by H. G. Adler
“Couldn’t you start playing again? You shouldn’t give up something like that. You should start again.”
“You think so?”
I talked to her some more, but she refused. “That’s over—the hands are no good anymore, too many dishes, yard work, grinding work in a factory.”
“And your siblings?”
“No, it’s just me. The brothers weren’t saved.”
Fräulein Zinner said this with sudden, strong bitterness. I looked at her, surprised, because until then she talked on easily. As I tried to distract her, she waved at me almost angrily. Why shouldn’t I know everything? The brothers didn’t survive the war. One had joined the army way too young after he had been imprisoned for a year. Then he sailed on a troopship that was torpedoed. The younger brother went to school on a scholarship and had done well. During the holidays, he wanted to come to the city to be with his sister. She should have prevented it, but he begged and pleaded. Then an air raid; he was only twelve years old. She had to bury him, as the older brother was in prison then, and couldn’t come. Which was why he ended up in the army, as the prisoners were conscripted.
“And your parents?”
They knew nothing about it, which is good. When the bombs fell, the daughter didn’t write to tell them that they did; when the ship sank, there was nothing more to write. No, they hadn’t been deported. The parents were spared that. Fräulein Zinner was happy about that, and smiled. They just died of old age, one shortly after the other, within a week. First the father, then the mother; yes, from reliable sources she heard in a roundabout way, and it was confirmed after the war. “Nothing is more dignified when it comes to death than to have the inner decency to pop off at the right moment.” To my complete surprise, Fräulein Zinner served up this raw sentiment. I winced in response.
“A whiner!” she whispered. “A whiner is all I am! Tell me, how did you manage it … I mean, all those years?”
“I don’t know. There’s nothing that can be done about it, or—”
“Or what?”
“Or because of it is what I would say, if you really have to know.”
“I see. I understand already. I’ve read a lot of reports that tell you all about it. But you shouldn’t at all think that my parents … Naturally, I would have … But as to what happened … I can’t help thinking. And sometimes that helps. You also lost people?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Of course you did. I shouldn’t ask such a dumb question.”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
“So you’re not a whiner. Look, I hardly ever talk about it. But when someone was involved so directly …”
“That I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know if I was all that directly involved. I didn’t in fact die, and therefore I don’t know.”
“I don’t entirely understand.”
“There’s not much to understand. Only the dead were there, because they alone remained. The rest of us only passed through. That’s just the way it seems to me, something entirely different. I can’t really remember.”
“So you escaped? You didn’t want to be there? Is that why you ended up here? Is that so?”
“There was a lot back there that I didn’t want to hang around for. That’s one reason, but not the only one as to why I came here and prefer to be here. If you want to call that an escape, then you’re right. But only then. There’s no other escape. There’s no such thing, nor can there be a successful one. I wouldn’t therefore speak of any kind of running away, for I know that I can’t get away from the persecution. The monstrous is always at my neck. But this experience and my memory are not one and the same.”
“Explain!”
“I don’t mean forgetting. That I can’t do. Such things are still present to me as experiences and images, and I want to investigate them, since I cannot do anything else. Until everything is thought through and made clear, I cannot rest, let alone find peace. Thus there can be no escape. But memory is something else altogether. It’s the identification with the deportation and all its consequences, therefore with those who suffered extermination. That I can’t do. At best I was broken, perhaps shattered, but, because I indeed stand before you, I was not exterminated.”
“At best? Isn’t that bad enough?”
“Yes, bad enough. But to be exterminated would be better.”
“So you don’t want to live any longer?”
“Oh, no. I very much want to live, perhaps even too much so, but only my own extermination could amount to a true memory of what happened.”
“What is it you want, really?”
“Nothing. Only to be.”
“That’s comforting.”
“That’s entirely unsure. Listen to what I say: One has in no way the right to call his behavior good.”
“Why be so hard?”
“Excuse me, but I’ve gotten off track. It’s so tiring to have to hold yourself together, to think of yourself as an individual entity. I repeat again, nothing is for sure. The extermination was not successful, therefore there is no complete memory. In short, memory is unattainable. A person on the edge of things remains in abeyance.”
“That’s what you mean by nothing being for sure.”
