Life Goes On: A Novel

by Hans Keilson

  He told Albrecht, trying to break it to him gently. Albrecht said nothing. He no longer expected anything different. If Father thought that this was the best thing for him, and for all of them … but a lot of questions remained unanswered, a lot of problems unsolved. Finally, several days after he’d returned home, Albrecht worked up the courage to ask his father what would happen when he closed the shop and lost his job. What would he do? How did he imagine his future? Damned good questions—there was no avoiding them. Albrecht himself was almost frightened by the inescapable path his thoughts seemed to follow.

  Herr Seldersen didn’t take long to answer: “We’ll give up the apartment here and move in with you in Berlin.” They were sure of that step.

  “All right, and then? What next?”

  Hmm … Herr Seldersen shrugged. What next? He didn’t know, and he seemed never to have even thought about it, but at the same time he didn’t look the least bit taken aback or worried. It was hard to believe, incredible—not a thought as to what would come after? No, first he wanted to end things here. Whatever came next couldn’t be worse than this, in any case. He was sure of that. No, Herr Seldersen would take it as it came.

  Albrecht didn’t bother asking any further questions; he would never understand his father, comprehend his indifference. He himself wasn’t planning to face his future with such a wait-and-see attitude—on the contrary, he was as tense and anxious as could be, and ready for the fiercest struggle. That said, at the moment he was exhausted, and he lay there unable to come up with any grand plans. He knew, though, that this seemingly external event, this change taking place purely in the economic sphere, was also laying the foundation for a difficult, decisive step in his own life: coming to terms with where he himself stood, and what he would do in the future. In fact, everything was beginning for him, just when the end was waiting for his father. Father was talking the way someone can talk only if he is at the very end, mercilessly robbed of every possible future—with no hope, no consideration or love, totally merciless. It made Albrecht shudder as this realization put its roots down into him, and a strange feeling often came over him when he was talking to his father: He no longer seemed to be talking to a person, old and defeated, in a hopeless position but still living and breathing. Instead it felt like he was standing in front of a monument, the symbol of a bygone era, and in his thoughts he bowed before it with admiration and unspeakable sorrow. The whole time Albrecht had stayed by himself, he had been quiet and reserved, almost irresolute, in everything he did—no one asked or expected anything of him, except himself. Here, back home, things had fundamentally changed: his parents had grown old, life had pushed their backs slowly but surely to the wall, and they felt tired and betrayed. What else could Albrecht do but pull himself together and summon up his last reserves of courage and confidence from a long-lost place in his soul? It was hard for him, damned hard—there were many times he thought it was too much for him, and in those moments he thought longing, sweetly dangerous thoughts about his dead friend. But he persevered—yes, he continued to walk the earth, God be praised, he was young and not the type to lose heart and stay on the sidelines now that he knew better. He had seen and learned a lot in his years of living alone in Berlin. Events were not taking place in the shadows, or sweeping past at a great distance: he was affected too. And he had seen the fateful inability to act, culpable failure, and wasted humanity.

  Albrecht also went to see Dr. Köster—his friend and “teacher,” as he jokingly called himself. They arranged for Albrecht to come see him; they wanted to spend a whole evening together again, in peace and quiet, indulging in memories and reviving their old friendship. A lot of time had gone by since that lecture for the Literary Society where Dr. Köster had first seen Albrecht, then still a schoolboy in short pants and with a dreamy look in his eyes. After Albrecht had graduated and gone to Berlin, only a fleeting exchange of cards and short letters kept their connection alive. But they met up often when Albrecht was home during vacations, and their relationship had stayed the same as it was during Albrecht’s school days.

  He went at the appointed time and they sat together in the big room where Dr. Köster had lived ever since he had moved to this town. Everything was in exactly the same place as Albrecht remembered it being; he recognized everything, the pictures on the walls, the tall two-part bookshelf, the desk by the window, the piano covered with books and music. Still the same familiar chaos everywhere. Albrecht stood in the room and didn’t feel quite right for some time, certainly not comfortable and secure, the way he used to feel there. Maybe it would have been better for him not to come, he thought. Dr. Köster showed him books he had bought recently, read him excerpts, and asked him what he thought.

