by H. G. Adler
“And what do you do with people when everything looks hopeless and pointless?”
“I send them to our researchers. There they tie them up with long forms that are filled out in detail. Or I tell them to try the Red Cross and other organizations. Then the people head off. Some of them leave without even saying goodbye, though I don’t blame them.”
I then asked to see the card file. Fräulein Zinner wanted to pull out one of the heaviest drawers from the iron cabinet, but I couldn’t let her do that and got up in spite of her protests and walked over to her.
“Do you really feel better?” she asked with anxious doubt.
“But of course. How many times must I tell you that it really was nothing at all. I should have put off my visit to another day. It wasn’t right for me not to consider my weariness, forgive me, and then on top of that the many steps as well.”
“Oh, what do you mean ‘put off’! We’ve already put off too much, and that alone is half the reason for our unhappiness!”
Fräulein Zinner didn’t want to hear any apologies from me, but instead just wanted to figure out whether I really was better and didn’t need further assistance. She doubted my claims, but I stood up firmly, stretching my back and lifting my head in order to reassure her strongly inquisitive gaze.
“Well, you do seem better. But I’m not entirely pleased, for you are pale to the bones.”
“I’m always that way. Even as a child. My mother—”
“You looked better at the Haarburgers’.”
“I hate to disappoint you; it was only the light.”
Fräulein Zinner could see that she couldn’t say anything more without upsetting and embarrassing me. She let me have a look in the open drawers, where the cards were arranged according to some kind of system that she indeed explained to me, but which I nevertheless didn’t understand, all of them neatly mounted and movable on metal rails. They could also be lifted halfway out without being removed from the drawer, though with a bit of manipulation they were easily taken out. The cards were numbered, and on each of them there were last names, first names, names of wives or husbands, names of parents and children, addresses, changes of address, old addresses, occupations former and current, dates and data from different countries, many coded symbols I didn’t understand, though Fräulein Zinner explained them readily, and then more numbers, crosses, stars, and notes, many of them written down in red ink, a bare graveyard with names and, invisibly behind it, a life and its twin life of worry, sorrow, hope, madness, glowing passion, pale disenchantment, and, yes, also illness, odors such as Lysol or chloroform, befogged, full of anxiety, and then death: a startling coldness in each card, unreal, belonging to no one, not of the present, but not of the past in any troubling way. In addition, everything was much too ethereal and mute, a finger running over them as well as uncertain and questioning glances, all of it set down cold in metallic type, the black letters of the machine pressing into the white flesh.
“How can you stand it here?” I asked impolitely. As if wanting to take back these rude words, I added in a great huff, “Of course, it’s your job.”
Fräulein Zinner deliberately ignored this platitude, having already not paid any attention at all to my previous lack of tact.
“Now you can see for yourself,” she said simply.
I turned away from the cards and looked around at Fräulein Zinner’s desk. Behind glass and simple frames were five pictures: the father, serious and slim, the eyes coolly observing, yet full of good will and sympathy, the look of a doctor, while the mother was slightly hunched, somewhat rotund, diligent, homely and plain, though also lively and keen. Fräulein Zinner looked much more like her father. Comparing them, I nodded to her.
“Was he a doctor?”
“Yes, heart and lungs. Very much loved. They’re the last pictures of both of them that were sent on.”
Parents sent on? I was startled and grabbed hold of the desk hard.
“Always right here as you work. Except when you have to turn to the card file, and, of course, when you deal with visitors, not then as well.”
What I said made no sense. It was the shock alone, the anxiety that rose at the thought that there were dead parents in the photos.
“The resemblance is strong. And they died in their own due time.”
Why had I said that? Fräulein Zinner’s disclosures at the Haarburgers’ had been clear. That I had now spoken of the resemblance was not at all reflected in the look Fräulein Zinner gave me, even though just the resemblance of the photos was what I meant, the belief pressing through doubt that photos can at all be similar to those depicted, that one can at all recognize or acknowledge someone in a picture: that, in fact, that is who they are or were. Names like to be remembered—they exist in memory or are preserved in letters, but what resemblance do they bear to people? Names can attest, but as symbols they lack the power to stand up to the figure they are supposed to fulfill. Pictures, on the contrary, are at the very least vicarious symbols of living figures.
