Life Goes On: A Novel

by Hans Keilson

  Suddenly the street was blocked off, with no way out in any direction. The people there were all arrested, including Albrecht: loaded into vans and sent downtown to headquarters. There were crowds there already, greeting the newcomers with cries of solidarity. Women, children, men, all shouting and cursing as loud as they could until they were called in for questioning. Albrecht sat off to one side on a bench and waited until it was his turn. An older sergeant took down his information. When he heard the word “student,” he stopped and looked questioningly at Albrecht.

  “What were you looking for in that district, young man?” he asked. “According to your own information, you live on the opposite side of town.”

  Albrecht thought carefully. “I wasn’t looking for anything,” he said slowly, “I just went there.”

  “I see,” the sergeant answered. He stood up. “You just went there out of curiosity, even though you knew that there was unrest there and it could end up in bloodshed.”

  Albrecht, confused: “Yes, but why were you shooting?”

  The sergeant stayed calm and serious: “And who was shooting down at the streets from apartments and rooftops? Do you think we like to shoot people dead just for fun? You seem damned stupid, young man.”

  Albrecht said nothing. Soon he was allowed to leave, with a warning and orders not to take part in any demonstrations.

  On the way home he thought over the questioning again and felt that he had acted craven and cowardly. Now, after the fact, a lot of answers that he could have given came to mind: I am always on the lookout wherever people are protesting out of hunger, for work and bread! That one struck him as especially good. What would the officer have said then? He didn’t like to shoot at his own countrymen, but people were falling under his gunshots, so the whole thing was a mistake. That seemed like the best explanation to Albrecht: it was all a big mistake. But he had seen how people, simply because things were going badly and the external structure of their lives was shaken, could bring themselves to commit incredible acts, even risking their lives. They wanted to change the world and the social conditions arrayed against them. This seemed so monstrous to him that he shuddered at the thought of his own inner failings, which apparently prevented him from actively taking sides himself. It made him aware of his solitude, his self-willed isolation. He continued to value it, he was persistent and lived off what he had gathered and saved up in years past, but the bloom was off the rose, the picture’s colors were more and more washed-out, less and less worthwhile. It was no longer clear to Albrecht if he was still willing to vouch for these ideals and devote his young life to them. He remembered the words that he carried deep inside him ever since his schoolboy days, about the life of the mind and how love for the spirit alone makes it possible to act in the world. He remembered, and powerful regret rose up within him, when he compared those words to what he had seen today. When he thought about his own life, how he slaved and struggled and wasted his energy on nothing but things that he himself would describe as external, practical, and economic in the dismissive sense of the word, he hardly knew what was right anymore, what had a real claim on him and what didn’t—or maybe, on the other hand, a contradiction was being artificially blown out of proportion here that didn’t actually exist in the world.

  But there was one question he really wished he had asked the police sergeant, just one: Did he think that the people he had to attack were throwing stones off the roof and firing shots out of the windows because they enjoyed it, because they liked throwing things and shooting at people down below? Or didn’t he think that they too were driven by a need to act, since only in that way, by defending themselves, could they try to survive? And not just defending themselves, but striking back against what threatened to take them down with it when it collapsed. And still more: that, simultaneously with their striking back, they were trying to make, to build, something new in place of the old, something corresponding to their own lives, where they would be allowed to live without struggle, compulsion, and humiliation. If they got tired or stepped out of the rat race for a single second, their lives were over, they could never catch up. They couldn’t afford to put their hands in their laps and be tired.

  * * *

  After only a few months, Father followed Herr Wiesel’s advice, went to see him one afternoon, and took him into his confidence. A while back, he had paid a debt with a bill of exchange. “I couldn’t help it,” he said as an excuse—he hadn’t taken the step lightly, it was the first time in his life he had had to resort to a bill of exchange, and for now it was fine, the creditor accepted it and Herr Seldersen paid it off by the agreed date. So he started to give out more of them without thinking twice.

