by H. G. Adler
“—Professor James Kratzenstein, President of the International Society of Sociologists.”
We both laughed heartily at such jargon.
“If I want to pretend, all I have to do is read the blurb and not the book. I could just concentrate on the name under the blurb, for thus says the famous Professor Kratzenstein, and the work is anointed. But, I promise you, I won’t be that lazy.”
“We should be ashamed, Arthur. Here we are talking about this gibberish, and Anna is in despair. We’re so rude and unkind.”
“You’re right, Johanna. That’s enough. Sometimes I think the old mystic had it right in so many words, even if he didn’t understand it all himself, when he said, God, the Devil, the world, and everything is in our hearts. Only the admiring praise he showers on the heart I cannot go along with. Existence—how we live it—is confusing, too much for the heart, its ordeals swamping it, and we rarely say what’s clear, rarely what’s true. But let’s not be too hard on ourselves! We certainly have not at all grown callous. We observe the surgings of the ugly and horrible no more than the sublime, and especially the sweet and the tender, even the lovely.”
“The lovely, you say?”
“Yes, even the lovely. Rarely, I know, do I speak of it. But, believe me, what human beings are capable of and once were—something of that, a possibility, a reappearance, a shadow of it can also rise up within our breasts. Separated from everything, cast out as part of the last and strongest consequence of our lost Paradise. But something of this Paradise still remains—something that survives, that stands firm and will remain firm, all of us under one law and thus the same, but with a thousand different interpretations.”
“We should talk about it later. I can’t leave little Eva on her own too long. What’s the other letter?”
“Wait, I haven’t looked at the signature yet. Just remember that we can’t forget about poor Anna, even though its Resi Knispel, of all people, Resi Knispel!”
“Just a moment, I’ll look in on little Eva. I’ll be right back.”
I buried myself in the letter and with some effort deciphered it. Johanna didn’t keep me waiting long, having found that the little one was fine.
“What, then, does Resi Knispel want?”
“Let me read it. It’s not very long.”
I then read the letter:
My Dear Landau,
Aren’t you surprised that I’m writing you? I’ve meant to do so for so long, really for years. I said so to Haarburger and friends in his circle, but they probably didn’t say anything, and now I hear that you’ve ceased all contact with those people. At last, though that was some twenty months ago, I heard something about you from a fleeting acquaintance, Konirsch-Lenz. He said that you are in a bad way, that you’re lonely and have fallen out with the world and with people. That surprises me. That doesn’t jive with how I remember you. I asked Konirsch-Lenz to tell you to give me a call. Nothing came of it. More than likely, he didn’t let you know.
Now listen, Landau, come tomorrow or whenever you can, though not Saturday or Sunday. My address is above. It concerns a wonderful project, a journal. I need you as much as bread itself. Agreed? Greetings from
Resi Knispel
Eva’s voice cried out during these last words, so we couldn’t talk about it, while it was also already time for me to pick up Michael, who had been attending preschool for the past few weeks, since he turned five. I rushed out of the house in the direction of Toro Road, where at the corner I was met by a wet and snuffling Santi, the Simmondses’ dog, who barked a greeting and, jumping up with its front paws, soiled my coat. I shooed him away, at which he abruptly toddled off and I hurried along. The rain had ceased, only thin strands of it still dripping, the drops shining like the finest splinters of glass. How I had always loved this gentle shimmering, and before me I saw the mountain woods. I had entirely forgotten about Stereotyping Through Prejudice, as well as Resi Knispel, instead seeing the mountain woods, having perhaps thought of Anna, there where we walked along the border, while afterward she was across the border with her Helmut, the big, strapping man with the face of a boy.
