H. Adler - The Wall

I would have been happy to dawdle in the bathroom, and would have loved to have a bath in order to wash off the grime from the journey, but because of the misery of such horrible memories I felt terrible. It didn’t get any better when I closed the curtains, their iron rings rattling upon the curtain pole. But I had to shave, for the stubble on my face was two days old. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to unpack my razor. I wanted to get it, and so I hurried up a small set of stairs, for the apartment was half a floor higher than the bathroom. The steps creaked loudly, which disturbed me, and I was also so confused that I no longer knew which door led to my room. I listened at one door, not hearing anything. Carefully I opened it, but it was the wrong room. It had to be Oswald’s study, for it had a huge desk with mountains of writing on it, though luckily no one was there, only a sweet odor, perhaps Indian incense mixed with old cigarettes. I quietly closed the door, listened at another, behind which my friends seemed to be gathered, though I couldn’t be certain, or yes, Otto’s laugh trumpeted giddily, while I moved to a third door, this one the right one, for I recognized my room.

Quickly I looked for my shaving bag and hurried back to the bathroom with it. In front of the mirror, I was shocked to see how stubbled my chin and cheeks were. I looked much older, but everyone had said that I hadn’t changed! And Otto had photographed me in this condition, which upset me. What impression could Dr. Haarburger have had of me? Perhaps my looks had upset Inge and got her going. I thought it possible this was the reason she had been so aggressive toward me, then sympathetic and so ashamed at the end that she couldn’t bring herself to say goodbye before leaving. What could the friends have thought when they said I hadn’t changed at all? Were they sincere or not, were they mean-spirited, or had they expected to find a broken-down old man hobbling with a stick? Had they, after having escaped, written me off in their hearts and now felt their peace had been violated because I had been allowed to survive the war? Did they want me among the living, and did they want me here? Why was the friendliness of all of So-and-So’s letters so forced? And why had the Birch-Bergmann siblings never even once gone to the trouble of writing me a single line? What kind of welcome had been prepared for me? A choreographed comedy! My arrival had not even inspired applause on the part of my friends; the more I thought about it, the clearer it became to me that leaving the station and the consequent fuss was nothing but an embarrassment. I felt as if I’d been led into something disagreeable and I was unable to go along with it openly, or even to disavow it, such that I was set upon by an inept posse and had to play the most pitiable role. So-and-So could extricate himself from it all in the most awkward of ways, which I was even grateful to him for. When it came to Oswald, there seemed to be true feeling for me mixed in, but it became apparent only when there was no one there to witness his kindness. How could I trust him until I had really had a chance to test him? But to test someone, how miserable was that, and what right did I have to do so? Then I remembered the question that So-and-So had harmlessly put to me at the station: Am I not entitled to something? And my answer was: The question is for me too cryptic. No, I had no right and I was not entitled to one! Just wait and see, wait and see how everything develops, watch and see what Oswald and the others really intended to do with me. Oh, what a shameful situation, to have to wait and not be free in the way that had been desired for so long. Why had I come here, why had I fled, what had I fled to, and had I escaped at all? Having escaped myself only to find myself again at my destination? Only an exchange of one misery for another? Or were my friends simply just as stunned as I, or even more so? I had to pull myself together and let them know that I knew what I was doing, even if they had their doubts.

Once I was shaved clean, I looked a lot better. I should now hope to emerge with some confidence. But no, this Otto Schallinger! It was so strange that it had occurred to him to come to the station and not at least say goodbye quickly, as did Haarburger. Otto’s behavior, his empty chatter, cast a bit of a shadow. But eventually he would have to head off, then the field would be clear and everything would be better. We would then be among ourselves, and my friends would recognize how I really was. Confidently I left the bathroom, wanting to go back to my room without being heard, but I wasn’t successful. Despite my stepping carefully, the stairs creaked and groaned; Oswald must have practiced a long while until he managed to soundlessly negotiate those stairs. This time around, I recognized my door and closed it quietly behind me.

I could then have risked making an appearance before my friends, as the time seemed right to me. It would probably have been a good time, since I had messed about for at least half an hour, if not longer, and it was now time for lunch, yet I couldn’t decide what to do. My weariness had almost completely abated, and I only felt a bit dazed. After some hemming and hawing, which carried me twice to the door of the library and caused me to feel for the handle, I turned back with the intention of stretching out on the couch for a little while, ten minutes at most, if only to relax and lie quiet, though certainly not to sleep. It was a comfortable couch — wide, well stuffed, covered with nice blankets, a table next to it. There were also — I didn’t know if they were for me — soft dark-blue and purple anemones, sweets in a bowl, cigarettes and matches, and even a glass of water set out. This last item was good, as I had not drunk anything since having tea that morning. I emptied it in one gulp.

Then I lay flat on my back, feeling comfortable, happy to spend the next hour that way. But I could not at all do that, and therefore had my watch in my hand in order to keep track of the time. I wanted only to have ten minutes, not a second longer. I blocked out all thoughts and succeeded in doing so immediately, despite all expectations, not letting the watch fade from sight and seeing that there were still nine minutes, the time passing wonderfully slowly, as if not passing at all, for there were still more than eight minutes, eight minutes, then almost eight minutes, the seconds stretching out, there still being a while until it was seven minutes. Thus could I rest and not doubt that I would regain my composure during the course of the time elapsed. I even risked closing my eyes a little, though not really, just a little, glancing continuously at my watch: six minutes. The only thing I noticed was how dark it had gotten, perhaps because of the fog that had spread over the city. I was even curious how you found your way outside in this weather.

I don’t know what was wrong with me when I went to look at the watch face again in order to see if the ten minutes were up. I strained to look, but, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t see where the hands were. Perhaps my eyelids had somehow stuck together, though I didn’t see at all better when I forced my eyes open. I sat up and looked all around me, though there was nothing to see but darkness. I was frightened — was I blind? Like a horrible wall, the impenetrable darkness had settled around me. I wanted to scream for help, but I controlled myself, because as I strained to see, I discovered a bit of light that could have come only from the window. I was saved. Then, in another spot through a small crack in the floor, I found another sliver of light. There was no longer any doubt that I had fallen asleep, but I couldn’t understand how that had happened. I still had in my hand the watch that I had so carefully kept an eye on, and felt ashamed and upset that I had rudely kept three men waiting for me. What a guest, they must have thought, making fun of me to boot. I had not looked around the room enough earlier in order to get my bearings here in the dark. I was afraid to knock something over the moment I began feeling my way about. Where might there be a light switch? I stood there for a little while without moving. Should I yell to let the others know that I needed help? No, I would just look ridiculous, a frightened child having just awakened from a bad dream whom they would rush to help in order to comfort. Then my intentions of emerging as the confident Arthur Landau would be somewhat damaged. I had to find my way myself, suddenly appear before my friends, and behave as if my being late was the most natural thing in the world. I felt around the table next to the divan and stretched toward the crack, whose glimmer showed me the way. Soon I was fishing about with my hand, trying to find the handle to the library door. It turned easily, I entered, and was blinded by three lights such that I had to squint, though I quickly got my bearings and was surprised by the dense smoke that filled the room.