“More like the father,” said Fräulein Zinner somewhat admonishingly.
“Yes, indeed the father. But also the mother. In short, similar. One can have similar features.”
“Are you surprised by that?”
“Yes, it’s surprising. For what is similar is also familiar, the ‘familiar’ being something handed down through the family, and thus what leads to what is similar in the familiar. But that’s another matter. I’m only talking about the pictures and you. The link between you is the similarity in your looks, and that is almost overpowering, for I can hardly believe it. Yet I don’t mean to talk about that, either, just about the pictures. You said the pictures are similar to how they looked?”
“Yes, very much so.”
“That’s lovely and remarkable. It must give you a great deal of peace.”
“How so? What do you mean?”
“I mean, you have your parents. Over there in the card file, no one has anyone. There are statements there, perhaps correct statements, but nothing more. What one can get from them you explained so yourself. But ‘pictures talk’ when they bear a similar resemblance. We had pictures at the museum, and so I know. There it was exactly the same, and in most cases we didn’t know the names at all. An unknown man, an unknown woman, an unknown child. Clearly unknown, and that’s painful enough in itself. But still there, and better to be unknown rather than to have disappeared with nothing but names cut loose. That’s the way it is—do you understand? And now these pictures rest here on your desk. Memories assure you. What luck! Hence you still have your parents and don’t have any doubts about ever having had parents.”
“My friend, they could still be alive!”
“That’s exactly right. The parents at one time could have been alive, but they can no longer. That is for sure. Oh, the ones who still have them! The difference is threadbare, but important. Nearly a comfort. You yourself said it crassly just a while ago: obliterated!”
Fräulein Zinner began to cry.
“Forgive me, sometimes I’m too harsh. But not coldhearted, certainly not coldhearted.”
“Who said you were? Please don’t get upset. I won’t say anything more.”
“Say something! You must.”
“Really, you think so? That’s very kind of you.”
“Don’t you feel the same?”
“Of course.”
“Yes, that’s exactly how it is. Only through language can we fend off danger. Though that’s not quite right, for that which is overpowering cannot be fended off, only secured, ascertained, so that it is defined, thereby allowing life to be a bit more furtive amid the unknown. Only through language can we conjure, can we try to save something. We want a house, a home, a life between four walls where we are protected and can hide, such that we will not—and here’s the main point—be called upon by the unknown, which takes us off guard by asking, Where are you? The desire to escape speaks to what I call, not entirely to my satisfaction, the fend
ing off of danger or the unknown. It would be more correct to say to ‘avert the overpowering.’ We must therefore speak in order not to be continually asked, to be continually threatened. And thus I have explained to you, indeed, why language interests me.”
“What does that all have to do with dead parents?”
“At least your parents are dead.”
“That’s bad enough for me.”
“But dead for sure! Do you know what that means, Fräulein Zinner? Most likely they are buried somewhere!”
“Yes, in the cemetery. There’s not much solace in that.”
“Solace … Who would dare to use such a big word? Certainly no solace, and that’s for sure. But a place. One that you can go to.”
“I don’t want to.”
“That’s different. No one is asking you to. But you can. This lack of solace, which I don’t want to make more comforting, because it remains lamentable, doesn’t deny all solace, for it is indeed a certainty. First the parents died—you have reliable information; you know the date of death or you can find out—and then the dead were buried, in a cemetery, where you can find the spot. Thus there is a place where the dead clearly are, where they have come to rest, their grave, having found their last resting place, or whatever you wish to call it. It’s not at all strange. You should be very grateful for it!”
“Consequently, when I think about what you’re saying, consequently you’re right. But only consequently.”
“Fine, consequently. And that’s again something key. That is, also consequently, already the start of some kind of solace.”
“It’s so hard!”
“A whiner! You said you were a whiner.”
“Do you notice everything anyone says?”
