by H. G. Adler
No one could know that I was alive, therefore I had to write. At that, I would hear something inside my head. It said, “Why should anyone expect that you survived?” I imagined that others must be looking for me, other returnees having also been found in the first days. To search was to me the first responsibility that anyone in the world had. What did they want from me? For so many years writing was forbidden, and now it felt too difficult, the hand out of shape and unable to say what I wished it to. News headlines blazed from impenetrable walls. If one risked pushing through, he could not hope for any leniency if he was caught. Now this was no longer true, letters being allowed once more, but the situation was not clear to me. To whom should I write? I didn’t know anyone. To whom, then, to whom? Peter listened to me attentively.
“You have to decide. The borders have been open since yesterday; one can send letters to other countries. You should write straightaway.”
This was easy for Peter to say, for everything seemed so simple to him. I didn’t want to, but he was hard-nosed.
“You have friends and relatives out there. My friend, how can you be so dumb! Give them a sign that you’re alive; they’ll be happy to hear from you. You once said that you’ve kept hold of a couple of addresses all these years. Try one! A letter will spread like wildfire out there. Someone will finally help you and you’ll be able to leave.”
But where to? I didn’t know. I wanted to leave. But where to? There was no knowing. To slip through, get out, and then be off; it was ridiculous to even think of. No letter could help make that happen. Some kind of international center for refugees had set up a search service, therefore it was up to them out there to take care of us. Me, the lost foundling. Peter laughed, irritating me as he asked about the people I knew on the outside. An old uncle, who really wasn’t an actual uncle but rather a cousin of my mother’s. What was his name? Karl Strauss. The address? No, I only knew the city, which was not very big. Peter thought that was fantastic. Just the city—the post office knew what to do. I said that I had never been that close to the old man. What do you mean by not that close … that was ridiculous, said Peter. But I said that I would not be writing to such a city if Uncle Strauss were at all inclined to look for me. Peter assuaged my anger. He was so helpful in such matters, and pointed out ways forward for me that I didn’t care for or shied away from.
“One only looks for next of kin. The son of a cousin, that’s asking a bit much. But don’t let that hold you back. In such a situation, write and they will answer. They’ll even be grateful to you for writing.”
I found that ridiculous, but Peter talked me down and argued stubbornly that I accept his point and get hold of myself. Fine, if I didn’t want to hear anything of Uncle Strauss, then I should write someone else. Friends were great, even better than relatives. Finally, I agreed. Letters to friends and relatives. I wrote and wrote. But I didn’t mail what I had written, because I disapproved and was inept at pressing myself onto the world. I got into a routine, and soon the writing came easier, but when I read through it I found it weak and the sense too meager. Finally, I decided to write a letter to one of my best friends, perhaps the best that I had before the war, which was So-and-So, as I called him. To him I wanted to write in detail before I sent any other letters. I threw out all the drafts that I had already written to different recipients, and thought about what I wanted to share with So-and-So. A portrait of my sufferings poured out of me. I suddenly said, after many long sentences, “Death.” That was too heavy and cumbersome. Yet the best place to end, in a fragmentary manner, when I thought about it, for I had to admit that I had not gone too far. To cover it all in a single letter, that was impossible; namely, to state my case and to convince the recipient that the letter really was from me and nothing in it was exaggerated that might seem suspect to the recipient or would be tossed away in anger. How do you speak to someone when in fact you are not dead? Which words can convey the truth, such that the person believes you?
“You write about what you experienced.”
What had I experienced? There was no beginning, and thus I had not experienced anything. I had to find something, a story. Once, there was a person. He was born in a house that was in a city. His parents lived there—definitely, they did. You could visit them, there was a way to get there: from the Reitergasse you turned onto the Römerstrasse, then came the Karolinenweg, until finally you were there. The parents were happy to see you, and you congratulated them, asking what the little one’s name was. The parents then responded, Yes, we have named him, he’s called Arthur. What did you say? Me? Buttons fiddled with, counting off one, two, three, seven, does she love me or love me not? For real? Or not? Arthur and Franziska. What happened to them? Didn’t people come and again offer their congratulations? The two celebrated their luck at having found each other. They decided to live. Why did Peter keep standing here, why these nagging questions in his face full of such blind faith? Would it be better if I were talking about Adam? Listen! Then he left and searched, but he could find nothing. The bloodthirsty fields were all dried up. Or had his eyes simply become cloudy? They saw nothing good and blinked sadly while looking into blank space where the wall still stood. What was behind the wall? Forlorn Adam, whose story had befallen him. One had to tell it, just how it happened, first one day, then another, then. Yes, then … What happened then? Something wrapped around a branch with fruit, then a letting go. Gazing at your hands, feeling your own skin, somewhat too dry, the skin peeling. Peter, the apple has become wormy through and through; it’s no longer edible. The guests have not touched it and have turned away. The parents are now alone, happy to be with their little Arthur, who whimpers unaware in his crib. He will have a future, says the father, and takes the mother by the hand. Then they tiptoed out the gate. Could you write that to a friend? No matter how hard I tried, conjuring up a useful fable was not my forte.
