by H. G. Adler
If you were here you would, I’m guessing, soon make fundamental changes. The snooty ladies and gentlemen, who represent everything counter to what I already stand for, you’d set straight in no time by making them see what asses they are, while I am a genius. You would make something of me; I have no doubt of that. Nevertheless, I’m glad that you’re not here and that, as a result, I am—you love strong words—a complete wreck. That’s always preferable to me than being at the vineyard, spoiled by you. I realize things should be much different for the children, but they hardly go without. They are growing and are healthy; they have what they need.
Dear Peter, but how can you exist without me? You must miss me; we talked so well. But no, there’s no need for such worry, because certainly you don’t need me. Whoever exists doesn’t need someone else. Like a dachshund, you certainly follow the trail. Don’t you remember? You didn’t need me there either but, rather, it was always the other way around. Do you recall how you used to shake with laughter, as finally, after many weeks of tense waiting for a response from So-and-So, a letter arrived? You handed it to me as I came home late one night. You hadn’t opened it, although I allowed you to open any mail addressed to me. I told you that it didn’t bother me at all. As I pounced with curiosity on the letter—a long epistle typed on a terrible machine with a miserable colored ribbon—you went into the kitchenette and brewed some coffee. You could deal with any unpleasantry and always worked to hold yourself in check whenever you wanted to oblige me. “Call me when you need something,” you said, and shuffled off to the foyer and the bathroom. Then you were right there, with a jaunty step, the moment I called you. The coffee was done, you filled two cups, I should drink some right away. I must have been quite confused, which amused you. You were a rascal, yet you also displayed your funny sympathy, slapping me on the back as if to reassure me that it couldn’t be that bad, as I reread the letter—which I had rushed through in my excitement—one more time, slowly, from beginning to end.
My dear, dear Arthur!
What unspeakable joy, what a monstrous relief did I feel after so many years of pressing worry that darkened my days like a black curtain, when I held your brave letter in my hands, nearly the first sign of a world that I had continued to think was completely gone. Each of my friends who, albeit more happily than I, was able to hold up a weapon during the liberation had been given your name and a precise description of you in order to seek you out and connect with you. It was all in vain. Also, the list of names of the survivors that was posted here by the Office of Refugees never let me breathe easy. Arthur, to see your handwriting after six years! I was so happy that people on the street looked at me as if I were crazy. So much has happened, so many terrible things having overwhelmed us all, such that with any piece of news that one receives you can’t help but ask, Is it true? What you read and hear is, unfortunately, always much worse than what one thinks in the worst of hours, for reality is always worse than fantasy, which indeed leads one to the brink, but also, and that is its blessing, it allows the nasty shadows to disappear, such that even the worst calamity appears more bearable and is not just romanticized through false comfort but rather revealed for what it is.
I wish your letter (which I’ve read a hundred times already, often out loud, and which I’ve given to others to read) had arrived earlier. But imagine what kind of mix-up caused your letter to take nearly five weeks to get here, and, as you can imagine, there was little point in answering you right away, because I at least wanted to provide some of the information you asked for. That’s why I didn’t wire you, for I didn’t want to alarm you. And so I had to let you wait, for everything takes time, nor are people these days as fast or reliable as one would want them to be, despite one’s justified impatience. But I didn’t hesitate for a moment, that you have to believe, and I wrote as soon as I could.
What most captivates me in reading your letter is the incredible will to live and the courage evident in each word. When I read how you depict it all, I can hardly breathe, for now I know from a serious person that certainly much was not so very horrible, as many in these parts believe and who in understandable rage are shaken by such horrors. Certainly, I don’t wish to diminish anything. It must have been terrible, and the wounds ripped open could not have healed so fast. Thus I read with greatest sympathy about Franziska. I’m so saddened, and that’s hardly saying anything—such a lovely person. She, above all, had to have survived; that’s what I always hoped, and even now I ask how it can at all be possible. In spirit, I reach out to grasp your hand. You must realize that I want to know more about this misfortune, if it won’t upset you too much, my poor Arthur.
I have also since married—which only shows how one betrays one’s own principles—and Karin, my wife, whom I’ve told much about you and others, was just as pleased with your having written and sends her warmest greetings.
I find it very touching that you are at all concerned about how things are for me. It shames me. Nonetheless, if I tell the truth, and you would expect nothing less from me, I have to admit that everything here is extraordinarily difficult—the strange new language, life in an unfamiliar and unwelcoming neighborhood, and the overall feeling that the scholarly occupations are no bed of roses. In the first years, I suffered great privation. Over the course of time, things indeed got a bit better, but still my situation doesn’t allow my earnings to cover even the most elementary of needs. If one is not rooted somewhere and wishes to lead a transitory existence, this is the place. And yet I am alive, and that’s the main thing.
