The gathering moved about and began to disperse. No, people didn’t go home; rather, they pressed more closely together than before, and I was left out.

  “That wall there?”

  “It’s not a wall.”

  “You could be right. It’s easy to be confused. It shifts, it moves. It’s frightening.”

  “The things you say! Why are you so nervous?”

  “I don’t believe that at all.”

  “Look here, don’t be so serious! These days, what good does it do?”

  There they sat together. Little tables laid out flat on crossed legs, set up on the carpet, thin and light little tables, all covered smartly with felt. Shiny new playing cards glowed and were dealt deftly, flying into hands to be sorted, a tidy quick juggling. Above them, long-nosed faces waggled; they smiled heartily and reflected success. “That’s my trick!” King and queen battled together, and always four cards fell upon the green, biting the dust, quickly gathered up by greedy hands and turned into tidy little piles laid crosswise.

  “It’s a great game, Dr. Landau. Wouldn’t you like to join in?”

  “I really don’t know how to play.”

  “But it’s important to. One can endear oneself by being ready to serve as a fourth.”

  I couldn’t do it. My hands were too clumsy, each trump failing, the walls snapping back and forth, my head spinning, already another trick.

  “You have to learn how to play!”

  “Of course, madam.”

  Off kilter, I crossed the room, taking huge steps that stitched through the walls, the cards disappearing. There, in the corner, some sat together, three in all, myself the fourth. Get away, get away from here! “You don’t play, either?” Herr Buxinger the bookseller said that, for he found cards boring, better to read a book. Frau Saubermann, the factory owner’s wife and benefactress, agreed.

  “I always say, my husband is so cultivated, but, unfortunately, he plays as well.”

  Bookselling was important; it kept one serious, pages being better than cards. Frau Saubermann asked Fräulein Zinner what she thought of it. She didn’t think anything about it, for it could be an innocent pastime, but she didn’t have the knack for it and didn’t play. “Herr Doctor, sit down with us!” said the bookseller. “Otherwise we’ll just have to look through your legs, like a wide-open gate,” he joked. The factory owner’s wife laughed, such good humor, Fräulein Zinner moving over a little, the others as well, as I sat down comfortably in the corner. There we sat quietly together in order not to disturb the sacred quiet that surrounded the hurried players like a protective cloud. I really should have been on my way, for it was not right that as a potential fourth I only spent time with those who weren’t playing, for here that felt a bit odd to do. The room probably was completely harmless, the light shining on just the familiar, but I was something else, a strange body, a closed-off lump of layers, legs crossed. I had been summoned here, but now here I was, weak and fragile. I couldn’t just simply get up and leave; I had to at least explain myself, justify my rushed appearance, my getting up, though I couldn’t, the armchair was too deep. Despairingly, I looked up from my corner, the books there, me rubbing a dusty finger.

  Then I heard some commotion outside in the hall as steps approached. The door of the apartment closed tight, then the clatter of a key, the snap of a door bolt. As I pulled myself together and opened my eyes wide, Frau Meisenbach stood in the middle of the room. Not the actual middle, for the room was too densely furnished, but near the large round table that was near the middle.

  “Forgive me for letting you wait so long. I still had to speak to Peter. He is so distressed. I can’t help him, but I have to counsel him.”

  “You don’t have to excuse yourself for me. In this apartment, I feel like a burglar.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous! You’re tired, that’s all.”

  “Yes, tired. That’s right.”

  “I will make up the bed right away.”

  “In this room?”

  “Yes. It’s a small apartment. I only have to turn the cushions on the divan and the bed is finished.”

  “Here, where your husband—”

  “I’m used to guests. Even in recent weeks. Often, someone has to be put up on short notice. Peter has also slept here.”

  “I see, Peter … and now I have booted him out.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous! Peter has a perfectly nice room and is in no danger.”

  “Am I in danger?”

  “Of course. You’re not yourself.”

  “Whoever is not himself—”

  “That’s right.”

  “You know, it’s normal. If one arrives in a place that used to be home, or at least was thought and said to be … and then everything is gone. But why should I blab on to you who knows it all already. Your husband gone, Arno … Others stopped searching. But one can’t help but continue searching. Even if it’s pointless.”

  “You’re tired. You’ll think differently in a little while.”

