by H. G. Adler
They listened to me, Frau Dr. Kulka thinking before she answered.
“When it occurs but has already happened and is already over, then it is history. But, of course, it has to be designated as such at some point in order to be known.”
“And you have to bring it into a museum when it is adequate and can still be transported, when you can call it historical evidence, right, Frau Doctor?”
“Yes.”
“But often it’s still alive and is not gone by. As an object it presents itself, is there, or, I would say, is manifestly there, not as a piece of evidence but as a witness in itself, and yet it’s supposed to be an object! Please don’t think it mad or a paranoid obsession when I also find it haunting and horrible! I disagree completely. All of us, all of us here together, are history.”
“Then a museum is a good place for us,” joked Herr Schnabelberger.
“You are totally right. We are remnant survivors, who are there for all who are not. That’s true in general; the living are there for the dead, for their predecessors, and thus we also represent the history of the dead. How difficult it is, then, to exist as oneself when we are also history, so much history! But we are particularly there for all those dragged away by force and annihilated. You know what I mean, those of whom not a trace … We are the history of the exterminated, the history of the shadow that consumed them. And we collect what was stolen from them, what we can store up of their remains. But that is indeed alive and really not history. It amounts to neither memory nor keepsakes; it is commemoration. It really hangs somewhere between history and an event, a fragile condition, yes? And, with that, hopefully I have explained well enough why it occurs to me to speak of the portraits as patients. I take that to be my charge, and so I see those who have been painted as living and possessed of a fate, indeed as persons, not at all as objects, and it pains me to think of how badly they live here among us, badly locked up in cages and castigated, covered in layers of dust, while the blood of those murdered can hardly be washed away. Anyone who finds themselves in this situation—”
“Listen,” Frau Dr. Kulka interrupted intensely, but sympathetically, “you’re dealing with horrendous problems. But these problems don’t exist, they’re chimeras. You have to recognize the illness that you are projecting onto the world around you. You are very wounded, it’s no wonder. If I were in your shoes, I’d look for medical help in order to conquer these horrible visions. I’d also try to get out more when you’re done with work. What you’ve accomplished is extraordinary. Herr Schnabelberger and I both appreciate that, as do the curators. You are managing a huge workload; it’s almost too much. But I have to warn you, the way you are going about it is no longer healthy. Although I don’t want to upset you, I’m afraid there’s no way that you can continue at the museum in your present circumstances.”
“If you don’t want me here, then I can leave.”
“Please, Herr Doctor, don’t be so sensitive! Frau Dr. Kulka wasn’t saying anything bad about you. On the contrary. Her concerns are quite justifiable. Anyone would have them, including me.”
“I sense that both of you are not happy with me, especially Frau Doctor. I can feel it in every word.”
“Don’t talk such nonsense! I only want—and I know that Herr Schnabelberger agrees—that you have a healthy relation to life and especially to the museum. We mean well and want you to stay at the museum, not leave it.”
“You know, you’ve just said what frightens me so: life in the museum. That’s exactly it. We are a hospital, or not even that, a center for anatomical pathology. We deal with what is wounded and deteriorating. We take away the remaining life from things. Numerous specimens. In the process, we run the danger of wounding or killing ourselves. We don’t realize that we are doing away with the connection between us and the paintings, artifacts, and writings. Thus we divest ourselves of these things, and that could one day come back to haunt us. But by then it will be too late.”
Frau Dr. Kulka was impatient, but Herr Schnabelberger spoke to her and tried to calm me down as well.
