by H. G. Adler
Breathing heavily, I made it to the museum with the suitcase, Herr Geschlieder helping me up the steps with it. Then I was alone and glanced despairingly at the weight that calmly crouched before me. The suitcase yawned open before me, my arms buried in dead bed linens, coldly and roughly grabbing hold of them, then other treasures sprang out of its depths all rolled up and rising toward me—wool jackets and vests, ripe red, milky yellow, sharp green—trembling plunder in my fingers, all of it clean but reeking of mothballs, the smell almost stinging my eyes, though nonetheless a lot of it eaten away by moths, cord meshing springing back, all of it rustling. When I lifted out the thin goods, from the bottom there stared at me in surprise and barely shining an almost completely dulled-out mirror. It was incredibly heavy. Now I knew why I had to struggle so with the suitcase.
Then I was there with the dried-up small Herr Nerad, once the factotum in the shop of an uncle who had died more than twenty years ago. Herr Nerad had always been devoted to Aunt Rosi. Now he unpacked three old purses, carefully wrapped in several layers of paper, that belonged to my aunt. I took Herr Nerad by the hand, looked innocently into his wrinkled countenance, which understood nothing, and said as tenderly as possible what beautiful purses but that I couldn’t use any of them. If he didn’t want to keep them, would it be possible for him to do me the pleasure of giving them away. Then Herr Nerad withdrew his hand convulsively and was nearly insulted: What, the purses were still quite nice; one couldn’t buy any like those today. I had to take them, at least as a memento. There were still little mirrors buried within them, the pale-pink powder in the powder box and the pad that went with it, all of it crumbly with extended sleep, used tickets for the tram from many years past, a scuffed-up little leather book with well-thumbed addresses, recipes, lists of things to buy, such as eggs, butter, flour, rice, dried prunes, and apples, receipts for bills from the coal handler Burda, also a worn-out change purse that would no longer stay shut, its clasp squished flat, two nickel coins slipping from its folds, yellow with endless neglect and almost no longer worth anything. I staggered heavily in the face of it. Herr Nerad also loaded me up with more names that I didn’t recognize, but that’s the way it was, me sent from one keeper to the next, and new people turning up whom I had to see for sure. Did I know indeed where else Aunt Olga had stashed a bundle? Secretly it was whispered to me as if it were still forbidden, and there was something from Uncle Alfred as well. Reluctantly but irresistibly drawn, I shuttled between well-meaning little people who raised a hand to their foreheads with half-open mouths when they sized up my appearance, their hoary astonishment melting into thin joy. They nodded at me, saying My, my, followed by regret, a memory, a sigh, a handkerchief, and tears. Then they put on splayed cloth gloves, stuffed handbags, clutching a dust cloth under the arm, creeping off to a trunk or to a storeroom, already back with something and pleased to be getting rid of a burden, since I should give it to my heirs, it was valuable. Doomed, I tried to fend it off, but I was ignored, or they didn’t believe me and felt it only right, which is why it all was quickly shoved at me, along with the lesson that mislaid goods never gained value, for what was I thinking, a memento, yes, that they wished to have, but only something small, nothing more.
If such a visit was unfruitful, then I was thought mean, yet worse was what I had to put up with from such figures from the past. Their thanks, which I gathered from every corner, rubbed me the wrong way, the long talks, the wearying reports, the questions from dull philistines, the forced counterquestions, the litany of spoken sorrow amid sighs of futility. In the chilly brightness of living rooms or the biting smoke of kitchens, I whittled away empty hours. The living rooms smelled of being cramped and sweet, and forced me to play the part of the guest by sipping fruity drinks, or fresh bread that trembled before the knife, a homemade recipe of crumbly rich cake. The plate wasn’t taken away, the cup was filled again to the brim, followed by the threadbare request for me to stay longer. There’s so much time. Already evening approached, thirst sparing me the sight. When I finally felt I’d almost gained release, chairs and tables got in the way, I couldn’t get past them or through them, the watch that I pulled out was berated as being unacceptably bad and had to quickly crawl back inside my pocket. Then I felt ill, my limbs shaking. Others noticed it and showered me with concern, pushing me toward the most comfortable chair, into which I had to sink myself and cower, just to recover a bit, already feeling better, right, as the schnapps glass twinkled, but stiff and clammy, biting my lower lip, my teeth clenched, my tongue almost bloody, me burning deep within the maw of a dark torrent.
