Life Goes On: A Novel

by Hans Keilson

  One Sunday a couple of weeks later, Albrecht took the half-hour train ride to M. On the way, he ran into Fritz’s parents, with hearty greetings all around—everyone was in a friendly mood. Fritz was waiting for them at the station in M.; more hearty greetings. Fritz seemed outwardly calm but looked pale and smoked nonstop; his fingers were yellow to the nails. The two friends went on ahead and Fritz spoke candidly about how long he’d been there and what he was doing from day to day. He was in a cheerful mood and seemed to be feeling good about himself. He acted as if he had just seen Albrecht two weeks ago. Albrecht, on the other hand, was embarrassed, a little ashamed and nervous—sometimes he thought that Fritz was putting on an act, sometimes he didn’t. Suddenly Fritz asked Albrecht in a low voice not to offer any more personal suggestions; his parents and brother-in-law already had more than enough ideas about his future. He didn’t say what he thought of their ideas. So, no more personal suggestions: Albrecht had expected as much from the beginning, and promised his friend.

  Then they were sitting together around the coffee table: a family again, for the first time after the long separation. Frau Fiedler kept looking across at her Fritz, happy to have him back again; almost everything else was forgotten. Fritz sat there completely quiet, as though he had ended up at the table quite by chance rather than being the central focus of the group. It slowly grew darker; Fritz’s brother-in-law brought out cigarettes and then subtly steered the conversation toward the topic of what Fritz might do next, speaking entirely to Albrecht, since he was practically one of the family, he knew everything and in fact had been involved from the beginning when he’d known about Fritz’s plans to run away. There was no need for him to be embarrassed about that: if he hadn’t said anything about it, it was only because he had to keep his promise to Fritz. Frau Fiedler nodded and looked at Albrecht; she too had long since forgiven him. Albrecht ground his teeth—they were praising him for something that was really the start of a long ordeal. And one which had not yet ended.

  Herr Fiedler was at peace with the situation as well. He hadn’t been happy about Fritz going to America, from the very beginning.… But I couldn’t impose my will on him, he said, Fritz had to have his own experiences for himself. Now he was satisfied, he had been proven right.

  Fritz’s brother-in-law came out with what he had in mind, unfolding his plans carefully and skillfully. “Fritz isn’t too old yet,” he said; “he can still start over from the beginning again. He had bad luck in Hamburg, when the firm went under and he was out on the street. He lost more than a year there … and then America—” But he didn’t want to say anything more about that. Times were damn hard, all over the world, even in America.… There weren’t jobs lying around to be picked up off the street, much less money and luck. Who had time to think about luck these days? Fritz had traveled around, had seen a lot, and now he was back, now he had to start all over again, no matter what he wanted or hoped for personally—he had to put those hopes aside now. “We all do,” Fritz’s brother-in-law said. He had been married for ten years, but children had been denied him. He wanted to try to find Fritz a position, it would definitely be hard but he had good connections, Fritz only had to have faith. Sometimes it seemed like Fritz had much too gloomy a view of the future. A young person had to muster up all his strength—look at everyone doing battle out there every day.

  Everyone had something to toss into the conversation, it was quite a discussion—except it was about someone’s whole life. Albrecht felt that this casual spinning out of someone’s fate and future was undignified. They drank and smoked, sitting comfortably in a warm room. Was this part of Fritz’s brother-in-law’s plan? If so, Albrecht was prepared to acknowledge his skill and forethought—it was extraordinary.

  Fritz said nothing. He sat perched on the writing desk, smoking and slowly releasing the smoke into the room so that he soon disappeared behind a thick cloud. He listened to everyone’s advice about whether he should become a confectioner or an ironmonger, or something else. He could go back to school in the evenings, take courses, learn languages, his father said, happy to see in advance everything coming together so nicely.