“Each person has a particular relationship to our museum and to history, and, of course, to his own life. Our tasks here are unusual. We have to take care of the legacy of a catastrophe, and we do not know how the will reads. The three of us have our own views about it, but we also have to serve the trustees, the museum field in general, the ministry, and, not least, the government. Therefore there is no point in our fighting. Most likely, no one has ever had to fulfill a similar function before. Dr. Landau and I accidentally got tangled up in this. As an electrical engineer and a sociologist, neither of us is an expert in museums. We are, however, trying to accomplish something here. I was sent here during the war, but I confess, I still have the same fire, the work still interests me, I cannot pull myself away from it, and I remain just as inspired by it as when I first returned. What do I care about alternating current, continuous current, phases, rheostats, and all that? I would no longer feel as comfortable in an electronics factory as I do here. When it comes to an induction of energy, my friends, I have devoted body and soul to the museum. For Dr. Landau, the situation is different, as he came here voluntarily. Because he felt the need to and thought he could be of help to us. And that he has done splendidly. In terms of building the museum collection, you are the only art historian, Frau Doctor. So that’s the way things stand, and that’s why we have to stick together and not be too sensitive. The museum needs us, and we know our duty. So we need to get along!”
Frau Dr. Kulka and I agreed.
“I can see,” she said, “that it’s not easy for Dr. Landau. But, nonetheless, he has to try to appreciate my viewpoint and the objects themselves that our museum is meant to serve. Feelings are all well and good, we all have them, but we have to be practical. The catastrophe has happened, we cannot change it. Now it is over. Therefore one must also free oneself internally from it and make the best of what is left for us to save. That can only happen if you don’t torment yourself and others as well. There are still many beautiful things, and we want to protect them and preserve them for the future. We are all agreed on that. But without optimism that won’t happen. That’s why I ask for a bit of courage! We want to ensure that everything is not pointless and lost. Of course, I have no trouble with how Dr. Landau thinks, as long as the museum doesn’t suffer as a result of it. But I wish you could find a way to extricate yourself from your past, from all those horrible things that happened to you. It happened to others as well, to some just as bad, to many not as bad, to others even worse, and they nonetheless courageously, and even with a sense of humor, go on with their postwar lives. You cannot simply turn away from all pleasures as you do. You never go to the movies, you turn down invitations, you don’t go on outings—my dear friend, no wonder you’re so gloomy! Go out and have a laugh for once! It’s unbearable to watch you sit there with your eyes swelling like sad flowers, a complete loner who sits stock-still in a hole, staring at a wall and not noticing how to the right and the left paths are completely free. You simply have to decide for yourself, and soon everything will work out.”
“Madam—”
“Oh, please don’t call me madam! You know how I can’t stand that.”
“Frau Doctor, what you say is completely right for you. When it comes to such questions, one can only decide for oneself. For me, things are different. I certainly would like, as Herr Schnabelberger put it so well, to work with you and everyone at the museum in a pleasant manner, without calling too much attention to my idiosyncrasies. I also don’t want anything more to do with the old prayer books that are moldering away in the cellar. I’ve had enough to do with them already. Perhaps my manner is heavy-handed, for I have the feeling that I often bring up matters that you don’t agree with. Please forgive me—I don’t mean anything bad by it!”
“You don’t have to apologize!” Frau Dr. Kulka and Herr Schnabelberger called out simultaneously.
“Oh, yes, I do. I also promise you that I
will do everything I can to help things run smoothly. But for me nothing is simple. It’s not possible for me to be optimistic without being thoughtless. I couldn’t bear that. The confusion between history and the present is all I have; it lies at the core of my being. It goes best for me if I don’t separate the two. Then they run parallel to each other and finally merge as one. No doubt there still must be borders between them, and I can’t think of borders being impenetrable. Crossings over and through must remain open, as the case may be and according to how one sees it, or at least be maintained as possible. It’s at these borders that I find myself, having experienced my own history. Only when I can imagine that do I grasp that I have survived, and by that I mean to have survived myself and my history. That causes me a great deal of distress and difficulties, but not despair. No. I fight against despair, but I plunge into distress and stand, I must say paradoxically, faced with the task of trying to find a task. I actually do not have a task but, rather, I know only that I must have one. That is what I’m looking for. I must therefore seek something. Only through this effort, it seems to me, can I rise a bit above history, and that’s why I cannot abandon my gloomy torments. It is the only means by which to attain my future liberation. Please believe me, it is not a psychological problem, nor can any doctor treat it, nor should one.”