Certainly I will make no bones about the fact that it would be easier to build a life over there than it is here once the postwar developments quiet down a bit. The sums made available by such a small country for cultural renovation are very inviting and almost make me envious. I’ve also seriously thought about the question of whether or not I should consider going back, even if one simply doesn’t wish to give up his hard-won little success in the new country, which my wife is against, she also fearing the problems with the language she would have among you (German is indeed not liked and has little future there!), while also out of her work comes a relatively large part of our humble family budget. Just to inform you, Karin was originally a sculptor and has made some charming small pieces—animals done in clay, the best being goats and gazelles, which were then fired, though here she, like so many, has entirely changed course and now makes dentures in a dental laboratory.
So I’m hardly likely to decide to return, although I would be glad to cross over and at least am hoping to visit and indeed see you again soon and talk about everything that can’t be put into a letter. In between, however, we must write each other a great deal, especially about things that cannot bear to be put off. My dear mother has, unfortunately, indeed died (did you know that?), yet an old aunt who is almost deaf miraculously survived the war. It would be nice if you could visit her sometime soon: Frau Sophie Basch, Gerstengasse 44. You will likely have to ask the concierge, for she sublets there. In addition, it would be so helpful if you could personally pick up the things that my mother left behind with friends for safekeeping when she had to leave. Aunt Sophie wrote me about them and will know the address. Also, a conversation with my lawyer about the return of the house confiscated from my mother is very important, as well as other questions concerning, for example, the inheritance and further compensation. My practical advice is as follows: Look up my lawyer, Dr. Blecha. The office is at Kronenstrasse 63. Please tell him that I have sent you, and I will, of course, inform him as well. Ask him about the state of my affairs, and let him know that someone is looking out for me. I have heard that otherwise no lawyer will do anything. I have no use for anyone full of empty promises, who is lax about everything and only has his hand held out. Hopefully, my fears are unnecessary, for Dr. Blecha began in my father’s office as an apprentice lawyer. But one never knows. I prefer to trust no one, and certainly things will move along faster if you apply yourself energetically.
You won’t have to do too much on behalf of my case, whose execution I, of course, don’t want you to take on free of charge. Nor will I have it any other way. I feel it’s my responsibility to stand by you and support you a little bit. You need funds. As soon as a good, round sum becomes available—which, perhaps as a result of your direct intervention, can occur within a few months—I’ll give you five percent of whatever I net. Are we agreed, Arthur? If through your efforts you mount up expenses, just let me know and I will instruct Dr. Blecha to reimburse you for everything immediately. As soon as my assets are solvent and available, I’ll take my first vacation with Karin or come over myself, especially since the money, unfortunately, will not be allowed out.
Perhaps you can recommend to me where I should travel. Certainly you should come along if you have the time. I would especially love a winter vacation. All of my winter sports equipment should still be there—unless by some rotten chance it got sold! Just imagine, snow, genuine powder! Do you still know what that is? It’s unheard of in these parts. I would most love to eat at the Fuchsberg mountain lodge, though the Schwarzschlag is nothing to sneeze at, either. Do you remember, the whipped cream, the egg cakes, and the brandy they had there was the best. You can’t help but bask in the memories, my old friend, when you think of the Christmas celebrations, the fun New Year’s parties in the mountains, such fun, and then strapped to the sled for a night journey into the new year!
You can see that I’m serious about returning. Just be patient, it will certainly happen. Before then, we can converse in writing. I have always loved correspondence and find that you have to apply yourself in order to avoid limitations inherent in letter writing.
You mention that you would like to visit us sometime. In and of itself, that’s a good idea that I would heartily embrace. But just ask yourself how this could be done if you don’t have the means. Here everything is too expensive. I’ve asked around and must, unfortunately, tell you that the prospects don’t look good. You couldn’t stay with me, because we only have two rooms and have nothing for you to sleep on. If it were only for a few days, I think I could find someplace for you to hole up in at night with friends. During the day I would be happy to put my apartment at your service. We only eat lunch at home on the weekends, but most evenings you could spend with us and also eat with us, as long as we don’t have anything else we must do.
I wonder what you’d really want to do here if your visit were to be more than just a trip to pick up things. For I have to admit that it’s as if I stood before a wall. I don’t want to rob you of all hope, but prospects look dim when I at all consider what you could begin here. For your sake I have spoken with a lawyer, Dr. Haarburger, who has established himself here brilliantly. He’s very educated, interested in many things, is influential, and a pleasant fellow with a wife who is the same. Above all, he is easy to inspire, for he feels solidarity, whereby you have to forgive the both of them a certain loquaciousness, without which one hardly warms to others or connects with them. Professor Kratzenstein is a member of his circle. Perhaps you’ve read something of his at some time. As a sociologist he’s not entirely to my taste, but what does that matter, as he is highly respected. Well, Dr. Haarburger wants to thoroughly consider whether there might be a possibility to arrange a lecture for you through Kratzenstein or other colleagues at the Society of Sociologists—the theme has to be accessible to the public and also on a very high level. I am very much for this and will again press the matter. You would have the advantage of meeting an array of personalities while also receiving what, unfortunately, can only be termed a modest honorarium, since it’s considered an honor to speak there. Only famous guests are honored. But perhaps through some finagling, which Dr. Haarburger has hinted at, a small per diem could be arranged for you. Unless we are really lucky, that is likely about the only thing that can be done for the moment.