“Actually not, only very, very little. I have a bad memory.”
“That doesn’t seem to be so.”
“Indeed, it is. Make no mistake about it, Fräulein Zinner. There are only a few things that I can recall precisely. Not really things but rather their scope, a kind of network. A memory for structures is what I call it. Hard to fathom, no? Let me explain. I mean, a memory for the relationship between things, for the dense interweaving of experience. I cannot forget any of that at all. But no memory for the phenomenal, for the eventful, the singular, the precise. Or only for single moments of clarity among the incalculable number of single incidents out of which I preserve the spirit of the relationship between them, really the structure. That grants me a certain continuance from day to day, which at least makes it bearable but also turns all of life into a burden, an agony. If I dispense with all the experiences that are comprehensible, and with whose help I can find my bearings amid the flurry of time, then it’s awful, and lost with it are those moments of clarity. Then I don’t know whether something is or is not. There can indeed be a means to replace the moments of clarity or even to fabricate them, and if I have that, then all the better, because then I can convince myself that they are not false, that they really exist. Again a small comfort, or at least the start of one, when one has something like this. Do I—well, I’ve already said so. The means is, namely, possessions, as possessions serve and support memory; also, the strongest of memories is supported by possessions and is in fact built upon them. A strong memory, however, is the true cornerstone on which human life is built. For then it is built solid as a wall. Without it everything collapses into rubble and is not even questionable, like the most miserable of lives, but, rather, worth nothing.”
“That’s right, but you are alive. What do you really need to own?”
“You think we disagree?”
“I mean, all you need is life.”
“We disagree, it seems to me. You have something when you possess something. I didn’t at all say that I do not possess anything. If that were true, then I wouldn’t be alive. Yet besides life—one might even say, more precisely, naked life—well, besides that I have shockingly little to feed and clothe this life. More precise would be to say ‘to support this life.’ Hence it’s a meager life, one of privation. Do you have any idea how hard that is?”
“You’re not complaining about how poor you are, if I understand you right. But I don’t understand much more than that. You’re thinking of what’s irrecoverable.”
“Right. Irrecoverable possessions. Ineffable things. The indications that there is something, or was, which either doesn’t exist or only in memory, and that is uncertain, for even the best memory is unreliable and can hardly make up for what has been lost. Something that you possess, even when you do really own nothing. Fräulein Zinner, think of the very value that one possesses. ‘Value’—just, consider for a moment what this word means. It lies at the center of the sociology of oppressed people that I have formulated.”
“Wouldn’t you like to tell me more about it?”
“Really? May I?”
“But of course!”
“Human dignity involves the material and immaterial sanctioning of value, as proscribed by society, and guaranteed by it. The complete fulfillment of this dignity rises from the optimal freedom from oppression. An oppressed man is one whose external or internal value is denied or withdrawn. The starker and more immediate this withdrawal, the less free the person. Disenfranchisement and exploitation, bondage and slavery are made manifest through the clear withdrawal of value, though the slave need not be robbed of all dignity or value, which are the same. On the other hand, someone who was once enslaved or in some other way oppressed cannot, through the easing or abandonment of his social conditions, ever again replace the value denied with one that is in part completely fabricated, for it is in essence irretrievable; it can never thus be found again. That is the tragedy of oppression; entirely irrespective of one’s psychology, its marks are in all cases indelible when in the course of one’s life it is significantly intensified. This happens especially through the withdrawal of attention or other measures that socially uproot the oppressed. If one is born into oppression and attains during the course of his life more dignity and value, as well as possessions, such that he is granted more rights, then that’s different. Thus only alone does one achieve a greater freedom from oppression. Society is a system of value; the social order is an ordering of value. Freedom in a society depends on how it is achieved, what kind of awarding of value its own members experience, whether it’s maintained equally or unequally, whether groups are different or roughly the same. A fundamentally equal and unified awarding of value for all members of a society would indeed need to be declared programmatically and in a constitution, though that has never happened. However, history has often shown the willingness to withdraw value from individuals or, much more frequently, from entire groups, and indeed in the many different kinds of societies that have been formulated. But I feel as if I am now delivering a lecture, and that’s not right.”
