H. Adler - The Wall

I didn’t see Dr. Haarburger and his wife again. Nor did Johanna go there, though right after Michael’s birth she did receive a pair of little wool mittens for him in the mail.

Thus, over the course of time my sponsors disappeared, though others appeared, admittedly less and less, and I tried in vain to please them in a joking and clever manner. Yet nothing is harder than to please a sponsor who wants to do nothing but nourish his ideas of what he thinks is best for the one he cares for. Then it finally came to me. Unfortunately, I was too late. The time for refugees was past; they had all attached themselves to something or someone, and there was nothing left for foreigners, as the country had to take care of its own people. They fought for us, spilled their own blood, and suffered the pain of imprisonment. Chased from one place to another, I soon appreciated that there was one too many people in the world, and that was me. I simply couldn’t be allowed to exist. Then, and only then, was this complex question answered. But how could I not exist! Indeed, I had not believed it myself, yet Johanna and others had tried patiently and had strenuously pointed out to me: You exist, don’t deny it! You’re suffering, so you must be alive, and it is you yourself that suffers. I repeated dutifully: The only thing that remains is that I exist, which is not some transcendental phenomena but, rather, something real, for one does not have to think it in order to realize it, even though the self rummages around in one’s thoughts and cannot find itself, though indeed it exists. Here amid the search for existence, that’s where I exist, having shown up and breathed and eaten, wanting only to be taken in completely, head and body and limbs, all of which are tired but are holding themselves together, one after another, not collapsing, forging on, all parts following the head. Yes, that is my central task. The culmination of this bothersome deliberation: Someone says it is so, therefore I exist. In addition: Existence can be experienced through dialogue. Put in a more mystical way: Existence arises out of dialogue. But that is indeed temptation and an inversion of the creation that has the Creator waiting when Adam in cowardly fashion doesn’t respond to the call, “Where are you?” When he was asked, it was already too late for dialogue to occur, and therefore his existence was brought into question, and thus all impartial thinking on human existence leads back to the fall of Adam. I exist, thus I have fallen, and do not exist.

As soon as I, prodded on by others, began to believe again that I existed, I also found all such belief to be unpardonable, thus causing it to fade away and not remain. Neither existing nor not existing but falling somewhere in between. That’s how I remained. But where did I remain? The question came to me before the wall. I did not answer. Or was it the wall that asked it? Walls don’t speak. Perhaps the space between me and the wall. What was the space between? That was time, which I no longer have. In this form, I existed or I didn’t exist, as the case may be, in much the same way that something decided to embrace existence or withdraw from it, such as when through a friend of Johanna’s always obliging, capacious relative Betty, I was taken under the wing of the humanitarian, pedagogue, and manufacturer of wallpaper, Siegfried Konirsch-Lenz, who apparently was interested in me and my work, both of which he had heard good things about. By then I had been in the country four years, and Michael was a little boy of almost three. Konirsch-Lenz, who had a lovely house with its own garden, asked me to visit him and welcomed me with genuine good will — in fact, with praise that I had otherwise hardly experienced before.

“You’ve had a tough time of it here thus far, haven’t you?”

“I’m seen as a troublemaker. I’m not supposed to exist.”

“Splendidly put. The central allegation against you is that you were not killed.”

“Right. And yet if I am indeed alive, I’m valued only as a curiosity. One can stand that for a little while. Then it’s enough, and the curiosity needs to disappear.”

“We all know what you mean. Whoever has escaped something horrible is guilty, is suspect, is intolerable. Whatever he sets in motion through others is hard to bring to completion. So much for brotherly love. It’s hard to do, but ignore such beastliness. I don’t make many promises, for that’s not my style, but I mean it wholeheartedly when I say that I will help you. But please, one person to another: you have to tell me everything, completely and sincerely, man to man. Only then can I do something for you. And that I want to do.”

Herr Konirsch-Lenz let me tell my story, calling my confession a beam of light cast in the dark chamber of life. Completely different from all the others before him, he listened to me with great patience, letting me finish and then asking questions only when I fell silent. He even helped me find the words when I felt inhibited or just couldn’t find the right expression, and immersed himself in the details that seemed to him especially important. Most of the time he looked at me encouragingly, often nodding and noting things down in a little booklet. Then he asked me about my work. I was indeed afraid that it might be a bit beyond him, but he asked for more details, because, as he assured me, he already had some experience with social welfare; namely, with raising morally defective youths and other similarly difficult cases, even though he didn’t know very much about sociology or even my special area, he never having had enough time and being always a man interested more in practice than in book learning. He didn’t say this with any arrogance but in a matter-of-fact manner, while throughout it appeared that he wished to give my views his utmost attention. He questioned me extensively about all of my lost supporters, wanting to learn more, in particular, about Kratzenstein. I spoke bitterly of him, but carefully. But Herr Konirsch-Lenz laughed, saying there was no need to spare the clever stuck-up twit, for whatever I might say about the esteemed president of the International Society of Sociologists was nothing to him, as he knew all about him already. He, Konirsch-Lenz, had once been invited to speak about how to handle the rise in juvenile crime and, despite being short of time, he had worked very hard to prepare a text, then sent it in, only to get an acknowledgment of receipt and nothing more, despite repeated inquiries. When finally he demanded that the text be returned, it could not be found, and when Konirsch-Lenz threatened to get a lawyer the lecture came back covered in markings and accompanied by a letter, not at all from the noble Herr President but signed, in his absence, by Fixler, which said they could not use it, as it was more suited to a popular presentation for laypeople than to a scholarly investigation directed at an academic audience. That, then, was the the famous Kratzenstein.

As I told him about it all, I was nicely attended to and also learned about the new life of my friend. Before I left, I was quickly introduced to his family amid high praise. Two girls danced around me, and Frau Konirsch-Lenz was very kind to me. “Finally, bright people with a heart,” I said to myself. I had to promise to make sure to bring my wife and child with me next time. Then I asked Konirsch-Lenz when I should come again.

“It makes no sense to set a time now. I need to ask around. I want to look for something concrete for you. I have an idea. I know a splendid lady, a press agent from Zurich—”

“Fräulein Resi Knispel?”

“Right. Do you know her?”

“In passing.”

“I don’t know her that well, either. But that’s just an idea. Really, I’d rather not say anything at this point. You’ve been led on with vague promises enough already. It has to be something real, or it’s better to do nothing at all. You’ll hear from me soon. Perhaps in a week. I’ll give you a call or drive by.” I had to take along some flowers for Johanna and some candy for Michael before I was seen off with good wishes.