  Herr Wiesel listened to his explanation calmly. “Be careful,” he warned him, “I know that everyone’s doing it nowadays but I’ve always avoided it.”

  “Well, you’ve never been in a situation when you had to,” Father blurted out. “But there was nothing else I could do, I’m usually very cautious, you know that.”

  Herr Wiesel did know that. If Herr Seldersen was paying with a bill of exchange, that was a significant sign of the times—not just foolishness or laziness, a sign!

  Eventually Father burst out with what he wanted to say, and asked Herr Wiesel to loan him a small sum of money that very day, since he didn’t have quite enough money on hand to pay off two bills of exchange that were due the next day. He would bring in some more money today, but that wouldn’t be enough and he didn’t want to return the bills of exchange unpaid.

  “But you have three days before the notice reaches you.” Herr Seldersen couldn’t be in as desperate a hurry as he was making himself out to be.

  Yes, he was, the three days had already passed.

  Pause.

  “That’s different,” Herr Wiesel said, and he gave Father the money. He could pay it back when he could, no hurry, don’t worry about it.

  Herr Seldersen was touched, and thanked him, and asked what he wanted as interest, but the other man seemed not to have heard the question.

  Then he went home, not knowing whether to be grateful for Herr Wiesel’s ready help or hang his head in shame over his own precarious situation, which had made him put Herr Wiesel’s promise to the test. There was actually no reason to be worried or discouraged. It had been more than a year since he had made the settlement and paid off a large part of his debts at once. For the time being, he had been relieved of a great burden, even if Herr Wiesel had tried to say after the fact that the settlement had been a mistake and had suggested a seemingly better plan—that didn’t change the fact that more than a year had gone by, during which Herr Seldersen had not had to pay much attention to the great sorrows and struggles getting more and more severe day by day all around him. He was practically living on an island, with the tempest raging all around him, thunder and lightning everywhere, but cool and dry and cheerful where he was. He stood downstairs in his shop; people came in and told him their troubles, with endless complaints about their poverty. He listened patiently, and while earlier he would have felt an underlying fellowship with them, never expressed in words, now he didn’t really care; he also gave out bills of exchange and had to borrow money from Herr Wiesel to meet them and avoid any unpleasantness. His old way of taking care of business affairs had recently grown a bit sloppy, careless, even devious. He never strayed from the firm bounds of the law even now, but compared to before he did everything less painstakingly—more sloppily, that was the only word for it—like someone gradually losing track of what was going on.

  Frau Fiedler came by every now and then too, always with news of her Fritz. “He is in New York,” she said, meaning that she didn’t know exactly where he was at the moment, but he had recently been in New York. “He met another German and they wanted to go west together, the other man owns a farm and that means good prospects for Fritz to work and earn money. He’s already sent back half the money that we gave him to take with him,” she said, full of pride. It sounded extremely
implausible—she must have invented the story on the spot, to convince the Seldersens of how well Fritz was doing. They were happy, though, and Frau Seldersen said: “Frau Fiedler, I very much hope that your Fritz finally finds a way to settle down. What cares and sorrows he’s given you!”

  “Yes,” she replied, and thought back over the past. “It was hard with him. But now I tell myself that maybe it’s a good thing he went to America. Just look at the boys who are graduating these days.”

  While they stood there talking, Nikolaus the policeman walked by outside. Suddenly he stopped, peeked into the store, probably to see if Father was alone, then decided to walk in and whispered a few words in his ear. When he closed up shop tonight, he should not forget to roll down the grate over the windows, he said. “Why?” Herr Seldersen asked in surprise. “What’s happening tonight?”

  “A rally,” Nikolaus said in a secretive voice. “The speaker is coming from out of town, and marching from the station in a big procession. We need to be prepared; who knows if it’ll go peacefully or not.”

  Herr Seldersen laughed. “You really think there’ll be trouble?”

