No one approached him.
Why not? You’ve nothing to fear from me.
Then someone does come up to him. Who is it? Weinberg.
“What a rotten thing for that old paralytic to do!” His cheekbones are working. “What a rotten thing to do!”
“But he’s landed himself in trouble too,” says Rimmel, who has joined them. “Now it will all come out. And we’ll all be failed.”
Someone says, “Mass failure. Like an epidemic.” Some people laugh frostily.
Kurt hears this as if through a heavy curtain over a doorway. There is something he doesn’t like about the laughter, but that, too, is all in the order of things.
The word “failure” has lodged somewhere in his brain, and now begins rumbling round it.
We’ll all be failed.
The bats—no.
The screams? Not them either.
Only a sigh.
It was Kurt who sighed. Someone lays a large, heavy hand on the back of his neck, a deep voice speaks close to his ear. “Come on, Scheri!” It is Kaulich. Kaulich, who was crying. When? Yes. Why is everyone so quiet? Where’s Blank? We’ll wander the country together playing the hurdy-gurdy. Prochaska can collect the coins in his hat. Poor, blind old Prochaska.
Kaulich says, “Think nothing of it.”
Of what?
“It’s not so sure yet.”
What isn’t?
Everything will go its way. Say something, Kaulich, say something. This is probably all part of it. You’re a good sort, Kaulich.
Kurt lets his head sink to Kaulich’s shoulder. No one says anything.
Kurt looks along the frame of Kaulich’s glasses. A tangent on an ellipse. The tangent goes on, on and on. Now it comes to the logarithm cross. But no one spits. I’ve seen all this before. We’ll get past it in a moment. Only a little more gneiss, granite and mica schist.
“His German was very good.”
Here, clerk at the counter, I just want to tell you that I—but wait, please, why are you closing down? The opaque glass pane has come down over the window. It sinks lower and lower. Now I can’t see anything any more.
“And his Latin wasn’t bad.”
“He’ll pass on a majority of votes.”
“I think so too.”
“Of course, why not? Don’t look so glum, Scheri! You’re sure to pass.”
Maybe, maybe. But now there are some people all in black standing in front of me, and they won’t let me through. I wish they’d take their hands off my throat.
“Don’t just stand there in that stupid way! Can’t you see he isn’t feeling well?”
Kurt feels his head being raised, far, endlessly far away.
He’s dizzy. He leans against Kaulich again.
“Come on, Scheri, you’ll soon feel better. Come on.”
Kurt’s legs are moving, he walks into a dark veil that becomes denser and thicker before his eyes. Then it suddenly breaks. Kurt feels something cold on his forehead: water. Kaulich has tied a wet cloth round his head. That feels good.
“Thanks,” says Kurt.
Kaulich takes him under the armpit and leads him to an empty part of the corridor, where he props him against the wall near an open window.
Kurt meets the warm look in Kaulich’s eyes and nods a couple of times, he doesn’t know why.
“Believe me, Scheri,” says Kaulich now. “I really wouldn’t encourage you to be hopeful without good reasons, but what I heard from Birdie—you know, I’m sure you’ll get through.”
Kurt looks at him for a long time. Inside his head something is in great confusion, ideas and images all tumbling over one another, rushing, clattering—and then it is suddenly there, weighty, towering above everything.
“Do you really think so? Really?”
Anxiously, Kurt clings to Kaulich’s arm as if the decision were his. Suddenly he sees it all with terrible clarity, as if he were still in the middle of it and yet he already knew how it would end. And then something comes crawling out, something he’d forgotten all this time, how could he possibly forget, for God’s sake, no, no—but he already sees his father lying in bed, breathing heavily.
“Kaulich! Kaulich, have I passed?”
Kurt is paralysed by boundless horror; it streams over all the dams in his conscious mind. He hangs stiffly from Kaulich’s arm, and Kaulich pats him on the shoulder and says, “Yes, yes, Scheri!”
Then, without a pause, he goes on. “Well, cheer up, all that’s behind you now. I’m glad it’s behind me, too. I tell you what, we can shit on it now. We really can. We discussed it before!” He swings Kurt round, speaking eagerly as if that could convince him that he has passed. “Think of it, Scheri. We’ll go around at night, everyone has to take a laxative, and we’ll leave a pile of shit outside their doors. Won’t they just be surprised? Maybe we’ll leave a card in it: Dear School—from your grateful Matura students. Ho, ho, ho. That’s what we think, and we’ll let them know, and then we’re free of it, Scheri, then—no need to think of it any more! We shit on you! Hohoho—ho—ho—ho—what—what’s the matter with you?”
Kaulich’s laughter dies away, he stares at Kurt’s face, which is horribly distorted, grey as it rises above his collar, with flickering eyes and mouth wrenched open.
“What’s the matter with you?” asks Kaulich again, flinching back.
What’s the matter with me? And you can ask that again, you—no. You can’t help it. You don’t know about anything. Go away.
“Go away!”
Kaulich shakes his head, is about to say something else, then he turns quickly and disappears round the corner.
Kurt watches him go. He remembers that he asked him, “Have I passed?” He remembers that Kaulich said, “Why, yes.”
Why, yes. Why, yes! So casual, so liberating, so wonderfully casual.
Kurt gradually relaxes, he feels limp. Relaxation becomes boundless, total exhaustion. The indefinable something comes close again, large, forgiving. He shudders slightly, raises his hand and nods.
“No need to think of it any more!”
His head sinks. Someone said that, someone still here and who is concerned more than ever. It isn’t over yet, and they’re already saying we mustn’t think of it any more.
The bats are back again.
And the indefinable being.