The face of a boy called to me from the vestibule of the school, where he waited for me, hopping about and fidgeting, it being Michael, while I was a bit late. At this, I pushed away any thoughts save of him and turned to his good cheer. He was, if possible, more talkative than ever, and we were home before we knew it. At home, Eva called out, “Mi!Mi!,” which meant her brother, and he replied with “Evi, Evi, hihihi!” At this, his little sister cheered. Michael got his food, pleased by the honey, but his mother had to scold him for playing around with it. Then a banana caught his attention even more, and I had to make a little man appear from the peel. Eva was fed by Johanna, the two of us having some tea and eating a little something.
After the meal, I went back to my room and wrote to Anna. She should come as soon as possible. I couldn’t promise to find her a job, though both Johanna and I would try our best to help our friend in the time ahead, she needing also to see how well she liked this country and the metropolis. She just had to get here, and through her savvy life skills she would certainly soon find a suitable occupation, for everything would work out fine.
Then I leafed through Stereotyping Through Prejudice. The book didn’t seem all that bad, though there was nothing new in it, everything following the current fashion for many statistics, results of opinion research, including quotes, but pieced together with diligence and attention to order, and in a seemingly fluid style, even if in places it fell into loose and embarrassing violations of any kind of responsible use of language. Yet another book and yet again the gaping emptiness, I thought to myself. Why was it printed and recommended? Why did someone bother to stir up so much that was already known and done? I shoved the book to the side. Today, I didn’t want anything to do with it.
Then I picked up Resi Knispel’s letter. I couldn’t decide what I should do. This woman belonged to a world that had done me nothing but wrong; I wanted as little to do with it as it had to do with me. I was completely done with it and it all lay behind me; I simply didn’t know if I wanted to go knocking on that door again. Of course, working for a journal remained, as always, an enticing possibility, one where I could have an important influence, where I could state my views, which had been denied me everywhere else, refused me as a result of stupidity or nastiness or indifference. It could grant me, if it was well-intentioned, a free hand. But could I expect that? Didn’t Resi Knispel already belong to the corrupt literati in which scholarship and literature were mixed together in the mishmash of a reportage spouting off about everything but hardly grasping anything, peppered with sensations and a faux-modern style, all of it turned into a wretched journalistic stew? These cliques, with their disgusting wishy-washiness, where as a kind of victory lap I was supposed to be welcomed as a comrade-in-arms who didn’t see through such mischief, though I couldn’t let on about it, while despite honest efforts and novel achievements I was not seen as hostile—all of this I wanted nothing to do with whatsoever. I had finally accepted my social isolation and therefore could no longer curry favor, even if someone from there, whether out of curiosity or with good intent, lifted a pinkie for me.
But was it right to dismiss it all before I had even heard her out? I had to look into it. I just had to avoid senseless compromise, or take any promise seriously, refuse any improper impositions, as well as keep a watchful eye on the separation between my own aims and invidious requests. Either I would be taken for the person that I am, and allowed to have my say, or she would be willing to listen to me and allow me to accomplish something for which I would be responsible. If, nonetheless, it became clear that this was not what she had in mind, then I wouldn’t be disappointed, but cheerfully and calmly withdraw my name from consideration before I was even offered anything. I couldn’t be so dumb as to offer up all my effort and work for nothing the way I had done with Eberhard S.
That night I talked with Johanna
at length about whether I should just answer the letter with silence, politely decline, or look up Fräulein Knispel. Johanna worried that I would get upset if I let myself become involved with people like this again. She was happy to see that I had achieved a partial and tolerable sense of resignation, and advised sending a friendly note to decline or writing to ask for more information. I could reassure Johanna that I now knew enough already, that writing would only draw things out, that I felt I was above all trickery, and that I would take it all in stride, even if it was a sham.
The next day, I went to see Resi Knispel. She lived in a sleepy neighborhood with expansive gardens. It didn’t take me long to find the house, which seventy years ago would have been considered posh but had long since been neglected. The entrance to the uncared-for garden was open; the door to the house was perched above a flight of steps that were well worn and certainly not swept for many days. The door was closed, and to the side there were buzzers for each individual apartment, but only next to two buttons were there legible names, neither of which was Knispel. I took a chance and pressed one button and waited a few minutes. I was about to press another when I heard steps and the door opened. Fräulein Knispel stood within it.
