by H. G. Adler
So it goes, year in and year out. The urgency rises, matters get more pressing. Nonetheless, to this day not the least change has been made in this immense activity and its emotional costs, the marvel of which is difficult to express. Whoever considers it realizes that very little has changed, perhaps even nothing. Letters are written, but perhaps too few are written, or maybe too many, and it could be that one should never have begun writing them at all. You continually await a response, whether annoyed or undaunted, and sometimes you say aloud, “If only a single writer could get a single response, even if it was just a word, an empty page!” But, as experience tells us, you cannot expect that a response will ever come; the countries get larger, the borders are farther, the urgency rises tremendously, the desire for news persists bitterly into nothingness, while, at the same time, loneliness gets ever deeper and larger. It’s pointless, today more so than yesterday, and tomorrow likely more so than today, but this doesn’t keep cold humanity from waiting with determination and concentrated patience for the great miracle to occur.
Winter gets colder and longer each year. Now the assertion is casually made that the desire for a response increases with the cold, because it is believed that by attaining the longed-for relationship with one’s friends the ice age will pass. The letter writers are mistaken, but they cannot admit it to themselves or to one another, for they wish to live and affirm themselves, they want to survive and achieve something, they having persevered from generation to generation, which has encouraged them to think that eventually they will be saved. They sit at home in their lairs and wait to be called, dreaming of the day when they can leave behind the awareness of good and evil, and at last be able to say to the unknown familiar recipient of their letters, “Lord, where are you?” But, as long as the Lord does not answer, each person affirms each day the truth of the ancient legends—namely, that each letter is like that first attempted toss of a stone at a lost Paradise.
When I first wrote down this story it was not as clear, least of all to me. I had conceived it as an allegory of a general fate that certainly said something about my own disposition but was not particularly attached to it. Meanwhile, my relationship to this story had evolved. It had conveyed something about me, I had grown fond of it, and I’d learned something from it. There was a lot that was still missing from it, and that I had to accept without totally giving in to such judgment, for it was important not to let my efforts go to waste. To give in but not to give up—that’s what was needed. To slam into the wall as if it were not there, to flatter and play about with it, as if it would let itself be conquered, yet to acknowledge it and not doubt such knowledge of it, accepting that it’s pointless to do so and will probably always be pointless. To exit the most secret depths with great vigor, as if victory were assured, and let myself be battered and defeated, pushed back, back into the hidden recesses! To hope for nothing and then to invoke the wondrous as if what I had never dared hope were already guaranteed. To write letters but not to expect an answer, though not to waste one’s desires by the hour writing to false idols but, rather, only to make a plea out of a continually obsessed conscience, a plea directed at someone beyond all borders.
This I did not grasp when I first arrived in the metropolis. I had left the country of my home and my parents, and it was right to do so, for I didn’t belong there anymore, as everything there had been destroyed, everything that I loved and needed, it all giving nothing back to me but, on the contrary, taking much more away by shutting me out, and because I knew that it faced a coming perdition that I believed I did not have to partake in, or could prevent, since it was no longer my perdition, nor should it rob me of my success, dignity, and existence, myself craving the chance to gain these very items in order to live again. This alone was a mistake. I also didn’t want to search for anything in the areas bordered by the mountain woods but, rather, far away from the shadows cast by extermination, in order to find a way to break free, to live, to accomplish something. This I failed to do. Whether that was good or bad I had no idea back then. Only Johanna could see from the beginning how it was with me, but she hid it from me, for she wanted to spare me. She also did not share her views with others, as she was afraid to hurt me through such insinuations.
Besides, because of my aggressive behavior and my outwardly healthy look (one saw this in many who had survived the same conditions that I had experienced in the war), people believed in my vigor. However, because of this belief people found it easy not to be concerned with me at all. All one had to do was be nice to this Landau character, and that was all it took, for he didn’t really need any help. Those who first called themselves my friends, such as So-and-So and others in the country, pulled away from me more and more with each passing month. Some avoided me; others beat about the bush, put me off, or informed me that I really needed to learn the ropes, that I would first have to learn how things worked here, and that it would have been better if I had come over before the war or at least immediately after it. But if I was now in the country and wanted to stay there, then there was no way that I should stay in the metropolis, where it was too expensive and hectic, since people with even more talent and skills than myself could not make a go of it. Academics had to live in shameful conditions, or they carried on doing undignified jobs, so who was I to think that as a nonresident I could simply get a post as a sociologist?
