by Hans Keilson
“We liked him so much too,” she said, as though he were already dead. Albrecht sat there and had to listen to everything.
Didn’t he know anything?
No, he was just as shocked as they were.
But they had spent so much time together, especially recently.
That’s exactly why it’s so shocking. Fritz hadn’t said a thing, it must have been part of his plan. He asked the stupid question: How did she know? Fritz went to see Kern on Monday, she’d told him so herself. Did he run away from there? He hadn’t thought anything was wrong when Fritz wasn’t in school that day.
Then, finally, wringing her handkerchief, Fritz’s mother told them the whole story that Albrecht already knew.… Not one photo, not one memento—he had burned it all beforehand. He’d been acting so strange recently, she said, she had asked him over and over again what was wrong but he never gave her a straight answer. And he hadn’t even trusted his best friend.
When Frau Fiedler got up to go, she took Albrecht in her arms and kissed him.
“The only thing that makes me feel better is that he has a little money with him, but will it be enough?”
“Yes, don’t worry about that,” Albrecht said suddenly. “He has money, he dropped hints to me once, he told me he could travel around the world with the money he’d saved.”
He came up with this little story quickly, to make Frau Fiedler feel better. She gave him her heartfelt thanks and left.
Albrecht and his parents stayed where they were, sitting around the cleared table, each with his or her own thoughts. Finally, Herr Seldersen stood up: he had to go back down to the store. He turned around in the doorway, thought for a second, and then said:
“He always had too much money at his fingertips. If he knew how hard it is to earn money, he would have thought better about all this.”
Albrecht leapt up; he couldn’t take this accusation calmly, but how could he answer? He didn’t have much time to think. In the end, he said nothing. He just stood there, young and in turmoil. What did his father know about inner struggles?
* * *
Time passed and everyone got used to Fritz not being there. At first everyone was talking about it, but gradually people’s interest petered out. There were new things happening, which were more important and required more attention. A shopkeeper had shot himself in the neighboring town, out of poverty, despair, shame, God knows what. His misery was at an end, although in fact he hadn’t been doing nearly as badly as all that, he could have stuck it out a little longer, but he didn’t want to wait. He shot himself.
“It’s a hell of a time we’re living in,” Herr Seldersen said. He spit into the fire, rubbed his hands together above the iron stove in the middle of his store, and said: “At least it’s nice and warm in here.”
He didn’t have much money in the register from that day, but it didn’t matter. He had recently started going through wild mood swings: he would come upstairs to the apartment in high spirits, looking satisfied even after a day with terrible sales, and say, “Now I’m upstairs, I don’t have to care about anything. Here at least I’ll have my peace and quiet.” But even upstairs, he couldn’t escape everything.
“We have it good, don’t we?” he would start up again. “A warm room, enough food for a good meal, who else can say that these days?”
It gave him visible pleasure when his thoughts ran along these lines; clearly it made him feel better. Mother said nothing except, “Yes, of course you’re right.” But secretly she still believed that they both deserved something more than a warm room and enough to eat. She kept her thoughts to herself, though. Why should she bring on another of his moods of despair? She was happy when Father suggested, on his own, that they take a little walk. They sat in a bar with a crowd of other people from the city, but alone at their own table, or else they went to the movies, though not without first considering the step from every angle. In the end, they did need to distract themselves a little, think different thoughts for an hour or two; it helped them when they came back to their everyday life. Then there were times when they both felt happy, for no particular reason. Father called her “my dear wife,” and hugged her and kissed her as he hadn’t for a long time. Mother pushed him away, no doubt a little ashamed. In her confusion, the words escaped her: “But we don’t have any reason to.”—“But Trudy,” Father answered, his face in a grimace, “you’re not mad, are you? I can’t do anything about that, my dear Trudy.”
His face was completely serious and he leaned against the door, tears in his eyes. It was true. He couldn’t do anything about it. It wasn’t his fault.
Every day could be the day it overtook him; any minute could be decisive. All their attention was on it, the way a dying man can’t stop thinking about his funeral. One day it comes at last. First, the shame. Herr Seldersen was ashamed of himself, ashamed before his wife and children and everyone else, at finding himself in this situation. What else could he do? He had done everything that lay in his power. Still, he felt ashamed. Not that anyone had reproached him—what was the shame in having fallen victim to the same fate that so many others shared? What wouldn’t he have tried to do to save himself and make it through? But he realized more and more clearly over time that it wasn’t up to him, nothing was, he was simply being driven along unstoppably toward—terrible thought—the end. Then came the despair. The least little thing would plunge him into a despair that was worse than the end would be. What was it going to be, actually, this end that was so painful to anticipate? Bankruptcy, losing the business, a livelihood that had lasted a lifetime finished. And not the final line under a calculation that had worked out, everything balanced with nothing left over—the way it should be at his age—but rather a road leading into endless mystery, with no resting place, no prospect of relief. It wasn’t a neat and tidy end that goes with a new beginning on a higher level, it was the path of someone condemned to live, or blessed with life if you prefer, but old in his moment in time, even while time itself is perpetually renewed. When they sat motionless at the table, man and wife, staring into space, their silence was more eloquent than a loud, desperate scream. It wasn’t even an accusation, because who could possibly be hauled before the judge as a defendant? It was just a realization of how things are, and a faint undertone of marveling at all the realignments and changes taking place. They had thought it would be different, both of them had—that they would at least find a little peace in their old age. But it didn’t work out the way they had expected.