“Correct. The decision has been set aside. One is neither alive nor not alive; one simply goes on. Probably that’s not true for most people, and for others it’s unacceptable. But for me it is certainly so.”
“So you are at odds with yourself.”
“Set aside for later, not for good. With that comes a sense of guilt.”
“For you as well?”
“How so me?”
“I always thought that our guilt was that we simply left, that we left our loved ones, that we left all of you to fend for yourselves.”
“Meaning that you should all have been ruined like us? No, that’s not true. It’s indeed good that so many left.”
“Your saying that is perhaps not yet a comfort, but it does make it easier. I’ve never again had a peaceful night, simply because I left. Those left behind stand right before my eyes. Having failed to help, whether it be even the most minimal support or reaching out, such chances were neglected. That’s a pressing guilt that I can’t forgive myself. And now you talk of guilt, and also perhaps accepting that we left our loved ones to fend for themselves.”
“That’s one of the hardest questions, but, indeed, I do accept it, in most cases. You know, sometimes I felt deeply sorry for all of you out there.”
“There was no feeling sorry for us.”
“Oh, yes! Even a great deal. That’s how it seemed to me. I often imagined how those on the outside pined away, powerless and not knowing how others were managing, while some of us attained a spiritual freedom that didn’t exist here, one that otherwise in life you attain with great difficulty and certainly only rarely.”
“That completely surprises me. Compassion for us and spiritual freedom, in the abyss, amid ruin.”
“Near-ruin, on its outskirts. We were not the ones to feel sorry for; we only needed help. Meaning rescue. As far as I see it now, that was the essence of the situation, which couldn’t be solved by a few but was ignored by everyone. There was too much sorrow for us, and too little help. Sorrow, compassion, and, above all, the help that never came through. That was our plight—compassion combined with the powerlessness and the coerced idleness. In addition, it seems to me that those who survived also need to be felt sorry for a little bit, and when it comes to actual help, not much has changed.”
Frau Singule had heard the last part of my talk and was upset.
“Well, that’s one helluva thing to say! I myself led an effort in which, during the last weeks of the war, we gathered ten thousand pairs of socks, two thousand pairs of slippers, and at least the same number of shoes, four thousand sweaters, countless shirts, underwear, and handkerchiefs. As soon as it was possible, the things were sent on to be divided up among the deserving
.”
“Yes, and the entire lot was never cleaned or mended! It was a scandal!” said Fräulein Zinner quietly but sharply.
“How can you say that for sure?”
“Because I saw the things myself.”
“But you have to agree there were also brand-new things mixed in! I donated some myself. On top of that, you can’t expect that people in short supply of textiles and who literally donated the clothes off their backs would sacrifice their best things.”
“I’m of a different view,” said Fräulein Zinner simply.
“No one can expect that!” Frau Singule replied with barely concealed anger. “One cannot expect anything at all. It’s best to be grateful that you are still alive and don’t have to run around naked. Indeed, too many survived. It would be so much simpler if all were killed and cremated, every last one, for then it would be easier to speak of the crimes and all the victims could be mourned together, a sea of tears in sorrow, fantastic, all done in solidarity, public demonstrations, the outrage of the entire world, the heartrending speeches of famous friends to mankind, lavish contributions from all over the world, as well as a competition to erect a monument to the poor innocent victims. Wreaths and sonorous speeches at the dedication: ‘Never again, we swear to you, the dead …’ Then, after a fanfare of trumpets, all will head home deeply satisfied. That’s how the hyenas of international sorrow will bring it off! That some dare to mourn the end of the war—ah, such a blunder. I mean, to have survived, it’s unforgivable! Each living witness is each day a nasty flaw in the workings of organized humanity!”
Frau Singule looked at me, speechless, before she continued.
“I have nothing to say, Herr Landau. For heaven’s sake, don’t get so excited! People are not as bad as you believe.”
“Ah, but I don’t think they’re terrible at all.”
Against my inclinations, I was once again the center of attention. Fräulein Zinner was nowhere to be found as I looked around for her in vain. But after a little while she came back.
“For the most part, I never talk about such things,” she said quietly, and went on with what I didn’t entirely understand. “Tender feelings exposed in the wrong places I don’t like at all. It’s better not to reveal what one thinks. I have to go, my bus is coming. It was a pleasure, Herr Landau. Exceptionally informative.”