Frau Dr. Kulka wanted to respond, but Herr Schnabelberger seemed to feel that this would only prolong a fruitless conversation, being afraid as well, although he didn’t completely agree with me and didn’t understand it all, that any misunderstandings on the part of the Frau Doctor could lead to something derogatory being said. He wanted to spare me from being upset. Therefore he spoke in a conciliatory manner and explained that it was now clear how I thought about matters; for that, I deserved consideration and all due respect, but the position of Frau Dr. Kulka must be valued just as much, without which the museum would have to close, something that I, Landau, certainly must know and acknowledge. Therefore it would certainly be best to break off our rich and clarifying talk, which had granted all three of us useful things to think about.
“That helps to clear the air, doesn’t it, and now we need to get to work.”
Frau Dr. Kulka extended her hand in reconciliation. I wanted to discuss with her some technical matters having to do with work, but she wanted to speak with Herr Schnabelberger about a shipment of another load of prayer books to America, telling me that anytime today, if possible, I could stop in at her office at my convenience. So I left the room, after which Herr Schnabelberger gave my hand a friendly shake and patted me on the back in a comforting manner. Humming, I climbed the steps to my office, not at all a good student, though I had indeed been praised, the teachers having been tolerant and conscientious in cheering on the afflicted one and not scaring him off. The portraits in the stairwell looked at me more studiously than ever, their curiosity about their fellow student being too much to contain. They asked, How did it go? I nodded at them, but I had nothing to report and continued humming until I reached my office. There I arranged some lists that I needed for a report. I had been asked to give a general overview of the condition, worth, quality, and special meaning of my schoolmates.
I didn’t remain undisturbed with my work for long. Someone sent someone from the central office up to me, saying that I should come, as there was a visitor from abroad who wanted information and a tour. I put on my black work jacket and ran down to greet the guests. Herr Schnabelberger was chatting with them in the main office, the former conference room of the school. I could see that he had no time and really wanted me to take over for him. He introduced Herr Dr. Landau, who can help you with everything, to Herr and Frau Lever from Johannesburg. After bows and quick handshakes accompanied by smiles, Herr Schnabelberger excused himself and left the room in a hurry. I invited the guests to view our assembled, though not yet publicly available, collection. For that we need to go down the street, for no, there was hardly anything to see here in the old school, just storage and administrative offices, but around the corner in the temple, in the hermitage, there the exhibition is already flourishing, and that’s where we wanted to go. Herr Geschlieder gave me the key, and so I accompanied the guests along the street. It hasn’t changed at all, said Herr Lever from Johannesburg. His wife shook her head uncertainly. I couldn’t tell if she was agreeing or disagreeing, but it seemed as if the lady had not had much prior experience of our city. Therefore she didn’t know for sure whether it had changed much or not. I was very polite and didn’t say whether things had changed, but Herr Lever wasn’t comfortable with me holding back, as he certainly wanted to hear my opinion. He said that after having been away for eight years, that being how long it had been for him, the time having flown by, it was curious how one came back and looked and looked at all the houses that were the same as they once had been, the streets having the same names, as well as the shops and cafés, the castle with its dome, the incomparable feel and the air and the food—in short, all of it as glorious as it had been in childhood.