“It’s wonderful that you came, Landau. It’s at least five years since we’ve seen each other. Or maybe even longer. Well, then, come on in!”
The wooden steps were covered with a worn carpet, the walls of the stairwell were gray with grime. Thus was I even more surprised by the apartment, with its unusually large rooms, everything modern and done in good taste, and furnished almost luxuriously. Resi Knispel led me through two rooms and then a third that was an office, a massive desk weighed down with books and manuscripts, the walls lined with full bookshelves, an open cabinet containing folders full of notes and letters, comfortable seating around a low table, cognac and glasses, little cakes and bonbons and cigarettes, and a man sitting there whom I didn’t recognize right away. Only when he stood up politely did it come to me that it was Herr Buxinger, the bookseller. We greeted each other, and I was asked to have a seat while being offered everything that was there. I had to answer a bevy of questions—how I was, how had I settled in, and what I did. While I wasn’t tight-lipped, I nonetheless remained cautious in responding. I also posed polite questions whose answers didn’t interest me whatsoever.
Soon I learned that Herr Buxinger indeed still had his bookshop. Though he complained that I had never paid him the honor of a visit, Buxinger now had a much smaller shop inside a courtyard, where he focused less on traffic from the street and instead did mainly distribution for some foreign publishers. He spoke badly of Jolan Haarburger, calling him an unfaithful friend who had nearly ruined him. When many years ago Buxinger was in a bad way, it seemed to him the most natural thing in the world to ask his childhood friend Haarburger for a loan. The clever fox was not a willing donor, but he couldn’t turn down the request, for in many ways he felt responsible for Buxinger, yet the loan did the bookseller little good, for now he owed the wily lawyer and had to dance to his tune. Haarburger got involved in the business, about which he knew nothing, and everything went downhill—the sales falling off, the receivables remaining uncollectable, the bills ever higher, the creditors ever more skeptical. When, finally, matters had gone too far, such that either Haarburger had to dig into his pockets once more or Buxinger had to turn over future control of the business, Haarburger did the dumbest and most despicable thing possible: he called in the loan on short notice. Buxinger didn’t feel at all ashamed and could say openly that he went bankrupt, all of it a mixture of bad luck and bad intentions. A legal bankruptcy, that he could certainly handle at great sacrifice, but not a burdensome settlement; he had to repay all of the loan, and it took a long time. And, best of all, this Haarburger, who had never made clear the length of the loan at the start, didn’t want to hear anything about an arranged settlement; it was either swift payment or legal action. Buxinger then had no choice but to sell his valuable collection of autographs of writers, musicians, and other famous figures. Just imagine, Goethe and Dickens, Chopin and Johann Strauss, and a long letter by Garibaldi. True, whenever one holds such a fire sale the prices are low, Herr Saubermann picking up the nicest items for chicken feed, while one even had to thank him for doing so. The proceeds from all this were not enough, such that Frau Buxinger’s jewelry also had to be used, as well as anything that had the slightest value, in order to pay this nemesis, Herr Haarburger, the entire sum at once, albeit without interest, which he had to relinquish in order to keep it all on the up and up. Could I even imagine it all was possible?