  And Albrecht? He sat at the table and was allowed to take part in the discussion; now and then he ventured a word or two, carefully testing to see if he was met with understanding or empty stares. He saw the lay of the land only too quickly, and from then on let the others talk, not saying anything unless he was asked a question, in which case he would painfully cobble together a few words and then sink back into his long, thoughtful silence. He couldn’t help it, he was horrified. Didn’t anyone in the room see it? Fritz’s dear mother, with her oversized love, or the brother-in-law, who himself had been knocked around quite a lot in the world—didn’t they feel the powerful, deadly exhaustion in the air, and then the other thing, a tremendous fear? Albrecht couldn’t come up with the exact word for it himself, but the whole time he sat at that table with Fritz up on the desk, he could not get free of this strange feeling. He turned around many times to see if Fritz was even still in the room. I’ve already decided, he had written to Albrecht. Decided what? That he wanted to be a confectioner, or an ironmonger? Fritz sat up on the desktop, elevated above the others, and said not a word. Go ahead and rack your brains, he seemed to be thinking with a laugh; you mean well, even if it will turn out to be totally different from what you expect.

  It was completely dark by then, and when Albrecht turned around again he saw the shape of his friend gently looming up out of the darkness. The tip of his cigarette glowed more brightly as he inhaled, and Albrecht saw his face for a moment: it was pale and waxen, like a dead man’s. Albrecht held his breath.

  He stood up to go and said his goodbyes; he wanted to walk home, he thought he could do it in two hours, and the last train was not due until late anyway. Fritz went with him and they walked slowly through the city. Fritz was completely calm, walking slowly with long strides; Albrecht reluctantly forced himself to match his pace. He felt uncomfortable, alone like this with his friend but without his friend’s decisive confidence.

  “What do you think of their plans?” Fritz asked with a smile.

  Albrecht, cold and firm: “They’re good; hopefully they’ll come true.”

  “Yes. But it’s not quite as easy as they think. Or don’t you know that yet either?”

  “I do,” Albrecht said gently. “I do know a thing or two.”

  Silence.

  Fritz walked alongside his friend, with his slow, loping steps, smiling to himself. Why are you trying so hard, little man? Fritz thought. What’s this secret you think you have to keep? Do you really think it’s so simple? You haven’t seen nearly as much as I have, my boy, you don’t have the courage, not even the courage for the truth (but what he meant was: for silent despair).

  You’re wrong, Albrecht answered, as mute as his friend; you’re wrong, I know more than you think—it’s all hopeless, everything is completely hopeless.…

  “Everything would be much easier if I had a goal, what do you think? I mean, do you have a goal like that?”

  Albrecht thought, coming back to his senses out of the great, painful confusion he was in. Did he, young and healthy as he was, have a goal for himself? No, he didn’t, he ran around thinking only about the next day, making enough money to live on, not being a burden to anybody—he never saw any further ahead than that. Only occasionally did he stop in the middle of all the rushing around to catch his breath. Then he lost the rhythm, everything continued around him for a few days while he lay like a dead man. Before long he was back on his feet.

  But I’m at university, Albrecht suddenly remembered.

  Is that a goal? Do you think you’ll have better prospects because you’re in school?

  Albrecht, out loud: “I’m about to take a two-month tour in the provinces as a musician.”

  “As a musician?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m doing these days, playing music.”

  “So, that’s how you mak
e your money. Is it enough to live on?”

  “Just barely.”

  “Are you all students?”

  “No, some musicians, some merchants…” What a stupid, disastrously stupid thing to say!

  Fritz, ironically: “Laid-off confectioners and ironmongers!”

  How stupid he was! Albrecht wanted to slap himself.

  Fritz: “That wouldn’t be an option for me, I can’t even play the guitar.”

  “Nonsense!” Albrecht answered testily.

  “Nonsense?” Fritz didn’t think so, not in the least. That was the way things went, right? You apprentice three years, and when you’re done they fire you, and then you go and play music or recite poetry. Right?

