H. Adler - The Wall

Alas, such waiting wore me down and almost broke me! The days crept by. Three times daily the mailman commenced his fateful journey through the neighborhood, it being unclear to me what filled his bag when he had nothing but gas and electric bills, coal bills, official notices, useless flyers, circulars, publisher’s catalogs, subscription offers, or needy appeals from charity organizations, or generally decrepit and useless mail that I had no idea what to do with. Meanwhile, important news that arrived and spoke to one’s humanity, saying you, I mean you, out of which something announced itself and from flat paper a figure rose that you knew, whereby you existed, such seemed hardly to be had any longer. Or at least it wasn’t so for me, nor has it changed for me much to this day.

No, Inge had done nothing to give me even the satisfaction of a few lines. Perverse defiance rose within me, causing me to pine for news from Oswald. I was shameless enough to ask the beleaguered So-and-So whether he could help me out with Oswald or Inge, but So-and-So just ignored my question. Letters cut into emptiness; also, whoever picks them up and reads them is lost in them, shaking off those silent expressions, unwilling to take pity on the matters raised within them. Then you write something, the sentences going on in a nauseating manner with their bleak accounts and painful demands, divided up neatly into questions and answers, though there is nothing within them, as you hold the paper up to the light in the hope of something jumping out, or waft the sheet in the air in vain, there being only a rustling sound but not a single living word. Even someone such as myself, who has learned the art of reading between the lines, will not be satisfied as he anxiously reads on with choking thirst. Such a game of silence seemed to me so dumb, and so I confronted So-and-So:

“Please write to me about what’s going on with Oswald, or, if you prefer, how Dr. Birch and Fräulein Bergmann are, what they are doing, whether or not they received my letters??? Why haven’t they answered at all? Do I not exist? Or am I nothing but thin air to them both? Do they think I’ve kicked the bucket? And why don’t you tell me anything when I’ve asked you to? Are you only reading a part of my letters? Do I have to always read your lengthy missives telling me what I’m supposed to do for you with the horrid Dr. Blecha, that slimy little attorney, and others? If I want something, why is it that you must deliberately ignore it? Oh, please don’t be angry that I am so upset, but it’s gradually become too much for me to experience nothing but despair! If you only knew, my friend, how the situation with Oswald Bergmann upsets me and makes me unhappy, you would do something about it today! I know your good will toward me. So tell the two of them that I feel I’ve been forgotten by them when they don’t answer me. A letter left unanswered can be tantamount to a murder! Take care of this!”

So-and-So would have to feel compelled to do something, but all he gave in return was small nuggets of information:

“Above all, I would ask you not to be so high-handed. The matter of Dr. Blecha (I’m enclosing a note with some instructions for him) should really be a boon for you. It’s as much in your interest as it is in mine. I believe it would be better for me not to acknowledge your misgivings about him — no hard feelings. Now, to your being so wildly keyed up. Here people have a different temperament; they are measured and reserved. We, too, have had to get used to that. If you press a matter, which is exactly what you’re doing, you don’t get anywhere, especially when it comes to friendship. You write, ‘A letter left unanswered can be tantamount to a murder!’ Ridiculous! Have you gone mad? If I were to share such — forgive me — balderdash with Birch, of all people, I would certainly get an earful. For letters he has neither sight nor inclination, and such heavy-handed blackmail will only hurt you with him. Nonetheless, because of your pressing lines I have gone to Birch and made your wishes clear to him, but in softer terms. After all these years, he still likes you, and he’s your friend. You don’t have to doubt his approval. He has spoken of you with such warmth, which he is amply capable of toward you. A letter to him and one to his sister have arrived safely. You shouldn’t have any worries about that. Both are healthy. Birch is working on his atlas of cave drawings throughout the world and is more and more busy. It should be a great work. He and his sister seem fairly happy, send their greetings to you, and will be happy for you to come here. Birch says that he cannot write to you because it would upset him too much to do so. When I suggested that perhaps his sister could write on his behalf, he promised to arrange that, but she, too, has much to do. She’s working on a new children’s book that Karin will illustrate in order to try to make ends meet and perhaps one day be able to leave dentistry behind. But that is just a plan. Please, don’t mention any of this in your response, for it will only upset Karin, for it’s still highly speculative, and she is also superstitious. Birch also let me know that I shouldn’t promise that you’ll get any letter from his sister, either. Then he expressed his surprise (this I’m sharing with you in confidence) that you were still alive. What he pretty much said was “I would not have wagered one red cent that such a tender type as Arthur would have pulled through!” My reply was “You have seriously underestimated him!” He then said, and he was quite serious, “Of course, I know that!”

After that, I gave up asking So-and-So or others about Oswald, and Anna avoided bringing up his name. How moved I was when in his last letter to me So-and-So referred to Oswald and Inge again — moreover, that the two of them would certainly meet me at the train station! I didn’t know whether I should be overjoyed or afraid, and it almost unsettled me how I was left to feel my way through the dark, as it was unclear why I was suddenly again worthy of the sympathies of the siblings. To certainly expect … what does it mean to be certain? The train flew past the switching point of a station stop, releasing a terrific noise, but it sounded to me like music, the certain speed of it, heading for our destination, both the rails and the journey directed at an endpoint, no falling away from it, as long as nothing bad happened, for nothing bad must happen. The train was still the safest form of travel — the roar of the machine, its thunderous snorting, the ring and rhythm of the wheels, rolling along the echoing rails, the certainty of the powerlessness of the detained who sits in his compartment, nonchalantly allowing himself to trust in the harrowing strangeness, like a letter traveling, sent from one person to another, sent off, delivered, received, opened, the journey there occurring between, cautiously, but irresistibly leaning through the curves, onward, onward, then always the drowsy, yet never weary gaze out at the passing terrain that remains stationary despite one’s moving through it, the ticket bought, the border falling behind you, a traveling being upon a fixed line.

But where was freedom? Once you commit to the journey, then it’s over, and no one knows if it means escape, or the choice to begin anew, or expectation. Oh, it was expectation; to be expected, no longer foreign, once one is expected. Yet you remained confused, not believing in yourself or in others, having gathered together your bags and looking out to wonder who will be there, who will recognize you, or greet you once the destination was reached? I could not imagine, as everything swirled around. The conductor approached; a well-meaning healthy face looked at me as I handed him my ticket, it already being worn out from having been checked many times. All that was left was a receipt in the ticket book. A long trip, I explained apologetically and wearily in the foreign language. The man nodded and muttered something. I didn’t really understand what he said, though I also felt that the conductor hadn’t understood me, and then I saw to my horror how he let the ticket disappear into his pocket. How was I to account for my journey at the gate? Too weak to stand up, I fidgeted mightily on the seat, as I had neither enough cash to bail myself out nor the right words at the ready to explain to the attendants at the station the misfortune of my ticket’s having been confiscated. I had to have the little ticket book back!