by Hans Keilson
“Yes, I do believe it,” Albrecht answered solemnly. “When I look at my father, I believe it.”
His eyes shone with conviction and power.
“An extraordinary delusion…” Dr. Köster whispered. “And if not…?”
Silence.
“And if not? What if you are alone, Albrecht?”
After a while: “I want to live, since I have to keep living and working. There is nothing more for us to discuss. Goodbye.”
* * *
Bankrupt! One Thursday, Herr Seldersen went before the judge to file for bankruptcy. He had thought through this step very carefully a month before, and set the day for that Thursday. He could still have changed his mind, because he had kept his decision a strict secret from everybody, but two days before his appointment he remembered that his birthday was on Thursday—how strange that they would coincide. Maybe it was destiny, meant to be. His fifty-sixth birthday. He kept the appointment he had made and gave himself the biggest birthday present of all. Mother wished him happy birthday early that morning, and then the day began.
He was away from home for more than two hours, an endless time—the courthouse was only a few minutes away. Frau Seldersen sat downstairs in the shop, very anxious; everything was coming at once: the birthday, the end of the store. It was merciless. Then Father came back, calm and satisfied. Mother was huddled in a corner, crying, and doing nothing else—just crying nonstop. Father sat down heavily on the chair behind the counter, his hands on the green surface of the writing desk—sat in his shop, the shop he had owned for twenty-eight years, until today. Now he was a stranger in it. He had done all he could, now it was up to other people to bring things to their proper conclusion. He was relieved of all responsibility, now and for a long time to come, until everything was over.
There was no light in his apartment, and no gas in the stove—they had turned off the utilities. He accepted that with a smile, it was summer after all. Next he would move to Berlin, and then … but it wasn’t yet time to think about that. He was satisfied, he had completed something and was no longer involved. He had said so too, for everyone to hear. At the same time, it hadn’t been his decision at all, he had been forced into taking this step. He might have been able to postpone it for a little while but there was no way he would make it through another winter, he knew that; he didn’t have it in him. He was no longer involved. At last it was over. He wanted his peace and quiet, nothing more than a little peace; he wanted to be able to sleep again at night, like a human being, not a beaten, hounded animal.
He had been left by the wayside, Johann Seldersen had—he had lost the struggle. What the war, the postwar years, the hyperinflation hadn’t been able to do separately, they accomplished in long, tenacious collaboration: the war and the postwar years and the inflation together. It was one thing after another, and Johann Seldersen, shopkeeper, had thrown in the towel—exhausted, dead tired, but calmly, without making a big fuss. He had exited the stage of economic life where he had stood for years as a reliable player between the manufacturers and the consumers, knowing his role to the very end. The citizen Johann Seldersen was no longer a citizen—now he had nothing but the clothes on his back and some old furniture to shabbily furnish his room with, and in fact he didn’t even own that. And this after thirty years of work. The account had been totaled up, zero to zero. He was leaving the same way he’d come, except that thirty years lay in between, and that said it all.
A letter arrived that same day, from a manufacturer threatening legal action if they weren’t paid within five days. Herr Seldersen read the letter carefully and laughed a mocking laugh. Not his problem anymore; it was somebody else’s. A trustee was assigned by the court to manage the situation: an upright, well-respected man the same age as Herr Seldersen. They had often discussed business matters before, and he represented Father before the court. He was above reproach and would take care of everything properly. In fact, Herr Seldersen felt sorry that this unpleasant task had fallen to him. But he discharged his duties; it could take weeks before everything was cleared up. Until then, the Seldersens had nothing to worry about. A daily sum was set aside for them to live on—more than they would have dared to spend on themselves when they were still making their own decisions—and a week later the news was in the paper. Who was surprised? Probably not a single person in the city. So now Herr Seldersen too, people said, and they took a deep breath as if to say: Next it’ll be someone else’s turn. That’s how things went; no one expected anything different, and in the end there was nothing you could do about it.
