H. Adler - The Wall

She laughed somewhat tensely, as if a bit angry.

“Really? You think so? Your experience is amazing.”

“Ah, my experience! What are you thinking!”

She looked at me, full of concern.

“I always had other things to do than housework. You don’t do such things for yourself alone. You need to do it for others; otherwise, it’s senseless. When my brother—”

She fell silent. The waiter cleared the dishes from the table and brought the coffee. I was pleased that we would at last be rid of him. But Fräulein Zinner’s distress bothered me. The tables seemed entirely turned since the office, and on the way here, when she was so certain and I was so helpless. Did I now have the advantage? What a miserable advantage it was if all it meant was that I had transferred my troubles to this girl without becoming any steadier myself. What had I done! The entire evening had failed, a bad beginning to desires never to be satisfied. I thought about how I could manage to collect myself, or, if that was not possible, at least subordinate my concerns and prop up Fräulein Zinner. Yet what I lacked was the strength found only when I tapped the strength of another. I consciously tried to subordinate myself, but I couldn’t. My dependence on other people had nothing to do with subordination.

“Tell me, Fräulein Zinner, have I done something terrible?”

She looked at me with surprise, in need of clarification.

“Perhaps not terrible,” I continued, “for I wouldn’t say that, just something disagreeable, something not quite right, which just isn’t done.”

“Don’t fret so! You’re a big boy.”

“That’s kind of you to say. I have been so regularly knocked off balance since I’ve been here that I fear that I am agitated by countless and often insignificant things. Instead of being reassured, I end up robbed of my last bit of confidence. But I don’t wish to burden you with all that, and I am thankful that you grant me such freedom. I need a foothold, but I am left to grope and stumble or I stand before a wall that is flat and fends me off and does not buttress me. But don’t think badly of me because of it! It’s a halting unease that makes me say all these twisted things. That’s not really who I am. For I believe I can overcome any difficulty. If you’ve survived, you often end up astonished at yourself; you confront yourself, curious, shy, cautious, you really question yourself, for you still can’t quite believe you are the same person, whether you even exist. Sometimes I think, Yes, it’s indeed so. Such moments are not at all significant, but quite the contrary, since everything is insignificant and vague, as the answer dissolves within the question. But when you simply go on living, then it’s only natural that life doesn’t consist of fully conscious hours but, rather, of little conversations that trickle along or small continuing activities, since the unsettled being is best suited to some kind of orderly routine. Thus when the question ceases to knock at your insides, at your very fiber, and yet nonetheless is there and continues on, there exists a mild tension that, without any great surprise, can upset you at any time and leads to an accommodation with the self-evident. Then everything becomes unquestionably interdependent. Not in an immense fashion or essentially so, but it does seem to me beneficial. Whether that is a basis for a life, I really don’t know.”

“But it is an accommodation. You say so yourself. One must accommodate oneself. That’s what you mean to say?”

“That’s what I would say. Yes, you’re right. Do you recall how at the Haarburgers’ I tossed out the question whether one could marry a man with my past? You responded quite vigorously to that. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“And was your answer genuine? Do you still stand by all that you said then?”

“Every word.”

“That’s good. So, then, you would marry such a person? What with all the uncertainty involved?”

“Yes.”

“That is absolutely crucial. Have you thought about what that would actually mean?”

“Just give me the chance!”

Fräulein Zinner chuckled heartily and caused me to laugh as well.

“Then, Fräulein Johanna, could you marry me even now?”

“Why not?”

“I’m not the man for you.”

“You should let me decide that.”

“I have no life to speak of.”

“So you can’t marry me, either?”

“Who told you that?”

“I’m free to say so myself.”

“Go on! You at least have to marry in the hope of some kind of security.”

“One marries for thousands of reasons. I would marry whom I liked, if he will have me.”

“You mean me?”

Moved, Johanna fell silent, yet she quickly recovered and looked as if — or so I imagined — as if she were in her office handling professional matters for visitors. Johanna was completely impenetrable, together and in control, yet warm. Her quiet authoritative manner pleased me very much. Yes, I became aware of how much she pleased me for the first time, such that I was not bothered by feeling faint or by fitful moods, which always held the potential to overwhelm me, but instead could concentrate on courting her with zeal. I was free of heavy-handed flirtatiousness. I looked at her tenderly, half from the side. Her face, calm and imperturbable, as if I had said nothing audacious at all, gave me no sign as to how I should behave, whether I would be heard or not. One thing I knew: I could not stand a setback now. I nodded and spoke quietly but beseechingly.

“With me there’s nothing to be had but my powerlessness.”

Johanna turned to me attentively, but otherwise nothing about her changed, which provided me with the barest of openings. I talked on in almost a whisper.

“A person like me is poor and can make no promises. His existence, shot through with despair, is nothing but an open wound. Perhaps at heart he can feel grateful, but he can promise no income. It’s not at all advisable to get tangled up with him. Whoever is smart will avoid him. Whoever loves him will have many bitter and weary hours. He has only himself to offer, and that is little, for otherwise there is nothing. He is faithful, not out of virtue but because of his nature. He is affectionate, even tender, but headstrong, and his intensity doesn’t recommend him, as it can be horrible. He broods a great deal, and in his peculiar thoughts he develops his own path forward on which he cannot recommend that anyone travel along with him. Sometimes he is sad and almost melancholy, and then it’s hard for anyone to distract or rouse him. Yet he is grateful, perhaps, and that he has said already. He also does not easily forget, and some things he never forgets, but he doesn’t hold a grudge, and he fights against bad will and is forgiving. His work is probably of little worth, but he feels it is important, and he loves it. He is a widower. He loved his wife very much; he has not forgotten her, nor will he ever forget her. If he should ever marry again, he will make certain that the dead do not come between him and his new wife, nor will he stand between the living and the dead, and it will be up to the wife not to stand between her husband and those who have passed on.”

Johanna listened to all of this while remaining outwardly calm, simply sitting there, not a word of it seeming too much for her and nothing seeming to disturb her, though her breathing slowed to a standstill. She didn’t let herself be confused, no matter how surprised she was; I could have kept on in the same vein without at all disturbing her. Yet I couldn’t expect that she would have some kind of response to what I said, no matter how much I might have wanted or hoped. I sipped my coffee and set the cup down a bit too loudly.