  Out of drawers in the foyer, who knows out of how many corners, Anna fetched sheets and blankets, as she lowered the back of the divan, flipped three large cushions, and carefully set up the bed.

  “I can’t let you do all of this alone! Can I help?”

  “No, it’s nothing. It only takes a minute and it’s done. Do you like your pillows piled up? Two of them, three?”

  I had to laugh, but that was no way to respond.

  “Forgive me, I’m so stupid! It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “I only meant what was most comfortable for you.”

  “You know, I used to always have them piled up, way up. It was a bad habit. But now … if I can just lie down …”

  “You’re very tired, aren’t you? You can lie down right away. Here, just take this! It will suit you well. And here is a dressing gown. If you want, you can change here and I will step outside. Or the other way round—I’ll stay here and you go to the bathroom.”

  “Thank you, thank you. But I’m not so tired, it has passed. If you don’t want to turn in yet … I mean, I really owe you an explanation.”

  “You don’t owe me anything; don’t make such a big deal! Here, take these! If you want to talk a little more afterward, I’m ready to.”

  Anna held out the things to me; the linens had a faint scent and were neatly ironed. I saw that they were monogrammed with “HM.” A lovely bit of handiwork that had been sewn into the dead man’s body, and now it was for me to wear such a symbol, but without the right to carry “HM” on my chest.

  “Was he called Heinz?”

  Not thinking, I asked this tactless question, realizing straight off that it was wrong, but a quick answer showed me that no recourse could make up for my callousness.

  “No, Hermann. There’s nothing else I can give you. Now go!”

  Ashamed, I bowed, but not to Anna, as I wanted to, but rather to the wall or the door, which I ripped open, the strange pajamas and the dressing gown burning in my arms, me not looking behind me. My head hurt with intense shame; I stumbled into the bathroom and clu
msily locked myself in. Here I let everything drop and sat myself down on the edge of the tub, then I forced my eyes to look around. The closeness made me uncomfortable; it pressed at me and stifled me, the window placed way too high on the wall and much too small, not suited to any kind of saving leap into the shaft of light. Sweet, sharp, and flat odors mixed together anxious and sad, damp little underthings on a stretched-out line hung together clumped and rippling, sad sites of self-attention, of the care of worn-out limbs and hair, of accumulated jars, little vials and tubes for the supple adornment of face and hands, patient and loaded bins, brooms, rags, tools for shoe work, all kinds of junk. All of it surrounded me, stark and pressing, overwhelming the tiny space, overwhelming me. What did any of it have to do with me? What was I looking for here? Hermann should have shown up to grab hold of the large broom and bash my curious nose with its handle and throw me out. But there was no longer any Hermann; a strange beast had slipped through the cracks and nested here. Anna put up with it, and maybe that’s even what she wanted, she needing a pet, Peter once being that, the young restless one, then the unknown homeless one, whom the restless one had hauled in off the street.

  Before me stood the toilet bowl, white and clean under its two lids, a cord with a tassel grip and a water tank, everything in order. A place of shame, rising out of courtyards and isolated corners almost in the middle of the primped satisfaction of sedentary people, the emptying out of the lazy voiding of our lowest nature spewed into the plunging tunnels of the subsurface canals of the city in order that we know nothing more of the disgusting necessities of our bodies. But they are heard through the walls, nonetheless, Father outside, Mother outside, condemned just like you. It can be heard from the neighbor’s apartment as he closes his door and whistles a song, believing himself alone, yet eavesdropped upon unwittingly, and when he finally disappears the water stirs for a long time in the tank. It had been a long time since I had been locked in a bathroom with a toilet. It was like it was in childhood, when sinful forgetting consumed me. I shouldn’t stay outside so long, my mother said firmly, it’s vulgar and vile, but the dream of being alone was nowhere else to be found in the metropolis. Only in the thick folds of the forest or in the loneliness of the toilet was I in charge of myself, because in the apartment, indeed in the entire city, there was not a single corner that was mine alone, all other places being either far too big or too easily entered, for anywhere you could be taken by surprise or watched much more easily than here. Material existence, where the toilet not only crouches in the bathroom but is alone with its surroundings, closed in only by the narrow walls and a door that didn’t need to be opened at someone’s calling if I didn’t want it to. But in this apartment I was nothing but a guest; I couldn’t stay here for any length of time. Anna was waiting and would grow uneasy if I dawdled.