Patient and lurking about, they stared at me expectantly. I should have said something to thank them for their help, yet my throat was constricted; I stuttered my embarrassment. Regret was swallowed inside an empty collar, my tongue clinging fast to the gums. I babbled through long breaths—the air, the good air!—and wanted to get out of my chair, to just run away quickly without suffocating. Yet no one understood what I wanted, but only tore open the window, the evening pressing in its chilly grime and slamming against my forehead. Something rumbled from down below, an immense noise rising up from the courtyards and hitting the walls of the room and dripping down them. I felt bad and had no strength, something speaking for me, standing there in hot and searing fragility, asking could I go, could I, only that would help, could I, if it was all right, could I, please, let me, fast, before it’s too late, don’t waste any time, already late, late, late, the watch, now please, no help, no, only open the door, hurry, gone. The door, room, door, kitchen, door, apartment, many doors, please, thank you, you’re welcome, thank you, please, the door shutting. As I fled down the stairwell, the murder of the past nearly buried me from all sides.
Then I couldn’t see anything, though I had finally slipped out. Weakly I stumbled away, the street sweepers’ stirred-up chaff stuck in my eyes, causing them to sting, nothing but black fire, choking voices blazing high, hurting my ears: “That belongs to you now!” Yet it didn’t belong to me, a brittle exploded nest from which everything near turned away, remains, even if they weren’t unspoiled, rubbish, the formless husks of original forms, yet nothing but husks, emptied out and blank in their naked transience and the hard, frozen past, which lasted and promised to last beyond any future. Thus the goods were allotted me and yet were never mine, thorns and splinters in my hands painful with wounds that had been commanded. From some neighborhoods I groaned with the weight, always like a thief who had been condemned to recognize the uselessness of all possessions and to carry his booty until the end of days, forced harshly to take in the scope of all the plundered homesteads for the museum and make sure that its owners never find it. I saw people in the street who hungered for possessions and eyed my load covetously. How happy I would have been to give the poor things my embarrassing goods: Please take them; I’m grateful that your sensibility aspires to wrongfully acquired goods. So take it away and enjoy your possessions. I, however, could not and retrieved the meager riches; they were entrusted to me, I being their guardian.
How uncomfortable it was to get them through the streets without harm! Sometimes I had the notion of inconspicuously abandoning a package in a corner or in a doorway. The museum didn’t need the treasure, and I could hope that someone would take mercy on the possessions left behind and would bless the unknown donator. But this unburdening was denied me. I couldn’t relinquish anything; that would have broken a trust with honorable guardians, whom I never could have faced again. Only once did I have the damnable courage to let a heavy bundle of pots, pans, cooking spoons, and sieves slip inconspicuously to the ground. Straight off I felt I’d succeeded, no one seeming to have noticed. I breathed a sigh and pushed on without a care. But, after only a few steps, a houselady called after me, upset, saying I should please pack up my stuff, otherwise there would be trouble. I didn’t want to stay there at all, but the voice called out much more sharply from behind me. I stopped, turned around with a slight bow, and played dumb: “There
must be some mistake; they are not my things.” I’m sorry, the woman humbly said, while leaning on a broom, but if she wasn’t afraid of starting something, she would take the bundle to the office for lost property: “They’ll then just yell at me! Don’t fool with me. I saw it with my own eyes, how you let that lump of stuff fall, just like a criminal. If it doesn’t belong to you, then take it yourself to the office for lost property. It ain’t staying here, and now off with you!” I didn’t trust myself to run away, I was so weak; so I had to return and pick up the burden. When I bent down, the woman looked me in the eye suspiciously, threatening me with her broom, and shrilly showering me with words of anger and shame, as I miserably schlepped on.