If I listened patiently to all of this and tried to appease the one giving such advice, then the allegations doubled, whether it be about what made me think to come here in the first place or that perhaps America was an option, but here, no way. As if I hadn’t explained it all a hundred times before, I would then carefully lay it out so that they could finally understand. They would nod, say yes, now they understood, but it was too bad that I didn’t go back where they needed me in the museum. Then they would pretend to sympathize with my view that, because of the chilly relations that had descended after the recent revolution, one lived as if in jail over there. Nonetheless, they would suggest that I saw things too bleakly, as there were certainly thousands of people there who were not at all unhappy. There must be millions of people who stayed behind, so it couldn’t be all that bad, and I shouldn’t take it all so seriously and needed to keep from getting caught up in so much talk about politics, nor should I totally rule out returning. Well, then, one really shouldn’t talk about it if it’s so upsetting. What I should really do is see to it that I regroup, as they called it, to quickly move to a little town where it was cheap and I could support myself and Johanna by teaching German or by entering some other useful profession, while, by the way, it would have been a lot smarter for her not to have given up her job months earlier than she really had to. Recalling Johanna’s condition—namely, when she was pregnant with Michael—they felt that I was irresponsible and were angry with me. To have a child as a have-not, that was criminal and crazy. I should just make sure to push on soon overseas to America, for there the rich Uncle Karl could help us.
After many months of pointless pleas and begging, I finally succeeded in getting Professor Kratzenstein to meet with me. However, he didn’t invite me to his apartment but instead met me at the offices of the International Society of Sociologists. I appeared punctually with several of my works in hand, as had been arranged. The building is situated in a quiet, genteel street. An attendant greeted me from his desk at the foot of the stairs and said to himself when I told him whom I was there to see, “Professor Kratzenstein? That’s too bad.” Today he apparently had no time at all, one meeting after another, in addition to which he had an unexpected visitor from Rome. The attendant would have been happy to set me out on the street, but I insisted so forcefully and continuously about having an appointment today and at this time that he finally gave in and called the Professor’s secretary. After a long discussion, I was to go up. As another attendant led me up the white-carpeted steps to the second floor and along a long hallway to the room, I shouldn’t have felt any sense of triumph, for the woman acknowledg
ed that I did indeed have an appointment, but, unless I was willing to make one for a different day, I would have to, as she said emphatically, wait a good while, as the Professor was really overwhelmed today, and was in an important meeting and was not to be disturbed. How long I’d have to wait she couldn’t tell—perhaps an hour, maybe less, but it could also take longer. Afterward, there was also a meeting that could not be moved, but the beginning of it could be pushed back a bit, and before it started the secretary, wishing to answer my pressing request, promised to see if the Professor could give me a quarter of an hour. The secretary offered me a chair, and so I sat there lost in the middle of the room and could only look on as she worked away at her typewriter.
After a while, I pulled a newspaper from my pocket. Whether the rustling of the paper disturbed the secretary I didn’t know; in any case, she said to me that it would likely be better for me to wait in the next room, where I could read and sit comfortably at a table. I agreed, and was satisfied when she assured me for the third time that she would certainly not forget me and would remind the Professor that I was there. Thus I waited. The time went by quickly, the many lovely books a joy to peruse. Then, suddenly, Professor Kratzenstein sprang into the room, though he entered through a different door than I had, nor had he yet learned from the secretary that I was there. He slapped his forehead in surprise as he looked right at me.
“My dear … dear … please forgive me. Remind me of your name again?”
“Landau. Arthur Landau.”
“Right. Herr Dr. Landau! Are you here to see me?”
“Yes, Professor. I have an appointment with you today.”
“So … you have an appointment. It’s lovely that you’ve come. We’ve met before, if I recall, at—”
“At Dr. Haarburger’s. That was already seven months ago.”
“Right, at Haarburger’s. A wonderful evening. Yes, I remember. We talked then about … it was very interesting … about a work of yours on—”
“On the sociology of oppressed people, Professor.”
“That was it, right. My goodness, you yourself have been through such an experience. How did you manage it! The fact that you’re not bitter and have maintained your love of scholarship, I congratulate you! Just wonderful, I say, wonderful! And we, of course, must do something for you, right?”
“Yes, that’s very nice of you, Professor. You might recall that we have spoken on the phone a number of times, and that I then—”
“Yes, yes, with my secretary and also with me. It was about—”
“I sent you, as you kindly recommended, one of my finished papers on the central aspects of my research. You kindly said on the telephone that you wished to see whether it could be delivered as a talk at a meeting of the small working group—”
“Right, right—I read it, I and my secretary as well. Interesting. And we wanted to consider—”
The other door opened, and the secretary appeared.
“I’ve been looking for you in the conference room and everywhere, Professor. There’s an urgent phone call!”
“I’ll be right back, Herr Doctor! It’ll just take a moment! Where is the phone, Frau Fixler?”
“In my office.”