Oh, yes, that I could, and I wasn’t surprised at all. At this, Buxinger was as happy as a child. Of course, Resi Knispel, who still knew the Haarburgers, was not amused by Buxinger’s talk. She said that, yes, it was all unfortunately handled in a shoddy way, but even the best had their flaws, one had to understand that. She had tried to talk to Haarburger in good conscience, but he turned a deaf ear to it all. Well, that’s what happens, but now it was an old story upon which a lot of grass had grown. Buxinger wished to protest, yet Resi Knispel assured him that she understood his position, certainly. Nonetheless, there was no need to waste another word on it; we were here for another reason and wanted to speak about some practical matters. The bookseller agreed, and it was fine with me as well. But she had hardly finished making her useful recommendation and explaining that they wished to turn to the matter of the journal, when suddenly she switched back to Haarburger. Buxinger had to admit what he had always resented about Jolan—namely that Hannah was a gem about whom nothing bad could be said. Buxinger didn’t want to hear anything more about Hannah. She had aided and abetted everything her husband had done. He had not always been such a miser, just petty and anxious, but she was a monster. Sweet and flattering, yes, she could be that, but that was all part of her craft, for otherwise she knew just how to get her way. She was the one who had really tied Jolan up in knots; otherwise, the mishap would never have occurred. Fräulein Knispel was beside herself, because Buxinger didn’t have a single good thing to say about Frau Haarburger—terrible, he should stop, she’s a good-hearted soul, didn’t he know that? Fräulein Knispel wanted me to acknowledge this well-intentioned view. When I obviously and coolly held back from doing so, there was no end to her astonishment, for even today Hannah still asked after my wife, as she liked her very much and always wanted to know what would make Johanna feel good. I’d had enough of such talk, and so it was I this time who wanted to change the subject.
“Could I perhaps hear a bit more about the journal?”
“Yes, fine. Landau and Buxi, private battles lead to nothing, that’s what I think, and at some point some kind of reconciliation will occur. Then you’ll extend hands to one another as best friends.”
“What about the journal?” I asked intently.
“Yes, the journal. It will be fantastic. Do you want to be a part of it, Landau?”
“I can’t make any promises without learning more.”
“Buxinger will be the publisher.”
“That sounds great!” I said.
“But only as a straw man. He will lend his name and experience, and he’ll oversee sales.”
“That is, if there are any,” said Buxinger cautiously.
“Go on, enough of that, Buxi! You’re a killjoy. You yourself have been the one most excited about the idea from the start.”
“Hopefully, then,” he said politely.
“Okay, then, I will actually run the firm, but behind the scenes. I have to maneuver carefully. Once the journal is up on its feet, then I can jump in for real. My work with the Swiss press will continue, for it can only be of help, what with the contacts, the literary agents—you know, of course, Landau, that’s what I do. I won’t give that up. Sometimes one can make discoveries there and bring together excellent contributors. A journal stands or falls with its contributors.”
“What kind of journal will it be, Fräulein Knispel?”
“You’ll soon hear. Tell me, I recall, and someone said to me a couple of times, you write about all kinds of things, don’t you, Landau? Sociology, suffering, misery, and such. You’re at home with all of it, yes?”
“Yes, if you wish to put it that way.”
“Do you already have a book out?”
“No, not out—inside, inside the desk drawer.”
“That’s no good. You have to bring it out! It’s worthless inside the desk drawer.”
“That could be, Fräulein Knispel.”
“Well, then. You are sensible. And why isn’t it out? Too much time spent in the ivory tower? Too learned? Too lofty?”
“I’ve been unlucky, one might say. But I’ve come to terms with that.”
“Your writing needs to be snappy; I can help you with that. What with your talent! You need to grab hold of people, carry them along. That indefinable something—that’s what you need to be successful. Well, Landau, do you want to give it a try—trust me for once? I’ll give it my all, guaranteed.”
“I don’t think you’ll have much luck with it.”
“Let me worry about that. Bring me something and I’ll read it; you’ll have my unvarnished opinion. Maybe there’s nothing. But if there’s something to it, and I think there is, then I can do something with it. Isn’t that true, Buxi?”
“But of course, Resi. You can count on it, Herr Landau. Only that which is purely literary cannot be used, no artsy novels. But, hopefully, it’s not that kind of stuff, is it?”
“No, no,” I whispered, half in apology, half in embarrassment.
“Listen, Landau, I have some top-notch journalists who can rewrite your dense scholarly prose so that it flows like light and sweet wine. Then I’ll place it wherever you want.”
“Couldn’t I now at least learn a bit more about the journal, Fräulein Knispel?”
“You certainly haven’t written just a bunch of heavy stuff, have you?”