Sometimes I relieved myself of my load in little bars, asking the barkeep behind the counter for a beer even when I wasn’t thirsty. I only wanted to see if he would notice me and fulfill my request. “Nice weather today!” I’d say in an attempt to relax. I awaited an answer and hardly got a glance in return. “What I have to carry is so heavy!” Nor did that work, either. Had I said nothing? But the barkeep brought me a full glass. I blew away the foam, tasted the beer, and thanked him for his interest. The man sucked his lips, indifferent and bored as he wiped the brass top of the bar; he didn’t understand at all what I wanted. When with both hands I shifted my goods, he slowly shook his head. Yet the barkeep looked at the money that I tossed to him and let it disappear straight off into the till. He spent no more time with me, nor did I enjoy the drink. Soon I placed the half-full glass on the platter that was spotted and wet, the barkeep still wiping down the bar, though to no end. My goodbye was left unanswered; a customer smiled and gave me a funny wave. I had to steal off through the forlorn labyrinthine streets.
Then I hoped to be attended to in little shops where the dealers and salesmen, when they weren’t too busy, would get lost in curious chatter. The worn-out bell willingly helped me enter without disturbance. A welcoming voice greeted me. I asked for shoelaces, buttons, pocket combs, picture postcards. The selection was narrow, the wares cranked out of factories without care, scrimpy and expensive. I rummaged slowly among the dusty inventory and praised the goods as if I were a shopkeeper. I kept roaming around, such that I was attended to as a customer, while my suitcase lay on the dirt-encrusted floorboards. Occasionally came a good word, I leaned forward, and since there followed a pointed joke, I could laugh. But then everything was over, all harmony quickly dissolving, and I had to pay at some expense. Quickly I was turned away, the rusty tin handle heavy in my hand—the load, the sore arm, it quivered painfully all the way to my shoulder.
I looked around another shop; I couldn’t risk going back into the same one twice. My activities were too conspicuous; it would be hard for anyone to have a good impression of me. Again I stood before a small shop, mopping my brow uncomfortably with my handkerchief. Then I felt very exhausted, as if I had endured a test of my heart and kidneys. Too conspicuously near me was the dispensed load that had been parked, swollen like a sponge under leering glances. I leaned down easily against the scratched counter and promised urgently that I wished to become a regular customer, but, rather than endearing me, that made me seem stranger. Also, what I wished to buy was too shabby. Hastily, I assured them that I was serious, but my talk was met with obliging reflective grins. Was I deluded? Arrogantly, no one strained at all to pay attention to the flood of my words and took it for blarney when, in as friendly a way as I could, I asked for better service. I looked directly at the salesmen in order to show that my intentions were honest, but they turned away bored or mischievous, hiding with one hand the sharp wedge of muffled laughter and hurrying to end our business in order to get me quickly out of the shop. I then tried to turn to them as quickly as possible, as if I had just thought of something else that I urgently needed to buy, and asked in a neutral pleasant voice for an ashtray. Sighing, they assented and hastily brought what I had asked for. They were horrible things, one with an owl on it that blinked sleepily, and a little bowl with angels and butterflies. I didn’t need an ashtray, yet since dilly-dallying was no longer possible my valid choice was honored, and because I dared to waste more time with talking, a foot kicked my load and I had to gather it up, at which I was met by a frightful shrug of the shoulders as I was led step by step backward and to the clearly opened door, they bowing low in a measured fashion and the door closing behind me decisively. Once again, I looked around and debated returning to the shop in order to innocently ask whether I had forgotten my handkerchief, I was so distraught, please forgive me. But by then I was too disheartened to shamelessly lie. Indignant, they would have clapped their hands together—“Off with you, get out of here, otherwise …” That was a terrible thing to hear; I couldn’t even bear to think it. So I crept off and busied myself with my bags.