The days were long and warm and the Seldersens went for walks in the evenings, down the roads and paths, slowly, relishing every step. They had walked there for twenty-eight years, practically a lifetime since they had started their life together within these city walls. They had hoped that later, when they were old, they would be able to live out their modest lives to the end in peace, but it didn’t work out that way. They were not yet at the end. They were on a huge carousel that turned, turned, without stopping, and anyone who wanted to get off did so at his own risk. The truth was, they were not yet old enough to fold their hands in their laps and lead the quiet life of the elderly, but they were also no longer young enough to start over as young people do and reacquire a place for themselves in the world. And anyway, no one was asking them if they wanted to. It was cruel and terrible, and at the same time irrevocable. Perhaps there was a reason in there somewhere, some iron necessity for it all, but they didn’t see it or understand it, since their fate, their sorrow, their tears were clouding their vision and forcing them to pay attention only to what was closest at hand.
Herr Seldersen arranged a huge going-out-of-business sale, with prices so discounted that things were practically free. Everyone who had stayed true to the shop through the unspeakably difficult years came by, for the last time. They spent their money there once more, without words of pity or sympathy—the feelings spoke for themselves—but the prices were good, the stock needed to be cleared out. Little Kipfer came too, and brought his wife and their youngest child, almost a year old now and shriveled-looking, as tiny as a newborn. It screamed pitifully and little Kipfer tried to calm the baby with a touching fatherly helplessness; he carried the baby in his arms since his wife was too weak. They had brought money to buy what they needed most urgently just then—there was never enough, with four kids. Herr Seldersen served them personally, fetching things from the darkest corners of the store and digging up more items everywhere.
“And then this,” he said, bringing out a large piece of cloth, “perfect for a dress for you, Frau Kipfer.” He put everything in a big pile. The Kipfers felt uncomfortable—they had only brought five marks. Then Father named a price: “Four marks,” he said. “Four marks, is that all right with you?”
Was it all right with them? It was a gift! No one said an unnecessary word.
Herr Seldersen packed it all into a box. He had also set aside some toys for the children—his own children had played with the toys before, but now they were grown, the things were just lying around. Little Kipfer came by a couple of days later to fetch them. When he said goodbye, he shook Father’s hand and looked at him for a long time. Then he suddenly said, in a halting voice:
“I’m sorry, Herr Seldersen, truly, I’m sorry.”
Father looked up, stiff and serious, and shrugged.
“Well,” he said with a hand gesture. Then he laughed, relaxed and helpless. Secretly he felt deeply glad that someone understood and sympathized with him. Little Kipfer understood him. But what was going on here? Kipfer seemed moved, shaken, as though it were happening to him personally, but hadn’t he predicted, not so long ago, that this would inevitably happen? He wasn’t surprised, it was all right there in the teachings he constantly preached with his sick lungs. He had been proven right. See? he could have said proudly. Look, a perfect example, I was right. He could have crowed in triumph. But instead he was sorry, and said so straight-out. The truth was on h
is side, and yet he felt sorry.
The Seldersens went around to their friends and acquaintances and said goodbye. It’s not far, we’ll come back soon for a visit, they said. And the new, unknown future drew ever closer. Well, they had the children, everything was easier if you could go through it together. But nothing changed the fact that they were leaving, and had to rejoin the struggle again, at their age.
One early morning, at five, the furniture movers came to pack; in three hours the apartment was cleared out and loaded onto two trucks. Herr Dalke had decided to relinquish his claim and leave them their furniture. Thanks!
They walked through the empty rooms. The wallpaper was darker in spots where the pictures had hung; there was dust and cobwebs in the corners; everything was strange, bare, and empty. And this was where they had lived, for how many years? The ceilings seemed twice as high now that the lamps were gone; the floors were scratched and shabby. Their gaze passed over everything as they took their leave. Farewell! Not a goodbye, not “See you later”—well then, just farewell.