  Nikolaus nodded slowly and deliberately. “Anything is possible; in any case we need to be armed and ready.”

  That sounded almost menacing. Father didn’t believe it, but thanked the policeman for the advice. He’d certainly roll down the grate.

  He went back to the two women and told them about his conversation with the policeman, adding what he’d thought of it. Frau Fiedler was nervous anyway, and said she wanted to hurry home and get everything prepared. Herr Seldersen tried to calm her down, but then Frau Seldersen suddenly started saying that she was scared too, you never knew how close danger might be. She always talked about danger. There’s unrest in Berlin too, I only hope Albrecht stays careful. Anneliese is a smart one and stays out of harm’s way on her own.

  When the Seldersens were alone again, Father asked Mother why she had suddenly started acting so frightened. She said what she was afraid of, and Father could refute all her reasons but he couldn’t take away her fear with mere words.

  “The only reason to be afraid,” he finally said, “is if you have something to lose.”

  She couldn’t deny that, but when he went on to explain why that meant she had nothing to be afraid of, she got angry at him. He was wrong, it was sinful.… She didn’t have anything, or much of anything, left to lose? She was truly outraged, he always put everything in the worst possible light and never missed a chance to shock other people. Later, she thought that maybe he was right about what Nikolaus had said, he must have his reasons and know what he’s saying. Herr Seldersen thought about little Kipfer. He had shown up at the store several times recently, but never had much time to talk with Herr Seldersen.

  “There’s too much to do,” he would say self-importantly. His activities kept him constantly busy. He went around organizing, putting together rallies, only rarely speaking himself. He had to watch out for his health and loud speaking put a strain on his sick lungs. Whenever he shook hands with Herr Seldersen, he gave a mischievous little laugh. He never asked: How are you? How is it going?

  He knew, and that was enough.

  Hoboes, tramps, bums, fallen women, old men, and other down-and-outs came to town on all the roads, walked around, went into the shops, knocked on doors, were embarrassed—and they came into Seldersen’s shop too. Mornings, afternoons, creeping around eerily quietly at night, and people gave them something … so that they’d go away. Not out of pity, people had long since learned not to feel that. The beggars carefully opened the doors, stayed standing right outside, mumbled their speech—everyone had his or her own, yet they all meant the same thing—and people gave them something without anyone really listening to what they were saying. They were all types of people: the eternally forgotten, the ones who never found their place in the world, the ones who went off the rails, who never got where they were going, blameless, persecuted, betrayed, and damned. They went begging throughout the whole country.

  A man walked into the store and Herr Seldersen looked at him and went to the register for a coin. But the man came closer. He was wearing worn-out black pants and a discolored brown jacket, no collar, no tie, a cap on his head—he looked pretty good for a hobo. Herr Seldersen took a few steps back, and then the man took off his cap and said, loud and clear, “Good day, Herr Seldersen.” Father walked in a semicircle around him, looking closely at the man.

  “So, you don’t recognize me anymore?”

  “Yes, yes,” Herr Seldersen hurried to say, squinting and thinking hard. But at the moment … he smiled … “You’re Herr…”

  “Wurmbach,” the man said with a bow.

  Yes, right, Herr Wurmbach. Herr Seldersen remembered now. But where did he know him from?

  “I used to work for Herr Dalke,” Wurmbach said. “Salesman in the men’s department…”

  “You used to?” Herr Seldersen interrupted him in surprise.

  “I’m unemployed at the moment, he let me go—it wasn’t my fault, he said it was because business wasn’t good.…”

  “So, his business is that bad?” Herr Seldersen pressed him. That was all he could think of at the moment.

  “It’s slowing down,” Wurmbach said, “the same as everywhere. I’m not the only one who’s been laid off. When business isn’t as good as it used to be, it’s the salesmen, the employees, who are the first to go. Herr Dalke brought me here from Silesia six months ago, he promised me a good job, I assumed that meant long-term. I brought my family, and now here I am.”