* * *
Even an old workhorse stays alive, dragging its cart slowly down the road. Even lame, he moves forward. It wasn’t much different with Herr Seldersen and his shop. He limped along for a good long while with his payments; he received warning letters and wrote back, sending a small sum of money every now and then so he would be left in peace for a little while—not long, but long enough to catch his breath. Was this condition worthy of a man who had run a good, upstanding business his whole life, to the very end? How long could he stand it? The very air around him, wherever he turned, was stuffy and stifling, like damp, worn-out laundry—everything stuck to him, clung to him, pulled at his hands, his body, and sullied him. He had a constant feeling of needing to wash himself—no, it couldn’t go on like this, he mustered up his courage and decided to finally put his affairs in order. But how? On his own, or if not, then with whose help?
He went over to City Hall one day and asked to speak with the manager of the municipal savings bank. He was seen right away, skipping the line, and they gave him a courteous greeting, the way anyone greets a customer they want to keep happy. Herr Seldersen had been with this bank ever since he moved to the city; he knew the current manager from back when he was a simple teller, and later an account manager. His own account was there, along with his wife’s and children’s savings accounts—no great sums anymore, everyone was cautious about putting much money in savings after the hyperinflation. Basically, everything went through the bank. Herr Selderse
n deposited the money he took in during the course of the week, and withdrew it again later to pay his bills. Eventually, when the income was not enough to pay his bills, he had to borrow. He did so carefully, since he wasn’t used to it; he had never had to turn to this last resort before, but then … yes, he got used to it, even if he never felt entirely comfortable with it. The amount the bank granted him was kept within reasonable limits, appropriate to Seldersen’s reputation and standing, which was all the collateral he needed.
This time, when Herr Seldersen asked to speak with the manager, he had come intending to exceed this fixed amount. Secretly, he was by no means happy about what he was about to ask for, but he found the courage to ask, heaven knows where.
The manager didn’t know offhand how high the line of credit was that Herr Seldersen had been extended, which was excusable, of course; he had to keep so many things in his head at once, why should he know this particular figure by heart? He quickly fetched the file and flipped through it. When he compared the line of credit with what Father was asking for now, he hesitated a moment, and said only: “That’s a bit of a very high number, Herr Seldersen.” He looked at him. Herr Seldersen explained why he needed that amount—he wanted to transact certain business and it would be best to have the whole sum available at once. It was a great burden for the time being, certainly, he admitted that, but then it would be a great advantage, you couldn’t deny that either.
The manager thought about it for a while.
He said, with genteel restraint, that he was personally responsible for such substantial loans, so he had to be twice as careful about checking every step. What about the collateral? No businessman would think to grant such a high line of credit without first making sure that there was some collateral as security for the money, it would be crazy to do otherwise, and irresponsible, especially in his position, since he was managing the savings, the property, of the city itself and its citizens, so to speak.
“In your case, Herr Seldersen, I’ve known you long enough that I can safely say I have no concerns. But since I am responsible to the city, I do have to jump through the hoops and make sure we have a sufficient security for you as well, especially since you are asking for quite a substantial sum.”
“Security?”
“Yes, yes.”
Herr Seldersen had listened carefully and knew exactly what the manager meant by security—naturally, the bank needed to protect its investment, he agreed with that. But what kind of collateral was he supposed to give?
He asked, in a rather heavy-handed and blunt way, what they wanted as collateral.
Well, that could certainly be discussed, something with an appropriate value but at the same time that wouldn’t be too much of a burden, maybe the furnishings in the store—the chairs, the shelves, the tables, all taken together. He should go home and draw up a list of everything at his leisure.
“Hmm, I’ll have to think carefully about that.” Herr Seldersen’s eagerness collapsed at once; all of a sudden he wasn’t in such a hurry for the money. The manager emphasized again how willing he was to help, and then Herr Seldersen left.
He took a whole day to get used to the idea: putting up the furnishings of his store as collateral! And who knew if it would stop there? He looked around; maybe he’d have to add other items, from the apartment—the manager hadn’t asked for that—already the thought came over him that his own apartment was nothing more than a furnished rental, he felt that nothing in it was really his.
Finally, that night, he told his wife about the conversation. To his amazement, Frau Seldersen didn’t overreact at all, and did not seem the least bit surprised or demoralized.
“If you get the money,” she said, “then it’s good.”