“No fables! Say that you were there, that you survived, and you need their help!”
Nor was it a topic for conversation. You didn’t say that you were there. Either it wasn’t true, and therefore had no point, or it was true, and therefore pointless to talk about. You didn’t point a finger at yourself. Nor did you talk about having survived; if you were writing, then you had survived and it didn’t feel right to say, My dear So-and-So, I am still here and have survived. Survived what? you ask. Yes, you’re right. Well, let’s see, what has been survived is time—years, war, myself—and that is why I am here. I don’t know if you remember me, but I should hope so, because earlier we were friends, and on top of that you always had an excellent memory. Isn’t that true? Do you still recall why we called you So-and-So? You gave yourself that name and would nonetheless always be furious when we teased you with it. Finally you got used to it, my dear So-and-So. We shared the same interests, talked a great deal with each other, did a lot of things together, for we were, so to say, friends and thought it likely that we would maintain a close friendship as life went on. I certainly can’t remember all the particulars. The reason being that they are not pertinent … meaning they are pertinent (the idea that I don’t need to explain anything to you because you’re probably familiar with it all already—that’s circuitous, disingenuous, skips over too much), for certain reasons that are not easy to express, in part because they hardly lead to a proper understanding, and in part because it is hard to understand the reason our hopes and plans never came to fruition, such that our relationship, unfortunately, was interrupted.
Why should I write that? It might shock the recipient, for So-and-So was always hypersensitive. There was also no reason to think that he would welcome such a letter. Nonetheless, I had to write something if I was going to write. But the reference to reasons that could not be revealed, never mind be valid—there was no reason to go into that. (Our relations, which I considered close, they having always been especially sweet and easy, suffered an unforeseeable interruption, which you, I am assuming, also noticed.) That was a risky assumption, but Peter and Anna we
re always inclined to encourage such presumptuous expectations. Sometimes they succeeded in convincing me that I was entirely right, but when I began to write it down I couldn’t maintain a proud self-confidence. I had to change the point I was trying to make, for it could be expressed differently, or at least more humbly.
The ties we maintained have nothing to do with the fate I have suffered of late, even when looked at in the most favorable light, which is why I ask that you not think of me as out of line when, in good conscience, I have also imagined that, from your completely different perspective, it is possible to feel sympathy for me. If I am wrong, then blame the circumstances, and please forgive me! You don’t have to answer, but instead just throw the letter away.… After such reductiveness and emotional presumption in a first letter after many years, strong objections cannot help but be raised. I showed so little confidence in the constancy of my friend’s attitudes that I ended up, first, presenting myself as a poor witness and, second, suggesting that I didn’t at all expect to be esteemed as a true friend who has remained loyal. I had to be determined to move ahead more boldly and, in the process, be more reserved as well. I gathered together all my powers and wrote this letter:
Dear So-and-So!
No doubt you will be surprised to receive a letter from me after so long and somewhat unexpectedly. Perhaps it will also make sense to you just why I ask you to think of the first sentence as not having been written. Forget it, take it in stride, and quickly read on. All I ask is that you choose one or the other possibility and don’t be angry with me!
Look, I have indeed reappeared before you—in written fashion, yes, and yet almost directly. It’s my handwriting. It hasn’t improved with the years but, rather, the other way round, yet you will certainly recognize it and think, indeed, it’s the same old me. I haven’t grown any older, for the war years simply don’t count.
And, in mentioning this, I have thus informed you why you haven’t heard from me in so long, for certainly you will think, What, you mean throughout the entire war he never thought it necessary to send me a little card to tell me what happened to him, all the while I was worried about him, and now that the whole affair is barely over and everything is back on track, then he steps to the fore and pretends that nothing happened in between?
I can’t deny any of that. When I think back, this is exactly how it seems: damn little has happened, my friend, but you can believe me when I say that during this war the mails functioned miserably. How often I inquired with the appropriate authority whether it was possible to write to you, but my request was only scoffed at, while I had to keep quiet so that they would think me harmless and not suspect me of being a spy. That’s why I couldn’t follow through on my intentions, and therefore it resulted in an awkward disruption in our correspondence.