I think about your sociological ideas with undiminished interest, even if through the local and the American schools I am headed in a different direction, and, to be honest, I can’t help doubting that you and your methods, as one says here, are up to date. In general, one pokes fun here at continental sociology, and not without reason. Now, I can hear you say that your work has little in common with the approach recognized over there. That may well be, but nonetheless (or precisely because), your thinking leads in an almost completely diametrical direction to that which is in favor here. You have to unlearn it from the ground up, just as I and everyone had to, and even then it’s unlikely that for the foreseeable future you will be able to catch up. Yes, if you had made a name for yourself before the war and brought out books or important essays in journals, then the prospects would be a bit better, but still not that good. Indeed, none of us had the opportunity to publish in the years before the war, and when our chance did come we were hardly done with our studies. Which is why I’m being crystal clear about the reasons there is no chance of a career for you at a local university. I haven’t even dared to inquire with my own professor, even on the quiet. I could only do that if you had finished something, which also, of course, would have to be translated. Then I would have to have you take an exhaustive exam in order for everything not to be a waste from the outset, and my scholarly reputation harmed. One is always under suspicion here when you step out of line. Meanwhile, I am assuming that you didn’t finish anything. How could you have—it would be a miracle!
Finally, I cannot end without explaining to you clearly, bitter as it may sound, that a sociology of oppressed people, no matter how much you might revise your old first drafts, which certainly could be built upon the foundations I well know, will nonetheless meet with no success here, as far as I can see for the moment and even in the future. What you are pursuing, my dear Arthur, would be called here a ponderous, romantic-idealistic philosophy of culture. I immediately hear your objections to such hated buzzwords, but that’s the way it is, unfortunately, and let it be said. A social science whose kernel is an ethical conception, once cherished, yet it does not comply with the accepted currents of thought, and what you have called moral science or moral sociology belongs, indeed, to the realm of romantic-idealist speculation, for which nobody cares one jot.
You will have to work on a clear, limited theme that you can follow precisely—let’s say a psychological-sociological investigation, such as of a certain group, for example a number of selected subjects who have suffered clearly defined duress while detained or in being detained (i.e., prisoners of war, enslaved as a result of the disintegration of certain civil rights), effects that can be subjectively and objectively certifiable, etc., etc. That would be something. But if I can give you some good advice, then give up on the sociology of oppressed people, for it won’t go down well here. It is notorious for being unserious, and the danger of emotional bias, even with someone with your recent past, will only do you harm almost everywhere. I do indeed agree that the horror was in fashion for a moment, but already in serious circles interest has essentially waned. Before you could even get permission to visit, it will have completely disappeared. There are indeed some specialists who exploit such misery, Kratzenstein among them, yet they won’t allow any newcomer or outsider in. It’s best that you get any ideas about oppression out of your head. Popular sympathies won’t help you, for they only depend on a dog-eat-dog approach and on journalistic skills, and the rest I’ve already explained to you. That’s why I’m arguing that under no circumstances should you plan on making an extended visit under the premises you describe, or even think about immigration.
I’m sorry not to be able to give you better advice. I have written at such length in order to show you that there’s no lack of good will on my part. I only wish for you to understand it all well. I swear to you, if I had enough influence you would be here tomorrow, and the day after you would have a professorship. See to it that over there you find a position that is bearable, which can’t be that hard to do. You have no difficulties with the language there, and you’ll make connections in no tim
e at all. People over there will still be interested in oppression. If I can be of any use to you through word or deed (e.g., with finding books, materials, recommendations, etc.), it will bring me great joy. I am also thinking of how else I might support you, but nothing has occurred to me. Write me when you need something. My means are, unfortunately, reduced, but they are enough to humbly serve you, be it cash (don’t forget to mention me to Dr. Blecha!) or anything else that you both might need. Though there’s also less here than you might think.
A friend who is planning to fly over today will be bringing along a can of aspic with black-currant jam. It’s exceptionally strong and rich in vitamin C. Take a spoon of it each day. As this friend has shared with me that he reckons that no proper shaving brushes can be had over there, I’ve also given him one for you. Let me know that it all arrives safely! If the rumor is true that our old teacher Herr Prenzel is still alive, please pass on my greetings. And keep your chin up, as always.
Always yours,
So-and-So
You looked at me patiently, Peter, seeming a bit derisive in a good-natured way. Then I held the letter out to you, or you took it—I don’t recall exactly—and you began to read, at first seriously, soon mumbling something, then individual words aloud, here and there like a psalm, and, as I recall, “principles”—“prince-eeee-pills,” you piped—and grimaced as you spoke. Other parts that moved you to immense scorn you also bastardized. Such as: “Finally I degenerate to such stupidity, no matter how bitter it might sound, to sincerely con you into realizing that such an idiotology of the bent and stooped … certainly can’t be dumped here, no matter how I rattle on and keep rattling.” Not exactly brilliant, but you managed to succeed in brightening my grim, dismayed mood. After reading, you were really in fine spirits and took shots at example after example, full of droll and biting expressions used to nearly blast poor So-and-So to bits. Do you remember his letter?