Father stared at her—what could be making her so bold and reckless? But think it over, he wanted to object; he could offer several different reasons against his plan. In the end, though, he reflected, she was right, of course she was, the main thing was to get the money and wipe out a large part of his debts at once. Then the endless warning letters would finally stop coming. As for whether he would ever be in a position to redeem the collateral—he couldn’t think about that now. To pledge these things as collateral was only the beginning, it meant that they no longer belonged to him. They were lost. He drew up an inventory and went back to City Hall the next day. It turned out that the bank did indeed require a few more items before they could offer him the full loan: the piano from the apartment and the balances of the two small savings accounts.
It was all the same to Herr Seldersen. He signed those over as well, without thinking too long and hard about it, just a flourish of the pen.
Frau Seldersen, though, had a different opinion this time. “I wouldn’t have done that,” she said. “Not the piano. I wouldn’t have crossed the line into the apartment.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“That’s different,” she replied. “In the apartment? No!”
She was certainly splitting hairs here.
This time, Herr Seldersen showed himself to be the more bold and reckless of the two. Only you couldn’t quite tell if this boldness was real and serious, or just put on for show.
In any case, he had the money in hand and he spent it in a few days: paying off his main debts and making good headway. Now he could count on getting deliveries of spring items. He immediately wrote to ask for them. Two crates arrived that week, and several smaller packages too—the mail truck had to make a special trip just for him. The shelves were fully stocked and there was peace and calm in the house again, for a while.
* * *
Ever since Fritz had disappeared, Frau Fiedler rarely showed her face on the streets and came to visit the Seldersens even less. When she did come by, she sat for a long time, talking, remembering, crying, complaining. There was no word from Fritz, no letter, not a single sign of life. Was he even still alive? No, no, she was about to stop believing it. Albrecht’s parents stayed quiet, asking no questions.
“If only we had let him do what he wanted and drop out of school,” she started up again. “He asked me often enough. Maybe everything would have been different.” She had realized several things by that time, when it was too late, but she was still plagued by questions and doubts; she was honestly suffering terribly, but she couldn’t undo what had happened. “What was his problem with school, anyway? Why didn’t he want to study anymore? He could have started out on whatever he wanted to do a little later, we wouldn’t have stood in his way.” She didn’t understand, she said, sobbing softly. It was as though she had given up hope.
“It’s like that with young men everywhere today,” Herr Seldersen said. He was sitting bent over his books and doing calculations while he followed the conversation; now too he spoke without looking up. “This cold shoulder everywhere, what are they supposed to do? They’ve grown up, they’ve seen everything, you can read all about it in the papers, and what are their prospects? Think about it. When we were that age we could have faith in the future.” He fell silent.
His thoughts had run away with him again. In any case, that was all well and good, but it didn’t help Frau Fiedler understand why this had happened to Fritz in particular. She shook her head in silence and then said goodbye.
As long as he has enough money, that was what she was most worried about; he just doesn’t know how to handle money … if he’s even still alive … no, no, she almost doesn’t think she will ever see him again in her life.
One day, a letter came for Albrecht from Austria. The postmark said Mariazell, and he recognized the handwriting at once.
“So here I am in a little village near Mariazell,” Fritz had written, “after five days zigzagging through Germany. First I went to Hamburg to take a ship abroad, but no luck, there were no steamers departing just then, plus I didn’t have all my papers. I looked around, and on the evening of the fourth day I heard my description over the radio. I took the train south that same night, from one city to the other, always on t
he run, until I got here. I’m working on a farm, there’s a lot to do here even though it’s winter, and I have what I wanted: work, honest tiredness. Someday I’ll buy a farm for myself. How are my parents doing, have they accepted my leaving? I feel bad for them, if only I could help them. —There’s deep snow here, I’ve bought snowshoes and I go snowshoeing whenever I have time. It’s great. Write back soon.”
Albrecht felt a great sense of relief. Fritz was living on a farm, happily working hard, and he hadn’t forgotten his parents.
When Albrecht walked down the street that afternoon, Frau Fiedler was standing at her window. She had grown very serious and when she saw him she gave him a melancholy greeting. Albrecht went into the store to see her and said:
“Hello, Frau Fiedler. You look so serious.”
He faltered and felt annoyed at his own clumsiness; Frau Fiedler said nothing. Then she asked him about all sorts of things, including school, and he eagerly answered.
“You are not as honest with me as you used to be,” she said all of a sudden. She shook her head sadly.
Albrecht was confused: “What do you mean?” he said, almost inaudibly. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing, and ask if you’ve heard from Fritz.”
“No, still no news. We’ve done everything we could to find out where he is, but there’s no sign of him. If only I knew where he was, if he’s still alive.…”
She put her head down on the counter and started crying softly. Herr Fiedler came into the store holding a piece of pipe and his tool bag.
“Still no news from our Fritz,” he said, going straight back out the door. He had aged, he no longer enjoyed going out at night; he seemed not to understand life anymore, the life that had sprung up around him, what was happening every day. He often sat in the kitchen for hours, unable even to slice his bread.