These observations proceeded until we encountered an old man, who looked at me inquisitively and appeared to recognize me. I was unsure and didn’t remember him at all, though I greeted him warmly as if I knew him. Landau, the man said happily, it’s Landau; then I recognized the voice. It was Professor Hilarius Prenzel, my old high-school teacher. He was happy to see me, thinking that he would not see me alive again, for he thought that before the war I had fled abroad. Manners dictated that I introduce the Levers to Prenzel. I wanted to quickly ask for my teacher’s address, and I promised him I would visit him soon. No, no, insisted my professor, for he would not accept that I was unavailable right now. In order to do something with the man and woman, I assured him I would and tried to say goodbye. But Prenzel wasn’t willing to give me any consideration and wouldn’t let me go. I turned toward Herr Lever while making silent gestures explaining that I was meeting someone after many years, and he finally assured me that a few minutes didn’t matter. Prenzel could not believe how I had changed, but a good teacher recognizes his students even after decades. Everything had changed, he said sadly, the entire city, only the empty shells of buildings still there, which soon no one would recognize, a fading history that was hardly perceivable any longer. Only a few of his students were supposedly there, some having emigrated, others having been hauled off or gone off to war, whether killed or captured, hardly any more left, and whoever was there had to or wanted to leave. And did I know anything about my classmates? No, nothing, no more contact, nor did I know what had happened to them, only Arno Seiler. Yes, Arno Seiler, he remembered him. Whatever happened to him? Unfortunately, not much. He became political, then was killed. And the students from other classes? Recently, a letter from So-and-So—that’s Leonard Kauders. He had sent along greetings to Prenzel. Oh him, that’s nice, for he was the best in his class at history, though he wasn’t always that good with dates. Thank him for the greetings, and return my warmest. Everything has changed, Landau, everything, really everything. And Prenzel himself, did he have to leave? No, he could stay because of his wife, and there was also a nice nephew who had influence.
That was comforting news that I took as a chance for me to leave. Yes, I would be in touch, I promised for sure, but now I had to hurry off. During this conversation, which had at first made them uncomfortable, Herr and Frau Lever had slowly gone on ahead, then stopped and looked back expectantly at me. I tore myself away from Prenzel, who called after me, “Landau, you yourself are a piece of a past that no longer exists. Be well!” Ah, that old saying of his, which I hadn’t heard in a long time, long gone, and yet still there—a passage that still resounded in my ears! Exhausted, I suppressed a sense of disorientation as I reached my museum guests. Herr Lever waved away my apology and began to go on again about how little had changed. If you looked around here, who could say that it wasn’t just yesterday that you had been here, and that’s why everything seemed the same as ever. He was quiet a moment, before he went on reflectively, s
aying, Yes, if you were here the entire time—the old man being someone who looked like someone who was here when the foreigners came and later left—then it probably felt completely different, which is why you needed to hear such opinions. After the encounter with Prenzel, I was even less prepared to share my own views—which were never at all fixed—with the couple from Johannesburg, and so I just talked in vague general terms, saying how it seemed changed, or not changed, one could take it any which way, which made it hard to say what it was really like; it depended on how you looked at it.
Herr Lever wasn’t satisfied; my evasions bothered him. I should not be so reserved, here, have a cigarette, and would I say that I could feel as comfortable in the city as I used to? I let on that you really couldn’t say, in general, and then, of course, there were the people. Certainly, the people, he said pensively, that seems the essential question, for they have been scattered across the world. The world used to be so large when people lived in a city and hardly ever left it, but now the world is indeed small, because people travel all over, home now being on the road, the good fortune of the airplane and the fast pace of news, but then you see the city, and once again everything is there, the question being whether one was ever away. I thoughtlessly agreed. I had heard similar talk so often, all of it riddled with helpless surprise, and that it was hard to see that something had collapsed, if only because the empty shells of buildings, as Prenzel knew, were not just carted away as rubble but, rather, the stones were still cemented together with strong mortar. And so out of the distance there arrived the weary, needy look of the former inhabitants, who wanted to see the old school, where there were neither old teachers nor the old students—alas, Prenzel brought this truth home to me even more sharply—while the visitors, with their clumsy halting steps, but otherwise not unafraid, were happy, not looking at all embarrassed and carrying themselves as if they knew everything, and wanting me to take note of that. I just needed to confirm that their overbearing confidence was justified. It was all quite correct, and, as for any doubts—no, I only had to reassure them.