“Could I sometime …?”
“Yes. Give me a call. Goodbye.”
Fräulein Zinner left without even reaching out her hand to me. I was struck by how short and brusque she was, appearing no longer interested, turning sharply away, there and then saying goodbye, accompanied by Dr. Haarburger, leaving the party. It hurt. I was sad that in my excitement I went too far. No one expected me to have friendly feelings toward Frau Singule, and yet I still had no right to inflict my indignant outburst upon her, no matter if it was a thousand times true. If I had gotten into such a touchy discussion with Fräulein Zinner, I would have shut up the moment someone else entered in. I would have liked to explain as much, but her hasty departure had prevented that. I couldn’t think too long about my clumsiness, because soon I found myself lost to the senseless chatter droning on, which had no depth at all. Many thousands of people stood around me, turning into me. Even Professor Kratzenstein sidled up to me, but then quickly drew back when he recognized what I was about to say, as Resi Knispel compassionately approached me and almost went too far in inviting me to visit her. She gave me her card and wrote down the nearest tram stop to her apartment. I should certainly come visit sometime soon. It would be an honor for her to help me—your experiences, my dear friend, what an inexhaustible treasure it would be for me. Fräulein Knispel thought of a novel; it should be titled “The Miserable One,” for though she knew the risk of such a title, it was still so juicy, for it spoke to both the persecutor and the persecuted, though I might not find it very clever. I should write it as fast as possible and bring it to her. The party began to break up, at which point I made an effort, having been encouraged by my hosts, to gain whatever it was humanly possible to do for me but which I had failed to accomplish as yet. So I shoved my way back and forth, casting myself in the full glare so that I might be taken seriously. Unfortunately, I dismissed the fact that I just looked like a fool, a passing wave of foam coughed up far and wide by a spring flood, the fleeting brilliance soon ebbing away, the sensation at an end and none to replace it the next day, myself already forgotten. Then there I was, sitting in my study just like today, though even more tormented and no longer so patient, and I waited.
I sat with my work, which I had pressed at as if I were being hunted down, working quickly as never before and as I never would again, and waiting. I waited for the telephone call, having been promised that it would come at this hour on this day, for sure—“It’s of the utmost importance to me, Herr Landau, of the highest interest.” The call did not come at the appointed hour, nor did it come later, for it never came. I rushed to the telephone, wanting to call myself, but no one was there and there was no one to speak to. I should try again, tomorrow, then in a week, later yet, never.… I tried relentlessly: “You said indeed today—you promised me, you said …” Again, all in vain and, again, an impediment, an unforeseen occurrence, a sudden journey, an illness, a conference, a pressing matter, an unexpected visit, the approaching holidays, just back from vacation, patience, patience. Johanna despaired because it weighed on me so and got me down. She tried behind my back to arrange matters to my benefit, but she had no success and had to finally inform me how she had failed. The sickness of these unsuccessful attempts to meet ate at my heart. I was again saddled with my plight, unable to let go, as I collected new excuses, remembered this one and that, which I should have taken as an attempt to be friendly. But all to no avail, for I wasn’t just being put off; I was being neutralized. That’s what I had to learn, that you did not exist if you did not exist: nothing but a bothersome occurrence that got in the way of things, something that was a bother for a little while but then which could be run over, and then forgotten. The order of the day was such that I did not exist within it.
“If you don’t exist, write letters, so that you exist.” I read that once. How often it occurred to me during these years, during which I especially wrote a lot of letters. For millennia people have written letters for many reasons; people humbly write letters for the very same reasons today. To share something with others, to ask about them, to reach out to someone and ask for an answer. Indeed, many are lost, are not paid attention to, not valued enough or misunderstood and are doomed instead of blessed. Countless letters have been sent that never receive the desired response, or they arrive too late and pass each other in the mails. Any of this can happen. Over the course of time, certain rules and customs developed that threatened to restrain the richness of exchange; whether it be language that is mangled or the expression shrunk, many letters lose hold of their original purpose and end up repeating a million worn-out and tattered tropes. But letters they were, letters that still conveyed a message, and when you received one it was an event; you took it in hand and read it and knew. That’s no longer so, but I have sampled such pleasures; the many exceptions that still exist have little effect on the general perception.