Often, people on the street watched what I did, such that I felt uneasy. Some people wanted to know what kinds of stuff I was carrying. Good food was scarce, clothes were in short supply, as well as shoes and other wares. Therefore the black market blossomed and spread through the streets; it was difficult to fend off nasty suspicion. I would have to admit that it was not my property, I having neither attained it in a shady manner nor wanting to hawk it, carrying it along with me only because I was moving. I gave other reasons for my load, necessity rousing right away my resourcefulness. Only I couldn’t tell the truth; a terrible price to pay in having always to remain silent. I couldn’t risk even once resorting to saying that it had to do with salvaged goods that I had held for Aunt Olga and Uncle Alfred and now wished to give back. No one would have believed a word and would only have scolded me harshly. Then I would have had to report to the police who I was, where I lived, my rights in the face of eternity. With knowing smirks, the armed law would not even have heard out my explanations to the end but, rather, ordered me to follow them to the station, where only after many hours of painful interrogation, searches, and probing inquiries among all the people I had betrayed, my story would be accepted. No, I had to keep still, be humble, and serve the ownerless goods as best I could.
I then staggered to the next tram stop and stumbled up the steps of the tram, which was rarely empty. To the anger of the conductor, I dumped everything in a corner of the wagon’s platform. I was only met with constant grumbling, the doubled fare, as well as the mulish annoyance on the part of the riders when I tried to protect the cargo with my arms and legs. If I hadn’t in fact had too much with me, I would have been happy to navigate my way to the inside of the car, where I could have shoved some of it under the seat and held the rest on my lap. If the tram had filled up, my situation would have been much worse. Since I didn’t want to miss my stop, I had to disturb my neighbors and the standing riders in order to pull my things forward. I asked politely and entreatingly for their patience and indulgence, but what good did it do? The space was narrow, the disgruntled people betrayed loudly their unwillingness to help, and lectured me that when you transported such junk it would be best to arrange for a moving truck or to take a taxi, the tram not being built for such things. I agreed, and humbly reassured them, explaining that, unfortunately, I didn’t have enough money; otherwise, I would have been happy to follow their advice. Meanwhile, I squirmed about the floor of the wagon in order to grab hold of my burden and wrench it through legs and other impediments until I had hold of everything and, with many requests and excuses and thank-yous, forced my way to the next exit. Behind me there was loud cursing, the conductor was cross, the driver stomped with his foot on the bell switch such that it rang, he being ready to drive on.
I shuffled around the corner and on through the familiar streets, where the school stood closed, as well as the museum. I could barely stand as I knocked, having set down my load. Someone finally came, and the heavy key turned. Herr Geschlieder, the porter, was a friendly soul and didn’t mind at all once he saw how weighed down I was by the accumulation of all these riches as the meager protection of the door shut behind me, although he betrayed pity toward my goods, hi
s well-meaning gaze drying up when I extended to him the flood of gifts. Geschlieder declined, deeply embarrassed, though he indeed helped me with the load when I slowly dragged it up the three steps. I owed it to the dead to present at least a glimmer of joy to Geschlieder: Saved, Herr Geschlieder, saved! What a wonder, despite the dead prayers in the cellar, or before the gazing portraits of our ancestors who have disappeared for eternity, saved. God bless us, there are still good people, such that all of these wonders found their way to me over the endless duration of the earthly time out of joint. The porter nodded, how lovely that must be: Yes, there are still good people in the world.
What was mine was not mine: such poverty knew no end. I lifted up my hands, draped, burdened, buried, gripping it all. Peter couldn’t use that much, and Anna only a little. Protesting, she would take it, and only out of sympathy, as her apartment was already overfull. I had long known how many strange goods were stowed there that no one came to pick up. Anna and Peter recommended that I sell some of it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. If I couldn’t give it to friends because they couldn’t take any, nor to strangers because it was forbidden, how could I sell it to fools! Peter offered to do it for me, but I couldn’t allow it. If I wanted to avoid increasing my misery even more, there was only one way to do so: I couldn’t take on any more. I didn’t look for any more people who might want to give me something, and so I avoided Frau Holoubek, Frau Krumbholc, and Herr Nerad.