by H. G. Adler
Frau Dr. Kulka kept on talking to me for a while, telling me that we shouldn’t let ourselves be led by sentimental concerns, and not just because there was often a tragic past tied to our valuables, weighty histories about which it was best not to know. What is past is past, and now we had to think of the future, of the building of peace and freedom, which depended on the common welfare, and this was the sense in which I finally needed to consider the museum and its message. Someone who handled things as impulsively as I did was a nuisance, no matter how noble his views, and while I worked with almost excessive diligence, at the same time all my efforts ended up for naught and left everything in disarray. Frau Dr. Kulka compared me to a builder who each day erected his wall brick by brick in long rows, after which I would hurry by with a crowbar and knock out some bricks down low, such that the entire structure collapsed.
I would have liked to respond, but it seemed pointless. I gave in and promised with a dry mouth not to give any more tours to anyone and to share only information that my superiors passed on to me on behalf of the trustees. I had long since decided to leave the country, but at the moment, while having to solemnly swear my allegiance to Frau Dr. Kulka, I also swore to myself, no matter the obstacles, to get out of there, even if the plans I had in mind proved untenable. Away from here, away! I almost said it aloud, but I bit my tongue and pressed my lips together, which the director took to be as good as a spoken promise, since she had cleared the air. With the salutation “Now let’s be friends!,” the guardian of the thievery concluded her lecture. Frau Dr. Kulka said goodbye and walked off; I could hear her high heels echoing sharply as she quickly descended the stairs.
I opened the door and wanted to call out to her, “Away from here, away!,” but I just whispered it. This had nothing to do with being clever or careful; an immense pain had choked off my voice. I closed the door again and could now do nothing but wait, having realized that at any moment Anna would arrive. She shouldn’t see what kind of awful time I’d just been through. Away from here, away! I paced back and forth in my little room and kept hearing the same phrase repeated: Away from here, away! It wouldn’t be dark for a while, yet the sky had dimmed, the light dirty and sullen, not at all that of late summer, stale fumes pouring through the open window. I wanted to close it, but when I saw how depressing the panes that had not been cleaned in a while looked, I let it stand open—Away from here, away!—and began to pace back and forth restlessly again, picking up the wrapped purse and carrying it to the other end of the room before turning back without it, then turning back—away from here, away!—to pick up the purse again, put it down elsewhere, just a bit farther, and so on and so forth in an extremely drowsy manner. Away from here, away!
Where was Anna? Look at your watch. Don’t look at your watch. No watch. Before the invention of time, waiting, not a waiting period, just waiting. Wait on, wait on! I had to sit down, without a watch, without time, just sit and wait. I was tired; my nerves were frayed, then they cramped up—I was painfully done in. Away from here! My past was to blame for it all. How was it possible to get through it without any knowledge of time? What I had suffered; what had I suffered? Just wait! I still went back and forth on whether any of the blame rested with me. About my fate, as was said, I could do nothing. Once it had arrived, it was inescapable. I should have got out earlier with Franziska, away, but there was no way for her parents to get out, and so we couldn’t leave but had to stay; not leave them alone, just wait. Responsibilities had to be met, and if I wasn’t able to save anyone I didn’t wish to remain on the earth another day, but I should have handled it differently back then. Was there time? Only waiting, waiting it out; how could I flee? But that I stayed behind, no one could forgive me that, not those who never had to flee and never wanted to or could think what someone like me had gone through, that there were consequences that resulted which kept me from ever staying on the usual track.
Oh, what escape was there? Only to there, only to there! Why was I shamefully hiding from myself that I was changed as a result of what I had been through—Away from here, away!—someone whose past was nothing more than a graveyard, a place of rest (oh, how I felt it to be a place of rest without rest), and who had to separate himself from others, unable to join in, his perceptions different from those of others, his life one of waiting without arriving, bestowed with a different measure and grounding. He has left behind all of his dwellings, knows nothing more than the meager trove of memory, but cannot grasp anything that was once his, though he comes to understand that a remembrance exists when thought, and that it should not be remembered, but thus is a remembrance welling up, out of which something is said. I have seen what wells up inside me, not having fled it; I was there, on the spot, having reported. And thus one is no longer a part of the world that he once took to be his own. He has not fled in order to be, to be there! But, rather, that he remembers, that he exists, where he is and to see what has welled up, and by which the world still suffers.