  Albrecht felt a deep and powerful strength slowly well up within him, and he wanted to say: Yes, that’s how it is, if you’re lucky! It’s rewarding to touch people’s hearts. You mustn’t think I’m sitting around in a dream world in Berlin, but you wouldn’t know anything about that anyway.

  Why not? Fritz would have asked in amazement.

  Albrecht: “At least you have your parents to fall back on, that’s something certain in an emergency.”

  “I wish my father was poor,” Fritz blurted out.

  Albrecht stared at him in shock. What did he mean by that? He wished his father was poor—what crazy ideas Fritz had!

  “Maybe some of my decisions would be easier that way,” Fritz went on.

  Pause.

  “Why? Is it hard for you to make decisions now?”

  Fritz said nothing, but he breathed heavily and stared down at the ground. “I often think,” he said quietly, “how good it would be to have enormous pressure bearing down on me, maybe then I could pull myself together. But what’s the point? Everything’s a mess, a miserable mess.… But really I’m doing fine,” he went on in a very different tone, “don’t you think? If I wanted, my parents would support me even if I didn’t earn a thing, I could learn to drive a car, or fly a plane, they’d put up the money. Now they’re trying to find me a job, some kind of job. I’ll just wait and see.”

  “So why don’t you actually do it?” Albrecht asked.

  “Oh, you might as well ask me to climb Mount Everest, it’s the same thing.”

  Albrecht thought about what Fritz meant by this pressure, and already he quietly thought that he understood. Later, when he thought back on this conversation, he had the same feeling. There must be some pressure bearing down on Albrecht too, controlling but at the same time paralyzing him, fixing him in place. Albrecht’s understanding did not reach any further than that.

  And then Fritz told his friend about America. Not much: Albrecht wanted to hear more but Fritz was reluctant to satisfy his curiosity; he gave a quick sketch and Albrecht had to fill in the picture himself. He hadn’t been granted immigration papers, only a tourist visa, which permitted only a short stay in the country. He had to show that he had a certain sum of money, as proof that he wasn’t trying to find work and thus take away jobs from American workers. The whole time he was there, he lived in constant fear that the police would catch him and deport him. He did everything that a foreigner illegally seeking work had to do—wash dishes, clean rooms, polish boots, sell newspapers—but no regular job, nothing long-term. How could anyone get ahead like that? He had to be very careful not to be caught before his time was up. He worked for some crooks smuggling alcohol, there was a lot of money to be made like that, but was it really his destiny to lose his life under a hail of police bullets as a moonshine smuggler on Lake Michigan? Then he met another German, who took a lot of money off him. He said he was a farmer, looking for a hardworking assistant, so they planned to go west to work on his farm. Fritz gave the man money for some purchases and never saw him again. And Fritz didn’t dare report what had happened to the police.

  The crossing? Herded together in a single room with foreigners, mostly Portuguese, Poles, Balkan Slavs, only a little space for each person. And then the women, lying piled on top of one another every night, what were they supposed to do during the whole trip? There was no lounge, no entertainment. The ship they sailed on was one of the newest on the line.

  He wasn’t telling Albrecht everything, not by a long shot, just a brief taste of what he had been through. The whole story would take days. He had forgotten some of it too, his memory wasn’t up to it, he had been through too much in these two years, he didn’t even know why anymore. But Albrecht could sense behind this reticence what Fritz wasn’t saying: all that wasted effort, the hope that always ended in hopelessness. What could he say to that? It was horrible, something no one would ever try twice.

  Fritz was calm and dispassionate as he told his stories. But he had been right in the middle of everything and it hadn’t passed over him without leaving a trace, no matter how he tried to act about it. He was disappointed, terribly disappointed. And not only that. There was also utter hopelessness, the painful astonishment at a world that was very different in reality from the way you would have wanted it to be.

  The streetlamps were lit and a light rain was falling. They walked on the high road along the promenade.

  “And now you have to try all over again,” Albrecht said. “There’s no other choice.”

  Fritz nodded mutely.

  “You need to be a little more careful,” Albrecht informed him in a superior tone, as though he himself were the slyest of the sly.