Albrecht envied his parents, who were allowed to cry, just cry, without holding anything back. He took them by the hand and they willingly let him lead them away.
* * *
Now they live in Berlin, somewhere or other, hemmed in between tall buildings and with a view of gray walls, dim courtyards, and a half-withered chestnut tree. The yards of four buildings built close together border one another, with only a five- or six-foot-high wire fence between them; the first beggar singing for spare change comes by at nine in the morning and it goes like that all day long, they hear each one four times over. Thirty renters live in their building, between the front building on the street and the back building in the courtyard; the stairs are bare and narrow, and at night the street noise blasts into their room. The apartment is one room smaller than their old one, and the rooms are not as large; the furniture is the same.
They are all busy. The children leave in the morning and come back late at night. They are never on time, and it’s hard for Frau Seldersen to have meals prepared for everyone. Herr Seldersen didn’t take a very long vacation. He is fifty-six years old, and who would hire such an old man, he says; he has no hope of that, but he’s not embarrassed about doing a little business on the side: shoelaces, stockings, ribbons, buttons, pins, he sells everything. He goes around into the buildings, to the markets, builds himself a booth. He stands there for hours between the noise and the cries, always prepared for when a possible buyer looks his way. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t advertise his wares loudly. Anyone who comes to him buys. He doesn’t bring in much money, certainly not enough to live on—the state needs to help. Often he has only enough to pay for the booth and the streetcar to and from the market, but then there are also days when he brings home a couple of marks. Then he sits on the sofa for the rest of the day, happy, reading his newspaper. His life isn’t quite so useless anymore. A couple of marks … so modest he has become. He has lost his feeling for his past life, everything lies so immensely far behind him now. And when thoughts come to him, they leave him unmoved. His fate is that of a stranger—yes, yes, it’s best that way. Frau Seldersen keeps busy as well, she never has a moment to rest, which is just the way she wants it. She doesn’t like going out into the streets—she clearly no longer understands the life going on around her, and tries not to think about it.
And that too is as it should be.
After Father reads the paper, he painstakingly folds it up again and lays it on the table and stays frozen in place for a long time, quiet, with eyes closed. His breathing is calm. Mother comes in and cries, “Music, music, don’t you hear it?” She goes to the window and opens it. They can hear quite clearly the squeaking fifes and drumrolls for the march. It comes closer; now it’s turning the corner. In front, at the head of the procession, is a solitary man, and the rest follow behind him in well-organized rows of four that swell to a larger and larger demonstration. Workers, the unemployed, impoverished middle-class citizens, students—women and men—all marching at the same pace, and even though the man in the first row doesn’t know the man in the tenth row, doesn’t even know who he is, they are marching together. A mighty will streams out from them, a united readiness: they know why they’re marching. When the first group reaches the house, Albrecht leans a little way out of the window so that they can see him down below, and silently salutes the marchers. And slowly, as though he first has to throw off a monstrous burden, Father raises his hand and steps next to his son—but his arm falls heavily to his side, as though he does not have the strength, and he sinks his head and closes his eyes. The two of them stand there like that the whole time, father and son, saluting the marchers until the last one has finished walking past the window.
Translator’s Note
Shortly before Hans Keilson’s death in 2011, I corresponded with him about the end of this novel. The last scene seems strangely like a Nazi rally, but surely he intended it to be a Communist march or other left-wing demonstration? He told me that the publisher (in 1933) had made him change the ending of the book, hoping to avoid political difficulties. Originally, Albrecht and his father had explicitly raised their fists in the Communist salute, not their hands in a Nazi salute. In the published version, it was left ambiguous.
Afterword (1984)
After more than fifty years, Life Goes On is being reprinted by my old publisher. I have been invited to contribute a short afterword, giving the history of how the book came to be written and its fate in the context of its era. Strangely, I feel like I am writing a kind of obituary, my own. Fifty years is a long time, during which quite a bit more has been lost than merely the naïve hopes of a very young man bringing out his first book with the famous publisher S. Fischer—hopes for success, fame, yes, I might as well say it straigh-out: immortality.