“Oh, I’m very grateful to you for explaining it to me so fundamentally. I’m afraid I’m just not the best audience for it. I feel I just don’t deserve it.”
“Now you’re mocking me.”
“No. I use words quite simply, in an everyday manner. I don’t know very much about sociology or other disciplines. But, please, you look so sad again.… Please don’t be. At least believe me when I say that I have the greatest respect for what you’re sharing with me.”
“And these are … were they your brothers?”
“Yes. That’s Richard, and that is Eli. His proper name was Elias, like his grandfather. But he was called Eli. Father thought Elias sounded too heavy.”
Fräulein Zinner picked up the picture of Eli as a boy and blew away a speck from the frame; it was probably a tiny bread crumb that had fallen there as a lost victim. Eli, the little one, upon whom the house had collapsed at the end of the school vacation, didn’t need anything to eat. His sister was right to run a cloth over the glass in order to make it shine. Lost crumbs of bread pained one too much. Wipe it all away. It had been rude of me to so carelessly lecture, useless arrogance, but my abrupt shift to the de
ad siblings was a hideous way out. How could I be so unkind! I couldn’t get rid of this wretched feeling as I clawed at my hair in an ugly fashion. That was embarrassing, for it must have looked awful, not to mention the sound of scratching, just like an ape. It occurred to me that my hair must look badly rumpled; that was the price for my sins. And then the vanity! With both hands I smoothed out my hair, while it would have been best to pull out my pocket comb, but I left it, feeling that I had already done enough damage. Fräulein Zinner took it all in stride, feeling that I didn’t deserve all this and speaking out of forgiveness.
“You get so dirty in the city. Here you can mention that you have a spot of soot on you, for no one gets upset. It’s not at all ill-mannered.”
“Yes, so much soot, and yet so little coal.”
She had placed the picture of the boy Eli next to his brother, Richard, again and shifted it around for a bit, as if it was particularly hard to set it down in precisely the same spot. She wasn’t being at all pedantic, but it felt like that to me; I pulled myself together in order to hide my disapproval, because Fräulein Zinner was suffering, her cheeks tired and lank, and then there was the dead brother, who deserved some small act of care. I could not transgress by showing any disapproval or discomfort, for commemorating the dead was to be honored, as was the memory of the dead. Just be, it occurred to me, just stand here, for I feared that I would seem too mawkish. Such senseless thoughts weighed me down. I pulled myself together in order to get hold of myself.
“That’s also a family picture.”
What I said was so shamefully dumb that I really did have to shift my demeanor and make it seem as if I meant it in an uninhibited manner. I reached out my hand, grabbed hold of the group portrait, and held it up in front of me. But even up close there was not much to see, all of it blurry, nothing at all to see, memory failing the contemplated picture, and therefore it no longer revealed anything, just a gray shadow, perhaps twilight, with light and dark flecks. I blinked in order to awaken my dreaming eyes, which worked, for there stood the picture again in its place, nor had I even picked it up. Why hadn’t I? All I had to do was handle it in a concerned fashion in order to be nice, Fräulein Zinner expecting me to do so, which she had a right to, though I didn’t give the slightest indication of doing so. Instead, I looked sharply at it, but without picking up the picture. The children were still small—Richard eight and Eli two, the sister around eleven—all of them frozen in their childhood, standing unchangeable outside of time, as if freedom were seized hold of in an eternal moment, though it was no freedom at all. An altogether different Zinner family, the daughter transformed, but still there, the others dead, buried memories that didn’t belong to me; how terrible to be surrounded by the dead! Eli fidgeting and irritable in his mother’s lap, she who only wanted a keepsake for her children. Richard leaning against his father, young and alert and conscious of the photographer, the father having the same expression as the later picture, just fresher and not so serious. In the middle stood a bashful smile full of hopeful expectation, playing the violin, the young girl standing between the parents, curls hanging on each side with little bows at the end.