I threw myself into writing, thinking that the least I could do was write. They were long or short bits of news that I formulated, often in a hurry, though later more slowly and more carefully, because I became suspicious when I noted that my letters strayed into nothingness and didn’t seem to reach any point. I actually thought, Consider the words line by line, myself going over what had been written, making sure that it really contained some content, a mind that could be experienced and shared. It was and had to be comprehensible, and so I would read it once again the next morning. Then, when I was satisfied, I’d seal the letter and send it off. I sent letters to friends or strangers with familiar and unfamiliar names. I said what I had to say, explained myself, offered myself, reported on people and events, and often carried the letter
s to the post office myself.
Three times a day the mailman delivered the mail on West Park Row. I recognized the sound of his steps already from the window, and knew exactly what time he came around. I sat at my desk and looked out at the street in anticipation whenever I heard the gate of the neighboring house click shut. Then he was there, passing by our house, and if he saw me sitting there he waved, indicating that I shouldn’t expect anything. Yet sometimes our gate also clicked, then he came with quickly measured steps to our door, but I was faster and threw open the door in order to receive his gifts in my hands. He brought brochures and newspapers, bills and reminders, he brought something else as well, he even brought letters that were certainly meant for me, but they were not the letters that I was expecting. And then, finally, a letter of this kind arrived, which I opened hastily, yet there was nothing in it, the words empty, barely hanging together, written in a rush and without any attention. I strained my eyes in looking at it and studied it for a good while, asking Johanna to help me with it, but she couldn’t extract anything from it, either. “It says nothing at all!” I bent over the sheet and turned it every which way. Unfortunately it was true, nothing but a disappointment. The letter was empty and was not a letter at all. This was worse than ever, for some words stood out, such as “unfortunately” or “noncommittal” or “perhaps,” the address overly formal (“My Dear Sir”) all of it clear, each letter in place, the signature also recognizable (“Entirely yours” or “Respectfully yours”), and between the address and the signature the empty sentences stretched out over many lines. The only thing that helped was that a letter had at last arrived; this I told myself with satisfaction and plucked out individual words. I did so again and kept doing so, thinking about what they meant. My head grew heavy; I couldn’t think straight. “Did he say no?” said Johanna as she entered in expectation and wanted to hear what he had written me. Then I read it aloud slowly, but she couldn’t understand what it was really saying. An answer to my letter it was not, all of it strange and dark, perhaps meant for me but not just for me. Johanna had already left the room several times and come back. Finally she looked at me directly, and I had to say something. After a long look at the piece of paper, I made my decision. “I think he is saying no.” I didn’t let on how I felt, but kept it inside as if nothing had happened, as if I didn’t care—a simple no, something one might choke on easily discharged. “Can nobody be gotten through to? What’s the point of your having survived?” Thus she sighed as I spread out all the copies of my letters before me and looked through them as if through an illusion, hoping to discover who had written them if only I tried hard enough. I had written the lines with my own hands. My handwriting is strong, so nothing could be mistaken about what I read, because it wished to be spoken aloud, and was not just meant for the eyes. Since I had made copies of the letters, they could be compared, and I asked of them and myself, almost with the pressing need of a prayer, whether they could be deciphered. I just needed to know how they had been read. Secrets that one had to be privy to, the clues hidden to me, no advice given. As I was trying to get a real answer, I wrote new letters, each word chosen carefully, perfectly understandable. I put myself into the letters, me, in order that they be comprehensible. I read them aloud to Johanna and gave them to her to read; I listened to her advice, did another draft, culling everything that she had suggested be taken out. I also made a carbon copy and kept it, so that there would be no doubt when the answer should come. But this effort, though it sharpened my mind and made me more alert with self-awareness, did nothing for my pursuit. It kept repeating itself, leaving me empty or making me more destitute. I thought about it for a long time, because there had to be someone in the world to whom it was worth writing. I felt too weak to do this on my own; I couldn’t write any more letters. It was vile to advertise oneself and to keep appealing to no one, having to wait when I had already been waiting for too long.