The Professor stormed toward the secretary’s office, Frau Fixler following after him. I waited maybe ten minutes before the door opened again, though it wasn’t the Professor but the secretary who stepped in and explained to me that the Professor had only accidentally run into me, that the meeting was not at all over but the Professor had only happened to come out from it for a moment, and could I please remain patient. Perhaps another fifteen minutes. Frau Fixler went over to a bookshelf but didn’t find what she was looking for; most likely, it was the book I had taken down and leafed through on the table before me. I handed the book to the secretary, and she took it with a bittersweet smile. Then I was alone again and stood browsing before the shelves of books, for I didn’t want to sit at the table any longer.
Finally, my wait ended as Frau Fixler came to me and led me into the office of the Professor, who seemed less distracted now than earlier, though he was still plenty inattentive. At least he still seemed to know what my visit was about. On his desk he recognized the text of my talk, which lay open, so I could at least hope for the best. He asked me to sit down, while Frau Fixler brought us some tea and a tray with cookies. Then we were left undisturbed, not counting the many telephone calls for Kratzenstein that interrupted our conversation.
“As I already told you, I’ve read your text, Herr Doctor. It is certainly not bad, but you’ll allow me some honest criticism. For a presentation, it’s not lively enough. You won’t be surprised to hear that for publication it’s hardly ready as it currently stands. For a scholarly article, it’s written in too literary of a style, while for a literary review it’s first of all too long and secondly too dry.”
“I can change it any way that you like. I mean—”
“Yes, you certainly should change it, but I doubt that anything can really be done with it.”
“I should then—”
“I’ve informed Frau Fixler of the basic situation, as well as the scheduling arm of the working group, as well as others. I’ve tried as hard as I could. Despite all the errors, I am well aware of the virtues of your work—I mean, above all, your own personal experience, although one should not overvalue that. Despite my efforts, I was not successful in convincing the scheduling arm of the group to invite you to give a presentation or to attend any other meeting for the time being.”
“If I—”
“Don’t be too sad about it! Quite frankly, it’s no real big loss for you. With this subject matter, especially the way you address it, you would surely cause an uproar. I already told you that at Haarburger’s.”
“But it would be a great opportunity if—”
The telephone rang; the Professor could not respond. I soon figured out that it was Frau Saubermann, the beneficent wife of the factory owner, who was inviting Kratzenstein to a get-together. He said “very flattering” and other niceties and chatted longer than it seemed to me appropriate for a man with so much to do.
“Yes, if we … Where were we?”
“I had very much hoped to give a presentation, Professor, but you thought—”
“No, just get that out of your head! But I have something good for you. I have convinced the working group that it would be good for everyone if you were invited to the regular meetings. Frau Fixler has already noted it and sent you the invitation.”
“Many thanks!”
“There your experiences could sometimes be of use, but above all, and this is much more important, you’ll benefit from it, as you will learn how it’s done. The proper method and all that. That makes much more sense than a presentation, which will only make you look bad. Everything depends on a first impression, but that’s the way it is.”
I didn’t let on that I was beaten, for I wanted to defend my text and know more precisely what I should do in order to have it accepted. But that got me no further than my other pleas to consider my suggestions about doing a different presentation. In two or three years, the Professor reassured me, once I’d learned more and knew how to clear my throat and spit, perhaps we could consider the possibility once again, but no earlier. After this pronouncement it would have been a good time for me to leave, that I could sense, but it wasn’t so easy for me to let go of such a crucial opportunity to get Kratzenstein to hear more about my central work. Even if I no longer believed that he was the right man to talk to, every conversation I’d had with Haarburger, So-and-So, and other people indicated that one had to get to Kratzenstein. One word from him and a fellowship would be assured, for his influence decided it all.
The Professor consented, so good, I talked away, straight from the gut, he listening attentively, though also asking that I make it short, as time was pressing. I hardly said two sentences before he interrupted me. This kept happening more and more often, the Professor distracting me wit
h side issues, such that I lost confidence in the central argument and began to stutter. Kratzenstein then took the opportunity to give me a lecture about well-known matters that were already familiar to me and that were easily found in the literature. He couldn’t emphasize enough that all suffering, insofar as it was not based in human nature, was the result of economic conditions. The concentration camp, which resulted from a specific kind of exploitation, as well as everything else that made it so abominable, needed to be explained through social-psychological methods. Above all, collective aversion, which resulted from deep feelings of inferiority that are then compensated for through aggression, must be carefully analyzed. Kratzenstein’s platitudes, propped up with big words, soon had little to do with my thesis and wafted dully about my ears, completely dead, dogmatic declarations that did nothing but elicit the connections between multiple aspects and elucidate them. I said nothing, or just politely nodded. When at the end I asked what kind of support I could expect to have for my work, the Professor said, everything you need, he could certainly do something, even if not at the moment. Plans that had not yet been fully worked out needed to come to fruition, the next thing being for me to get going and to familiarize myself with the literature; one couldn’t cut one’s teeth on nothing.