  “Good,” Albrecht agreed. “Excellently observed, forcefully described, it’s good.” He said this without really thinking about it; ultimately he didn’t feel like what he heard had any connection to him at all, he hadn’t even listened carefully, he just wanted to avoid a break in the conversation and letting his friend notice anything. Maybe he didn’t want to disappoint him.

  “May I lend you the book?” Dr. Köster asked.

  “No thanks, I’d rather not take it,” Albrecht answered, firmly refusing.

  “Why not?” Dr. Köster was amazed and didn’t hide it. “Why not?” he repeated.

  “I have to take care of my eyes,” Albrecht replied, “and anyway, I don’t have time.”

  Dr. Köster looked at him. He didn’t like the tone Albrecht was using to explain himself: it was not impolite, exactly, but it held something hidden inside it that Dr. Köster couldn’t yet explain.

  “As you wish,” he said curtly, and put down the book. Then they sat down. Albrecht sat in a deep armchair, sank into the soft cushions, and tried as best he could to answer the questions Dr. Köster asked him. There was a lot he wanted to hear from Albrecht about how it was going in Berlin, they hadn’t seen each other much at all in the past few years—what was he doing, how did everything look out there? He himself never left this town, some cursed fate kept him here.

  “So tell me, Albrecht, how are you? You look tired, a little pale. Is life in the big city that hard?”

  “Oh,” Albrecht answered reluctantly—he didn’t want to be reminded of everything—“I just need to relax here a bit. I’m already feeling much better. I’ve only been here a few days, and my parents are going through a difficult time.”

  Dr. Köster stole a glance at him and felt uneasy about pressing him any further. He had been a student too, though that was many years ago, and Albrecht’s case was clearly different.

  “I’d rather hear about you,” Albrecht said. “How is your work going, are you making progress? Tell me.”

  What should he say about it? He had already spent five years on his book; at the moment it wasn’t making any particular progress, although it also wasn’t at a complete standstill: he had started seeing some of it into print already, corrected a few sheets of proofs, and he was continuing to work on it, but everything seemed to be in a strange state of suspension, hanging in the air, so to speak. He often felt disgusted and deeply repelled by his work, to the point where it took a significant act of will to sit back down to it. It was not yet finished and for now the end was not in sight, even though his publisher had already announced it as forthcoming a long time ago. Aside from that, he was out of money and was currently trying to find a new source of income. It was all rather unpleasant, he admitted. Even if the book ever comes out, who will read it? A work so removed from practical matters, about the spirit and everything connected with the life of the mind, who will really read it? No, when he looked at things straight on he felt a deep hopelessness. He said something along those lines. Those weren’t his exact words, but Albrecht could read it all between the lines, and he was not a little amazed.

  “So it’s here too,” he said. “The same resignation, everywhere you look.”

  Dr. Köster nodded. “Call it resignation, exhaustion, as you wish
. The only thing to do is live with the sadness and keep quiet.”

  “What do you mean, ‘live with the sadness and keep quiet’?” Albrecht said. “Do you really think there’s nothing else to do but take refuge in that?”

  “Of course there is, and you’ll be able to argue there is just from among the people you know. But I only need look at you, Albrecht, and I am sure of what I’m saying. I’m truly sorry, but I don’t believe that there’s anything else for us to do, unless we want to follow the path of the thugs and male hysterics.” He seemed depressed.

  “You’re wrong,” Albrecht said slowly. “If you’re talking about me, Dr. Köster, you are definitely wrong. I’m tired at the moment, I admit that, and sometimes I also feel adrift in the world; I haven’t read any books for a long time, and I’m almost proud of it,” he added.

  “Proud of it? That’s ridiculous, Albrecht! You haven’t done much with your life if empty accomplishments like that are what you have to be proud of, let me tell you. Haven’t read any books—good God, if you’d said something like that back in the old days! But the whole time I’ve been sitting here with you, and especially when I showed you the books before, I couldn’t help feeling that you have started to think and talk dismissively about the things that used to matter to you.”