  Silence.

  “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Albrecht went on. Whenever he looked at his friend, this thought went through his head. “There’s one thing I don’t understand. You’ve still got your strength, don’t you…?” They were under a streetlamp just then, and Fritz stopped. “My strength? You think so…?” With an indescribable casualness he took his hands out of his pockets, slowly raised his arms, spread his fingers, and held his hands in the air. “Look.” His hands trembled all the way to his fingertips, as though a powerful current were invisibly passing through them; they wouldn’t stop moving, they skittered from side to side, and the more he tensed his muscles, the more they shook. Fritz looked at his hands, those big, strong hands with a powerful grip that shied away from no task, but they trembled, and Albrecht saw it. He smiled a painful smile and, as if wanting to keep up with his friend, held his hands up too: they were much more delicate, there was no comparison—not as strong and clearly much more sensitive, but a young man’s hands nonetheless, that could still buckle down to hard work. He held them in the light, and look, they trembled too, maybe a little less, but there was nothing he could do about it either; he stood there and looked at his hands, which gave away everything and told his friend all there was to say. They shared it—that was enough.

  “I’m going to walk home,” Albrecht said, “I’ll be there in an hour and a half.” Fritz walked him a little way farther. “We’ll see each other a lot in Berlin, of course,” Albrecht promised. “You could rent a room near me.”

  “Hmm…”

  They parted on the overpass over the train tracks. “Write me right away and tell me what you’ve worked out; I leave the day after tomorrow.”

  They hadn’t gone ten steps away from each other when Fritz shouted, “Hey,” his voice carrying in the wind. Albrecht stopped and walked a few steps back.

  “I forgot to ask, are you having any problems with school? I mean, financially.”

  Albrecht smiled. “Yes, but so what? Why do you ask?”

  “I’d be happy to talk to my parents, see if they could—”

  “No, it’s not that bad, but thanks,” Albrecht shouted into the wind.

  “Just an idea; okay, see you later.”

  Each walked off in his own direction.

  * * *

  The autumn was beautiful too—strong, manly, bright, glittering in magnificent colors. You could walk across the heath for hours, your gaze practically drowning in the endless distances. The lakes still kept their warmth from the summer and the water still gave off its lovely scent. And then the forests,
the endless forests! Calm, capacious, and quiet, like a serious secret. “Here’s somewhere a person can live!” Herr Seldersen would say, always with a deep groan. What a life that would be! He walked amid all that beauty, embarrassed and ashamed as though he didn’t deserve it. What times these were, that made men so unmanly! He was a father, the head of his family, a position he filled in a way that deserved respect—he had never taken advantage of it, forcing his authority on anyone else, and in the good years he was always steady and self-controlled. But then, when he came back from the war, and in the years after that when the problems piled up and not a day passed without anxieties and worries, his weakness was revealed. Was he still a leader you could trust to overcome all obstacles and find the right path? The truth was, he needed guidance more than anyone—he was helpless, not knowing which way to turn. His awareness of his own lamentable situation was so horribly clear that he forgot to conceal it with words and deeds. He was too honest for that, maybe not smart enough either. Look, everyone, this is how I am, he seemed to be saying, I am a helpless man who can’t do anything, who has to wait and let people walk all over me like a doormat. If someone comes to take my belongings out of my apartment or my shop, I have to stand and watch. He had worked his whole life and responsibly supported his family, paid his rent and debts on time, with all sorts of little things left over too. He was trusted and respected. Now he didn’t even make enough to support himself and his wife with dignity, not to mention his debts.

  The rent came due the first of every month. For as long as Herr Seldersen could remember, he had always handed it over to the landlord punctually on that day. Now it was the fifth and the rent still hadn’t been paid. Father waited another three days, then went to see the landlord.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever been late,” he struggled to say. It was unpleasant enough for him to have to talk about it at all. The landlord didn’t say anything, but there was no reason for him to. Seldersen thanked him for being so considerate.