H. Adler - The Wall

So I wrote Oswald a long letter while Anna’s story was still fresh in my mind. It was a confession of all that had happened in the past years; I had never opened up to another person so candidly and in a manner so heartfelt. I didn’t just inform him about what had happened but, rather, explained it to him, presenting matters to him in such a way that it would be clear to anyone, despite our having experienced different fates. I also wrote him a lot about Franziska, something which today I doubly regret, for it not only lies closest to my inner being but also amounted to a transparent depiction of the unforgettable, which I never succeeded in doing again. When I, soon after arriving in the metropolis, asked to borrow the letter, Oswald promised to give it to me, but then couldn’t find it. At the end of the letter I had let my friend know, which unfortunately back then I did not shun, my present situation through oblique hints so that he might understand what I needed — namely, help through a bit of attentiveness, a path into the future. But I never got an answer, neither from him nor from Inge, while inquiries in letters to So-and-So were ignored or fleetingly addressed. Only once did I receive a passing greeting from a traveler, who could tell me little about Oswald, since he never really knew him. My friend had merely told him to look me up and had told him about knowing me just in case it might be of use to him.

Anna found Bergmann’s silence off-putting, and she could hardly understand, for such an adorable person surely had to be loyal as well, and everything she knew about him said that he was simple and humble. Now she regretted that she had turned down an invitation to see him again because Hermann had been jealous, she being foolish and young, and in fact she never did see Bergmann again, though he had never escaped her thoughts. I should just be patient, or write again, my letter simply must have been lost. Should I try again? Everything inside me resisted doing so. I just told myself at first that Oswald had always been a terrible correspondent. What had to be shared with others he passed on through acquaintances, while anything intimate or important he had Inge deliver whenever possible. Indeed, he had hardly ever written to me before the war, preferring instead to send a telegram or, better yet, to call me out of the blue, while whatever I should have received in black-and-white was always written by Inge. I reproached him for this once and remember how he, as charmingly as always, roguishly smiled as he replied, “That you dare to complain, that takes the cake! I’ve raised a writer in my family who is fabulous, and you don’t even appreciate it.”

But I also remember Oswald talking more seriously about this matter. He loved to receive letters, he explained, but because of the wall that existed between people who communicated through writing he could never bring himself to reply. Correspondence had become an ever more all-consuming black hole. Something written should be taken as valid, and that he believed in very much, but with this validity came a continual danger, for then everything was set in stone and there might never be the chance to retract something, this being an ordeal that easily led to persecution. Words followed one, and therefore, he had to admit, even if it was honorable to keep up a correspondence, he could not do it and would rather remain dishonorable in this respect. In general, he said then, the age of letter writing was over for good. Modern communications (and the means for it, such as the telegraph, the telephone, and the radio) made the possibility of human interaction much easier, though, seemingly, in reality they distance us from one another much more and create chasms that open in quick-fire fashion, whereby the old bridges that spanned them are destroyed without being replaced, the near becomes the far, and all human beings are separated from one another. As soon as Oswald gave up writing letters, he felt a sense of loss that personally caused him also to feel a new loneliness that within a few decades would be felt in general.

In those days I declined to accept this, nor did I even entirely grasp what he was saying; only later did I come to appreciate that there was a grain of truth in such a renouncement. Already, back then, I was worried by the notion, which beclouded my own hopes, that technical means, rather than easing the communication between people, actually increased the distance between them. I was never a fan of civilizing wizardry in society, but my faith in the basic goodness of human nature had not yet dimmed. I wasn’t ready to demonize an invention that had practical applications, but, above all, I didn’t see that such inventions would inevitably threaten certain aspects in human history that had always been considered assured, if not exactly destroying them, such that traditional values would be threatened or forsaken, whereby moral behavior would be hard to delineate and often insoluble problems would arise, and that finally — as I would express it today — each great discovery, or at least its useful application, would be ripped from the tree of knowledge and therefore mercilessly drive human beings even further away from Paradise and ever further away from the original Paradise. Oswald’s talk prompted me to disagree, and I dared to raise my strong doubts about his views, for which I was dismissed with a wave of the hand and an oblique smile.

It must be lovely, he declared firmly, to relive the centuries gone by with such hope and sincerity, and it’s one of your more touching characteristics. Oswald hoped that I would always maintain what he called, to my annoyance, such idealism. But, unfortunately, he didn’t believe in it; anything that shook one to the core, or a devastating disaster, could finish off such a noble creature. I didn’t agree with this disconcerting praise and asked him pointedly whether he would indeed not answer me personally if it ever involved a really important letter that was about a matter of life and death. Indeed, I had chosen some passionate words. Immediately, his wry smile disappeared and he became quite serious. No, there was no need to worry about that, for if he didn’t write any other person in the world he would in fact write to me in such an emergency, for such need on my part had to be honored, and therefore he would certainly answer me. He asked only that I not become impatient when it took some time, for it required a great effort for him to gather his thoughts. He explained all this much more at length and with long repetitions, which was not his usual manner, thus resulting in a firm and clear, even sinuous speech. Nonetheless, his word didn’t feel sound to me; I was not certain of his promise. He could sense that, and so looked at me and assured me, “Arthur, I know that an unanswered letter can result in a murder. I’m not a murderer, and you are my friend.”

Oswald was not a murderer, that was clear to me, but his neglecting to answer my letter felt as if he were. So-and-So’s empty responses annoyed me, while the same traveler that Oswald had bedecked with his greetings to me blabbed on like a know-it-all when he had me show him the museum, which annoyed me. Though I couldn’t hold it against Oswald for long, it becoming ever more clear to me with time what I loved about him; from him I expected a completely different understanding and courtesy than from the rest of the foreigners abroad, whose image had faded for me or whose behavior I was hurt by. I had to make contact with him; it was the utmost test of whether I was good for anything. After some time, I felt it would be right to compose a second letter to him. It needed to be something special and began, “You are not a murderer,” and at the end I wanted to write, “If you don’t answer, then you’re a murderer!” But I decided against that, not knowing if my words would resonate within his excellent memory. Instead, I got Inge’s address from So-and-So and sent her a letter asking if she had any news for me, as I didn’t wish to bother Oswald, but perhaps she could write to me in his or even her own name, as I really needed to hear that things were well with her and Oswald — all I needed was a few lines — and if perhaps the two of them had any advice for me if I happened to be successful in making it over to the metropolis. Meanwhile, the weeks stretched on and I waited for Inge’s answer in vain.