As you well recall, you quickly took off right before the war began and hardly had time to properly say goodbye to me. But I was not upset about that, I really wasn’t, but rather concerned, for I was worried that, in between, too many things could happen that could take you away from me. Those are reactions that you have to forgive! They would have been quickly dispensed with if it had been at all possible for you to visit here even once or invited me to visit you. Everything would then have been cleared up, and I am convinced that we could have continued our conversations just where they left off before the war.
I am deeply interested in how you are. The news that reached me made it seem that things were not at all easy for you all on the outside, and I can imagine that it would be hard to overestimate the difficulties endured by the citizens. Hopefully, you gained a foothold somewhere and lived with others you could trust. It would only set me at ease and please me no end to hear from you that everything went as you hoped it would.
That’s also the central reason I am writing. I can only imagine that you and other old friends feel a horrible hesitancy in trying to tie together the frayed threads of the past. Please believe me that such thoughts, at least on my part, are not necessary, for there is no reason that you have to worry about me. The weather is as lovely as ever—a lovely summer and an even more glorious fall have come to the old city. The streets and parks, in which I spend so many exhilarating hours thinking of you and so many other dear people, are full of joyful hustle and bustle, and whoever can ignore the fact that a familiar face rarely shows itself hardly notices that any kind of unusual years have occurred in this country.
Which is why I have to readily declare that one should not be too sentimental about such things, because otherwise weak nerves could cause one to feel gloomy. People have even been overcome by such feelings. Only with steady calm can one tread upon reality. Then you can bear life in a cheerful state of mind and reassure yourself that you are no exception.
If there is anything I can do for you here, be it privately or through the authorities, please just let me know!
That your dear mother perished, you no doubt have heard from others, as well as your father, Walter, whom I was often with (we became very close; he was a real character). Also, our mutual friend Hans Georg is no longer alive. Do you remember Arno Seiler? He was very political and paid for it with his life. I still see his sister Anna often, whom you also no doubt knew. Yes, it was especially tragic with Hans Georg. He appeared to have survived up until a few days before the end, when, during a march, he was shot by the troop escort because he was so weak.
Those are very tragic events, which one experiences here at every turn. They cannot be ignored, and so I mention them, even when I assume that you have already heard more about them than you care to. However, I will spare you the details. It’s always the same story again and again, and that’s why I think …
No, I can’t expect So-and-So to understand such painful matters. It was smarter not to mention anything that could upset my friend. I erased the last two sentences and wrote something else.
You’ll certainly be pleased to hear that the situation here has generally gotten much better, signs of progress visible almost every day. People are moving on with fresh courage and dignified cheerfulness toward a better future.…
Peter came into the room and looked over my shoulder. “You are completely mad,” he said, not wanting anything to do with this approach, which he disapproved of as dishonest. As I began to defend it, because it seemed to me practical, he got upset because of my indifference to the fate of so many who suffered such misery. Even if his bride were to finally be released from prison, there were still ten thousand others locked up, and another hundred thousand hunted. This made me feel ashamed that I had written such optimistic claptrap. As an excuse, I quietly suggested that I couldn’t report on the new injustices being done, for the mails were censored. Peter laughed at me for being so stupid. No one was asking to hear from me about such expulsions, and indeed there had never been any need for me to go into such drivel. My task was first and foremost to just share the most important things. Should I wish to suppress anything uncomfortable about myself, that was no reason to conjure misleading nonsense. Thus I had to erase again and write something anew.
There’s little to say about the situation here. I could imagine that to you our circumstances here seem somewhat otherworldly. Even if that were not true, the newspapers, in which everything worth knowing is printed, would be enough to give you that sense. That’s why I’m limiting myself to telling only about me personally. Hopefully, I won’t bore you too much with it.
Certainly you will be happy when I say to you: I’m well, in fact surprisingly good. I live comfortably with a friend in a quiet suburb that is near the forest, with easy connections to the city and, since a couple of weeks ago, a really good job that suits me quite well. Don’t laugh, but I am working in a museum! In fact with paintings, exceptionally interesting ones. I’ll perhaps tell you more about them another time, for my skills will hardly allow me to describe them properly in a few words.
The life that I lead is thoroughly orderly and stimulating, as well as simple and humble. It suits
me quite well. However, I have to think about where I want to be later on. I have to look for my own apartment, which, unfortunately, is not so easy, and there are many other questions that are pressing which under constantly changing conditions anyone here has to face, more or less.