I have in front of me the “Short Self-Portrait” that I wrote for Fischer’s magazine Korrespondenz in March 1933. I quote: “When I was born, in December 1909, my father drank a bottle of Sekt. He could afford it. It was ‘Silver Sunday’ in Advent. But I don’t believe he did.” Do I still not believe it, even now?
“Someone named Loerke called,” my mother told me late one afternoon in December 1932, a few days before my twenty-third birthday, when I came home from my job at the hospital. “He called to congratulate us. He’s going to recommend your novel for publication.”
About three months earlier, I had sat across from Gottfried Bermann Fischer on Bülowstrasse, in the firm’s old office, and handed over the manuscript without any preliminaries. We discussed various things, including medicine (he was a surgeon by training; I was in my ninth semester at medical school) and music: he played viola; I played trumpet and fiddle in various bands, at events for the credit unions, fishing clubs, and wrestling societies on Frankfurter Allee, all around Alexanderplatz, in the Zoo Restaurant, at balls for the press and the movie studios and the technical college, and one day a week for Katharina von Oheimb, and even on the sound tracks to various sound films (Seven Girls in a Boat and The Csardas Princess). We talked about all of that, everything except literature.
I had been met downstairs in the office building by a woman whose features, a bit peasantlike, made a great impression on me. It was Paula Ludwig, though I learned that only later. When I left, I bumped into a short, frail man by the glass door carrying a fat briefcase under his arm; he looked me over sharply through his rimless glasses from a rather creased face with no beard and no fat on it. It was Alfred Döblin. If it was a manuscript of his in his leather case, it must have been Unser Dasein [Our Existence].
Not long after that December phone call, I went to see Oskar Loerke in his apartment in Frohnau and we worked on my manuscript together. Loerke wrote about it in his Diaries, which Karl Krolow brought to my attention in Amsterdam in the sixties. I was given an advance and for the first time went skiing in the Engadine, near Compatsch, with a group of other medical students from Berlin. The publisher sent me the proofs there. When
I came back, the Reichstag was burning. Loerke and Peter Suhrkamp, who had just taken over the editorship of the Neue Rundschau from Rudolf Kayser, recommended changing the ending of the novel and they convinced me. The salute of “clenched fists” disappeared. Ultimately, I didn’t care about which party was holding the rally, only about the Seldersens making a political decision as such.
We had already discussed the title. I was young and clueless and had proposed The New Life, and Loerke and Suhrkamp had refused, obviously. Comparing oneself to Dante … Then I suggested Life Goes On, and there it was. That was my entrance into German “literature” and my exit from it too. I had, it is true, won third prize in a student contest sponsored by the German Publishers and Booksellers Association, in 1926: “Recommend a Book” (I chose Hermann Hesse’s Demian). But the piece was printed only in a special pamphlet, with only my initials. With the thirty marks I won, I ordered three books, and it took weeks before the nosy and scandalized bookseller in my small town handed them over to me: Eros in the Slaughterhouse by Karl Plättner, a comrade of Max Hölz’s in the March 1921 workers’ revolt; First Experience: Four Stories from Childland, by Stefan Zweig; and the exquisite, leather-bound pocket edition on thin paper of Sigmund Freud’s Lectures (3rd ed., 1926: Leipzig, Vienna, Zurich). I kept the last of these through all these many years—the best and most encouraging introduction to the profession that I still practice today, if more critically than I once did.
I can still remember what made me start writing the novel. An American friend was studying at the Berlin Psychoanalytic Institute and she inspired me to stop by there one day, sign up, and tell them “my troubles.” The analyst I saw—could it have been Sachs?—heard me out in all seriousness and then informed me that he saw no reason for me to enter analysis. I went back home, furious, and sat down to write the opening sentences of this book.