  Albrecht calmly heard the charges—for what was this if not an accusation and a call to change his ways!

  “I’m not being dismissive or contemptuous, you have to believe me. It may sound indifferent, that I’d accept, but I don’t need to defend myself against that, do I?”

  “Indifferent? I’d take that as a sign of your resignation and exhaustion.”

  “I have a much simpler view of it,” Albrecht answered. “I really don’t have time. The days go by and there’s time only for purely practical matters. I take it you know the conditions I’m living and going to school in, they call it working your way through college: that means that along with my studies I work and earn money, or maybe that along with working and earning money I study, I’m often not totally clear on it myself. All I know is that when it comes to money my classes go to hell. My nerves too, but there’s nothing to be done about that either.” He paused for a moment. Dr. Köster, sitting across from him, was listening closely. Then Albrecht went on: “You think you’ll get hold of the life of the mind, investigate the inner spirit of things, but then you run aground on just the outward form, the external details. Everything is about making sure you have the most basic necessities. I know this conflict is nothing new, lots of other people have been through it already and then forgotten it again.”

  “Forgotten it again? What is that supposed to mean, Albrecht?” Dr. Köster interrupted him. Albrecht thought for a moment.

  “Look, I often meet older, mature people, comfortable and secure in their jobs: they mean well, clap me on the shoulder, and tell me how hard it was for them before, how they starved their way through it under the most difficult circumstances—that’s what they say, they starved their way through it. Maybe they were rebellious back then, revolutionaries in the struggle. Now they’ve made it, their wives are proud and smug when they describe how capable their husbands are, and as for the husbands themselves…? It’s sad, Dr. Köster, sad, I tell you, you’d crawl off in despair if you ever started looking like that. In fact, I don’t know anything more disgusting to see than prosperous revolutionaries, a potbellied paterfamilias with rolls of fat who used to be a sprinter and still hands around the photographs he has from those days.”

  Dr. Köster laughed. “That’s a good one, potbellied paterfamilias.… But you were trying to disprove what I said before.”

  “Right. We were at resignation, and I was about to make a confession.”

  “A confession? Of what, if you please?”

  “Not so fast, I’m not in the mood for a confession at the moment. Maybe a little later, or maybe not at all today.”

  “Fine, Albrecht, as you wish. I’m just surprised, and in fact a bit saddened, that you’re ashamed to tell me something. I thought we had gotten past shame with each other.”

  “Shame is a peculiar thing, Dr. Köster. If you cared to listen I could confess a few things that would certainly be at least as instructive.”

  “Go ahead, talk, Albrecht, you should say anything you have in your heart, I’ll always be happy to hear it.”