Often, I feel like someone who has been left behind, shaking with astonishment and almost buckling before the fact that, despite everything, “I am” and “I was” are the same, the same and yet etched by time, by the tides of time, and by time’s lessons. That is simply unthinkable, and nothing can change it, for not only are things missing, the cellar empty, the prayers having erupted, there was also no call that said “Hear Me!” anymore, everything unheard, no one heard any longer, no subject and no object by which I am able to recognize myself, though they still say remember, remember! Not only my family from back then—Away from here; oh, remember, was it a family?—but almost everything else is missing. What a cabinet full of harm is shut here, and almost everything missing, whereby generally people open up their gaping chasms and, however faintheartedly, still bridge them. The wall is too high and too wide, but no shoring up of memory that, out of the need to bear witness, rises up shakily, no people from back then who would also be people I know today. Sure, I know some here and there—what is taking Anna so long?—which poor memory still links to my past, but that is poor memory, the links becoming far too shaky for me to travel along. What good can it do, for example, if I find someone today who knows the city of my earlier life and even comes from it, when he is not a part of the circle in which I grew up and which held me, So-and-So, and so and so, already having left. Or, once again, I happen to meet someone I once knew in passing, but she doesn’t remember anything, or she recalls everything differently than do I and can’t remember anything that could mean anything to me. Such people, whom I both fear and am amazed at, make me uneasy; when I’m around them, I feel completely exposed.
Why is Anna taking so long?
No matter how well things go with people, soon a threshold is reached at which we must separate, there being no way for me to get away, and a gap in the unfolding of our already distant relations betrays what seems at first to be seamless, this being the years in which we were not together, in which nothing happened that could allow us to feel something shared. Then there is something missing between us, and I am indeed satisfied that, through careful explanation, we can dispense with every last experience we might have shared. The lack of such connections, which I mourn, is the continuity of life that separates me from my postwar colleagues. Certainly there are thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, who feel the same, but these loners cannot find one another, since they suffer the same life on their own. They come from many races and many places, and they have experienced different fates and must seek different partings of the ways until all are stamped by a different coin, strangers to themselves and certainly strangers to one another, and, most of all, strangers to and alienated by the millions for whom the continuity of life was never broken, because they were not hurt as badly or could save something, the possibility of visiting familiar places not out of the question, the nearness of a relative or that of a sympathetic friend, a little box of family pictures, a bundle of sacred letters, a chest of tantalizing books that were sent out—not
stolen and not rotting—a childhood diary filled with sprawling script, propelled by the hope of a horizon that is arrived at.
But when all of this is gone, unreachably far away, in part no longer possible, in part no longer perceivable, then only halting memory holds them, compelling me now to remember, it becoming clear to me that man cannot live by intellect alone. In fact, intellect has been overvalued, because man too crudely engages with the sensory and drowns in it. Man beheld everything in abundance—things, devices, and the infinite set of possessions that he got lost in. Then man got used to it and knew the treasures that he observed in his mind, no longer needing to savor them, although he often desired more from them or, worse yet, longed for other things. That’s when it became clear that man did not appreciate what intellect is and what comes from it. Then avid admonishers appeared who warned against such supposed plunder, saying that it was fleeting, wanting to make the precious riches seem foolish, the truth being that they were despicable, meanwhile showering the intellect with lavish praise. Many were uncomfortable with this, beginning to feel hunger amid the amplitude of their disappearing possessions, their self-awareness crumbling to nothing, as then they praised intellect with faces enraptured. Though the people themselves, however, were bereft of earthly goods they could number, they were nonetheless always taken care of, the beneficiaries of manifest actual property they had inherited, earned, and never entirely forsaken amid their meager misery. None of them were robbed of their last threads, managing to get through much that was terrible, horribly stripped of so much, denied their human rights, yet still finding a way to remain, somehow sustained, returning to vouchsafed goods, once owned, and again bestowed upon them, and yet not wanting any overabundance, no longer everything, only a little allowed again, and certainly not everything as it used to be but nonetheless welcoming something of it, having indeed inherited something. If this was not allowed, then they were no less shrewd at bartering, scoring something they longed for. When they remembered, the past and the present blended together, there being no essential difference between the two. If they preferred not to remember, or not much at all, things went badly for them, revitalized only by the knowledge of the wrong done them and comforted, they being the bridge over which they walked, striking out on a new beginning and prepared for a new order.
That’s not what happened to me. I cannot and may not return; the bridge has collapsed, there is no ground beneath my feet, and I have no means to exist other than through the intellect. Since then, I know that intellect alone cannot encompass all of reality, which is why it is no means to exist; it is only a dangerous enticement, certainly worthwhile if one has a means to exist, but a torrid fire that dries out all your wits when you lack sustenance. Desires, memories, and hopes—they all enhance life. But life does not consist of them, nor can they alone ever amount to life, and certainly they don’t contain it. It’s true—I can’t deny it—that I once again have so much, much more than I could ever have expected to have, or even wished for, just a few years ago, though it has all run together as one and has been tossed together into this building, which is hardly suited to it.
But what is this? Away from here … away! Is that what I hear? Is it sleep that it’s interrupting? The rapping of time in my sleep? I can no longer wait. I must remember; away sleep, away sleep. There it is again, hard on the door. I tore myself from sleep and jumped up from the chair, shaking away the confusion. It was time, myself already in full stride, bursting out the door. Anna must be standing outside. It was raining; I couldn’t dawdle. Out the room, down the hall, and opening the door. There stood the mailman in his rain poncho, patient, a compassionate man who just waved away my apology. He handed me a little package that was a book, which was why he had knocked, giving me two letters as well, all of them damp with rain. I thanked him, the mailman already heading off toward his bicycle, delivering his messages in the pouring rain. I closed the door and hurried back to my room. Anna had not arrived, but she had written, her clear handwriting before me, covered with rain, as if tears had fallen upon it. The other letter, from the city, had a fancy look about it that I did not recognize. I set this letter and the book aside and read what Anna had to say after a silence that had lasted almost a year.