  By that point, Herr Seldersen had had a chance to look closely at Herr Wurmbach from all sides. He hadn’t even recognized him at first! Clothes really can change a person! Of course he knew him, he had seen him walking into Herr Dalke’s store every day for six months, clean and well dressed. Now, in this outfit, he looked badly down-and-out—and he had been out of work only two weeks, but was worried about his future. At first glance Herr Seldersen had taken him for one of the better sorts of beggar! He was wrong, of course, Herr Wurmbach had come into the store as a customer. He bought things left and right: buttons, needles, rubber bands, thread for sewing and darning, it added up to quite a tidy sum. He had started out on a little business himself and went around to friends and acquaintances, strangers too, to try his luck selling this and that. He couldn’t sit around all day, so he came up with this idea and did a little business, at least it would bring in something to the household.

  He came by often and bought more, whenever he sold what he’d bought the last time. He didn’t make much of a profit. And he was trying to feed his wife and a child.

  “If only I had a bicycle,” he said to Herr Seldersen one time.

  “A bicycle?”

  Yes, then he could ride out to the country, to all the villages. He could cover a lot of ground in a day, the villages were all close together; he thought he could earn a lot more that way.

  Herr Seldersen approved.

  “But not only that,” Wurmbach said, taking a deep breath: “I’d also need a bigger selection.… But I’ll discuss that with you later, Herr Seldersen.”

  After three days he was back, wheeling a bicycle. And he started right in on an offer he had for Herr Seldersen. Father could give him goods from his store and then he, Wurmbach, would ride around the country and sell them. It wouldn’t have to be just buttons and shoelaces, he’d be able to sell all sorts of other things, Seldersen should just try and then see what happened. It wasn’t entirely clear to Seldersen how Wurmbach was imagining their relationship—whether he saw himself as an employee, or as someone running his own business, only with Herr Seldersen’s stock—but clarification was not long in coming, Wurmbach had thought it all out. “You give me the items,” he said, “I’ll sell them on the road, and then every evening when I get back I’ll tally it up with you and you’ll get a percentage of the total amount I’ve made that day.”

  Hmm. Father thought it seemed like a possibil
ity.

  But then Wurmbach said something about travel costs that he’d need reimbursed, and Seldersen said a vigorous no. Travel expenses? That was too much, he couldn’t cover that; the sales wouldn’t bring in enough to make it worthwhile; he’d rather forget the whole thing.

  Wurmbach looked downcast.… “Not even the expenses!” he said, demoralized. “Then it’s not worth it for me either.” He laid out his calculations of how much he could sell per day, and the upper limit of how much money he might bring in.

  It wasn’t much; Herr Seldersen could cover the travel costs after all. Wurmbach was gone all day on his bicycle, covering great distances, and came back in the evening, tired and dusty, to settle up with Herr Seldersen and go home with his share in his pocket. Herr Seldersen could see that Wurmbach wasn’t making much; he was trying hard but it wasn’t easy.

  It went well enough for a while, and they got along. Wurmbach no longer showed up every night to settle up; sometimes he was too tired or got back too late, so he would come by the next day. Eventually, he started coming by only twice a week and settling up for all the days put together. Then he’d take some more things to sell. He seemed to have made his peace with his new line of work; he stayed living where he was, apparently he didn’t have any better prospects anywhere else, and he kept at his business, which he’d started only as a fallback plan, he had certainly never seen it as anything but a temporary stopgap.…

  But eventually Herr Seldersen started to get the impression that not everything was entirely aboveboard. Wurmbach showed up once looking sad and said that he hadn’t sold anything, there was nothing to settle up. But since he was there he might as well take some more things to sell. Herr Seldersen handed them over without a second thought; he didn’t want to leave him in the lurch. At the same time, he advised him only to sell for cash, not on credit, and Wurmbach answered that he knew perfectly well what he was doing, he wasn’t a beginner after all, it was just that business was bad, he said with a groan.