Dreams of death and mortal sadness…
No, no! Not death! I want to go on living. And I want to go on hating! I keep thinking of that, always, always! Oh, rejoicing, tearful, lovely, lovely hatred! I love you, hatred…
Kurt leans against the wall, arms outstretched, with something in his throat. It isn’t like retching, or a tugging sensation of the imminence of tears…
It is—how soft it makes him, how very soft—it is the indefinable being.
It wasn’t that before. Only now has it got into his head. It is already coming his way again, tall, majestic.
Leave me my father, just for a moment. It’s all so pointless. What is it for?
“If you think that life has nothing in common with school, then you are mistaken.”
Was it his father who said that? Yes.
Is that it? The indefinable being—is it that? Was it that from the beginning?
I’ll follow you, sublime one. Go your round.
The indefinable being is walking this way, very tall and white. It is a woman. It has—it has—Lisa’s features. No. Not hers. The features of his love for Lisa. The features of all love.
Are you that—are you renunciation?
The woman is white, the pillows are white, his father is white lying on them.
If you think that life—
Kurt can’t feel the floor beneath his feet any more, he is staggering, falling—then his hand catches the window sill and he hauls himself up on it, putting his head out of the window, drinking in the cool breath of a gust of wind.
A storm is gathering in the distance. It is too hot today.
Kurt looks down into the yar
d of the apartment block. There was once a horse there. Where is it now?
The indefinable being smiles and nods and disappears. And then the horse arrives. Not the same horse as before, and the vehicle it pulls is not the same. The carriage in which x drives about must look like this. And the figure getting down from the box is not the carter.
Hey! Who are you?
The figure comes closer. You can’t see exactly what it looks like. It keeps changing.
I said, who are you?
The figure bows and smiles.
And here comes the indefinable being too. It points to the other figure with a graceful sweeping movement of its white hand and says: Mr Chairman of the examining board, will you allow me to introduce you to today’s candidate for examination?
Well, what’s his name?
The indefinable being says: Life.
What?
Yes, Life, eighth-year student.
Very well, Life. Come here.
What? You want me to go down there? I’ve no intention of doing any such thing. You want me to go down there—that’s a good joke! You’ll wreck my chances with all the examiners.
Come along, Life. Start writing on the board. First question.
What are you doing? Someone pays with all his love for twelve whole months, and then at the end of those twelve months—what? You must be crazy. This is inappropriate. That does not interest us. The first question does not run like that.
Got it? Very well, the given facts are a professor and a student, isn’t that right? The professor breaks the student’s spirit. What comes next? No, wrong. However, the father—do not use such expressions here, we do not say, “The father is dying,” we say, “The father is reduced to zero.” Right. Do you know how it came to that? Look at the fraction line, Candidate Life. It is there because it is the sum of a geometric progression with n stages in it. The stages with the same coefficients stand out from the others. One after another. What we do not like is crossed out and replaced by other coefficients. If you please. Now, cross out all the coefficients with the index s and replace them with coefficients that have the index p. Why? Because the professor is superior to the student. p>s. And now I will tell you the basic factor to be used in your calculations: justice.
So?
Don’t you know any more, Candidate Life? That will do. You really can’t expect any more. You can sit down.
What? If I may say so, that’s all the same to us. Well, let us try this question. The second first question. Good. What does that mean? Good, you are right. It would have been better to solve it in another way, but—just as you like. No one can be forced to love. Truth as a basic factor is unreliable. There, now you might do a little work yourself. So far I have done it all.
Well?
What’s the matter with you? You don’t know that either, Candidate Life?
You don’t know anything about truth?
You don’t know anything about justice?
You don’t know anything about love?
You don’t know anything about all that? Thank you, that’s enough. We have finished, Candidate Life—
“Gerber! The discussion is over.”
No, let that alone, Life. Pleading is no use. You’re not worth any more of our time—
“What is it, Scheri? Come on! They’re waiting inside!”
Who’s disturbing me? A mean trick to play. What do you say about that, indefinable being?
The indefinable being is tall, and walks with majestic, inviting steps.
“Gerber!”
Yes, yes, just coming. Here I am. Why are they all standing here? Ah, Inspector Marion. My respects, dear colleague! I have just failed a student. What did you say? Life by name. Not fit for the Matura, no.
What do you want now, Life? No. There would be no point in that.
Why are they all so calm, staring at me.
Oh yes, I know now anyway. Abeo, abire. Yes. Hence Abiturient for someone taking his final exam. Abiturus sum: I go away.
Right through the middle. There is a table where the three of them are standing, there is a window above the table. Right in the middle.
Off I go through the middle.
Hush, hush! The indefinable being strides ahead.
I am coming myself, I shall enjoy your joy.
The priest spreads out his arms: Thrice accursed be—
“Gerber! For God’s sake! What are you doing?”
The sun is so red, it is falling on me, all—
NEWSPAPER REPORT
Another student suicide. During the Matura examination held yesterday at State High School XVI, one of the candidates, nineteen-year-old Kurt Gerber, committed suicide by throwing himself out of the classroom window on the third floor and falling to the street just before the results of the examination were announced. He died instantly of multiple injuries. It is particularly tragic that young Gerber, who undoubtedly went to his death for fear of failing, was declared by the examining board to have passed the examination.
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Copyright
Original text © Paul Zsolnay Verlag, Vienna 1958
English language translation © Anthea Bell 2012
Young Gerber first published in German as
Der Schüler Gerber in 1930 by Paul Zsolnay Verlag, Vienna
This edition first published in 2012 by
Pushkin Press
71-75 Shelton Street,
London WC2H 9JQ
ISBN 978 1 908968 25 8
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from Pushkin Press
Cover Illustration: Self-portrait with a Striped Shirt, Egon Schiele
© Leopold Museum, Vienna
Frontispiece: Friedrich Torberg
© Paul Zsolnay Verlag, Vienna
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Young Gerber Page 29