Dearest Johanna and Arthur,
It’s been a long while since we heard from each other. Very long, too long, or it’s just a short while. I don’t know. When so much is going on, it’s hard to know how long it’s been. The last I heard from you was the news of Eva’s birth. She must be over a year old by now—a clever, wise little girl. I would love to see her, as well as all of you. Will it be possible? Patience! Alas, it’s hard to write such a letter. Please be patient, and one thing will follow another. Michael must now be five. The children must indeed be growing up; one can speak reasonably with them, and they comprehend so much. What are you like as parents? Certainly splendid. Though you don’t put up with any nonsense.
How shall I begin to tell you my story? I can’t, or at least there’s no gentle way to do so. So listen! Helmut died three days ago, quite unexpectedly. We just buried him yesterday, in a sad new cemetery far outside the city. There were no prior signs, no warning, no last words said; it was all over in an hour. Helmut must have had a problem with his heart that was never diagnosed. Alas, it does no good to dwell on what he did or didn’t have. Suddenly, at breakfast, he was feeling fine and chipper, then he collapsed, gone in a second, not another word, never regaining consciousness. It was awful. I ran to the neighbor, who got a doctor from next door, and he arrived in a few minutes, me having stretched Helmut out on a couch, his arms dangling, his eyes—oh, his eyes looked terrible—and the doctor worked on him for a while. He said it was a massive heart attack. This and that was taken care of, and he helped me bring Helmut back to bed. What happened between his death and the funeral I cannot tell you.
I’m sure this comes as a shock to you, my dears. Oh, it’s so terrible. I can still see Hermann standing before me, sweetly and movingly saying goodbye before heading off to the Eastern Front, and now Helmut is gone as well. I just can’t believe it. I can’t think about my situation too much, but everything has become strange for me here, even if there are good people who thoughtfully keep an eye out for me. But they are strangers to me; I have no place here any longer. And I have only one wish: Away from here, away! Last night I dreamed of Helmut, and he said, Get away from here; it’s not good for you here!
Do you think, Arthur, that I could come to you both? Or is that crazy? I would be willing to do anything. The lowliest job would be fine with me, the best possibilities being the care of the blind, raising blind children, for I know Braille and everything necessary. I’ve been trained, and as a girl and during the war years I worked as a teacher of the blind. But there are also other things I could do. Help me, if you can. I simply must get away! At least give me some advice. I know that it’s hard, and that you have your own worries (hopefully, things have gotten better), but please don’t fail me now and be there for me! The language won’t pose any problem. Nor is getting there a problem, that I know, for I can pull together the money. If you could let me stay with you for a short while and could send me an invitation, I can then present it and in a few weeks could be on my way, as long as everything is in order. I would love to help out, dear Johanna, with Michael and Eva.
Write to me soon! I have never waited so intensely for a letter. Include a little picture of the children, if you can, and a formal invitation.
Perhaps you’ll be interested to know, Arthur, that a short while ago Peter wrote us—oh, how bitter it is to write “us”—from Wellington. Things go well for him in New Zealand, and he’s very much the same dear old good-for-nothing nitwit. He also asked about you two. But enough now. And don’t be angry! No, you can’t be angry at someone this sad, and who remains ever faithfully yours,
Anna
I walked straight to Johanna in her room and showed her the letter. She read it while I played with Eva, who was crawling
around her playpen and shrieking with pleasure. I fancied myself a proud father, to my credit. Johanna said we had to help Anna right away and invite her. Eva, who felt neglected and was protesting strongly as we spoke, was soothed by her mother as she turned her attention to her new rattle. We left the child alone in her playpen and went to my study, where we considered what we needed to do to get ready. Anna should live with us as long as was necessary. The rest would work itself out.
Then I said to Johanna that there had been some other mail as well. She opened the little package that contained the promised book of a young sociologist with the title Stereotyping Through Prejudice. On the cover there was a blurb signed by Kratzenstein, whose style stirred rollicking laughter in Johanna. At this I stopped trying to make out the crabbed writing of the other letter and listened to Johanna read Kratzenstein’s praise aloud:
“The author responsibly undertakes to come up with answers to the most burning problems of our time through this probing existential study that fathoms the role of prejudice in causing our ills, and which is based on stereotypes. Within the intellectual confines of the scholarly appreciation of essential structures, he desires to use cool-handed methods of sober analysis to put his finger without fear or shyness on one of the hot spots of our day, but also to be a sensitive friend to man and a helping doctor who knows the worth of a real and manifest understanding of existence. After the careful exclusion of all utopian theories, the needs of all those threatened and oppressed are examined layer by layer through the piercing insight of sociology and the only possible solution revealed in the prescription of a humane democracy. I wish this impressive accomplishment great success.