  “Fine,” he began. “You know that at university, if you need to pay the fees late, you have to submit an application where you answer certain questions extremely precisely, and submit proof for some of the things you say to the authorities. At the end of the application, there’s one more part: an appendix, a long section where you can add a few personal remarks with more detailed explanations, all to spruce up your application and increase your chances for a merciful decision. You have to be smart about it. The first time I filled out the application and I got to the part where I could give various details about my situation, I suddenly couldn’t figure out what to say and I had to ask an older schoolmate who was used to the process to help me. He laughed when he saw my helpless face, and dictated a few sentences for me to copy down that were pretty extreme. I was moved myself. ‘Well,’ he said at the end, beaming with pleasure, ‘you can never make things look bad enough, can you?’ I felt very awkward, and said that it was a little exaggerated: we weren’t exactly doing well anymore, but it wasn’t as bad as all that yet either. But if the higher-ups read that, they couldn’t help but be moved. ‘Please,’ my schoolmate said, ‘what are you talking about? Other people come up with stories much better than that, they have no sense of shame at all anymore.’ Sense of shame, that’s what he said—he probably secretly felt bad about the fact that he wasn’t callous enough yet and could still feel shame, while other people were past that stage. You see, that was my situation too: a sense of shame that I never lost. In fact, I have much more of it; a lot of the time when I’m applying or interviewing for things it feels almost unbearable. Everyone was always accommodating, I got help and support from every side, I can’t complain about that, but everywhere I went I acted humble and obsequious, it was the only way I could show I was worthy of their help. I presented my case, and every time, once I was done, I kept a solemn silence and waited until I was asked another question. Then, once the interview was over and I’d been excused and was standing outside the door, I felt overcome with an awareness of the pitiful role I was playing in life—each time, the feeling was stronger than the time before. I ran home with wounded honor and looked at my face in the mirror and felt the deepest loathing for my new trick of going around, begging with my poverty. My situation felt indecent to me, I can’t think of another word for it: disreputable, undignified, hypocritical, whatever you want to call it—even though what I was saying was true, it fit the facts! That was the horrible thing about it. I couldn’t get past that. I wanted to tell the people I was going to see long stories about my father, who had worked his whole life and now couldn’t go on. Yes, but dammit, why was I, his son and that beautiful word, heir, running around demoralized and ashamed? We hadn’t done anything wrong, it was just going badly for us in these tough times; what does that have to do with shame, goddammit? Do you have an answer for that, Dr. Köster? Please, tell me your views.”

  “It’s simple, Albrecht. You just realized that with your requests, your humble petitions that you yourself called a little exaggerated, you were putting yourself in a dependent position that you did not want to be in. You’re proud, and only what you have done on your own counts for you.”

  “Not entirely, Dr. Köster, that’s only part of it. But you’re close. Tell me, what do you think those people would have said if I had told them about my father? They would have given me a well-meaning, understanding clap on the shoulder and assured me that they knew exactly what I meant, they heard stories about similar fates every day, but it was the fault of the economic conditions. You can’t change the economic conditions, they would have said, I was just an innocent victim, and since I was modest
and hardworking they would help me. And they did help me. But that didn’t produce any change in me, I went on feeling ashamed, in fact I might almost say that my shame grew in proportion to the help I received.… And why? Because I realized I no longer had any respectable way to act. What could I do? It wasn’t only me, I was standing lost and confused with an indescribably bad conscience in a place that stank of decline and decay and death. I got through these hours of the most abominable despair with the help of some irony, some patience, and some lethargy—those were what I had to help me, to try to keep my head above the water that was already up to my neck.… We were just victims, my father and— But to hell with all this endless complaining and grieving; we’re not women paid to weep and wail, and I’m sick of it.”

  Dr. Köster looked up at him and smiled. “You’re talking like someone who wants to start throwing bombs.” He watched with great affection and devotion as his friend stood up and talked himself into more and more of a rage. Albrecht could feel the mockery in Dr. Köster’s words.

  “No,” he said, “no bomb-throwing, that kind of big brave action is not for me, I leave it to people who are stronger than I am. Go ahead and laugh, but the truth is, I’m still struggling with things that were never an issue for other people, that were always obvious. I’ve decided to become political.”

  “What? Political, Albrecht? You poor boy!” Dr. Köster sprang out of his chair.

  “Yes, you’re surprised, you think I’m turning my back on my best qualities, don’t you.”

  “It’s true. I can’t believe it, you wanting to go over to the side of the thugs and male hysterics. That’s the greatest resignation I can imagine.” He thought for a moment, then said: “Albrecht, I knew you as a strong, healthy, sensitive young man who kept to himself, not a team player. I thought you would quietly follow your own path, and now, when you tell me this, it seems to me as though you no longer know who you are, you are trying to deny yourself. Are you doing it on purpose, out of a desire for some kind of change? I’m sorry, but I see someone trying and straining too hard—and now he has a cramp, he is convulsing in a spasm, if I may put it that way. Albrecht, at the start of our acquaintance I gave you a book. It was more than an ordinary book and I know what an impression it made on you. Now I ask you, Albrecht, do you remember it? Or do you reject even your memories now?”