H. Adler - The Wall

But what is this? Away from here … away! Is that what I hear? Is it sleep that it’s interrupting? The rapping of time in my sleep? I can no longer wait. I must remember; away sleep, away sleep. There it is again, hard on the door. I tore myself from sleep and jumped up from the chair, shaking away the confusion. It was time, myself already in full stride, bursting out the door. Anna must be standing outside. It was raining; I couldn’t dawdle. Out the room, down the hall, and opening the door. There stood the mailman in his rain poncho, patient, a compassionate man who just waved away my apology. He handed me a little package that was a book, which was why he had knocked, giving me two letters as well, all of them damp with rain. I thanked him, the mailman already heading off toward his bicycle, delivering his messages in the pouring rain. I closed the door and hurried back to my room. Anna had not arrived, but she had written, her clear handwriting before me, covered with rain, as if tears had fallen upon it. The other letter, from the city, had a fancy look about it that I did not recognize. I set this letter and the book aside and read what Anna had to say after a silence that had lasted almost a year.

Dearest Johanna and Arthur ,

It’s been a long while since we heard from each other. Very long, too long, or it’s just a short while. I don’t know. When so much is going on, it’s hard to know how long it’s been. The last I heard from you was the news of Eva’s birth. She must be over a year old by now — a clever, wise little girl. I would love to see her, as well as all of you. Will it be possible? Patience! Alas, it’s hard to write such a letter. Please be patient, and one thing will follow another. Michael must now be five. The children must indeed be growing up; one can speak reasonably with them, and they comprehend so much. What are you like as parents? Certainly splendid. Though you don’t put up with any nonsense .

How shall I begin to tell you my story? I can’t, or at least there’s no gentle way to do so. So listen! Helmut died three days ago, quite unexpectedly. We just buried him yesterday, in a sad new cemetery far outside the city. There were no prior signs, no warning, no last words said; it was all over in an hour. Helmut must have had a problem with his heart that was never diagnosed. Alas, it does no good to dwell on what he did or didn’t have. Suddenly, at breakfast, he was feeling fine and chipper, then he collapsed, gone in a second, not another word, never regaining consciousness. It was awful. I ran to the neighbor, who got a doctor from next door, and he arrived in a few minutes, me having stretched Helmut out on a couch, his arms dangling, his eyes — oh, his eyes looked terrible — and the doctor worked on him for a while. He said it was a massive heart attack. This and that was taken care of, and he helped me bring Helmut back to bed. What happened between his death and the funeral I cannot tell you .

I’m sure this comes as a shock to you, my dears. Oh, it’s so terrible. I can still see Hermann standing before me, sweetly and movingly saying goodbye before heading off to the Eastern Front, and now Helmut is gone as well. I just can’t believe it. I can’t think about my situation too much, but everything has become strange for me here, even if there are good people who thoughtfully keep an eye out for me. But they are strangers to me; I have no place here any longer. And I have only one wish: Away from here, away! Last night I dreamed of Helmut, and he said, Get away from here; it’s not good for you here!

Do you think, Arthur, that I could come to you both? Or is that crazy? I would be willing to do anything. The lowliest job would be fine with me, the best possibilities being the care of the blind, raising blind children, for I know Braille and everything necessary. I’ve been trained, and as a girl and during the war years I worked as a teacher of the blind. But there are also other things I could do. Help me, if you can. I simply must get away! At least give me some advice. I know that it’s hard, and that you have your own worries (hopefully, things have gotten better), but please don’t fail me now and be there for me! The language won’t pose any problem. Nor is getting there a problem, that I know, for I can pull together the money. If you could let me stay with you for a short while and could send me an invitation, I can then present it and in a few weeks could be on my way, as long as everything is in order. I would love to help out, dear Johanna, with Michael and Eva .

Write to me soon! I have never waited so intensely for a letter. Include a little picture of the children, if you can, and a formal invitation .

Perhaps you’ll be interested to know, Arthur, that a short while ago Peter wrote us — oh, how bitter it is to write “us”—from Wellington. Things go well for him in New Zealand, and he’s very much the same dear old good-for-nothing nitwit. He also asked about you two. But enough now. And don’t be angry! No, you can’t be angry at someone this sad, and who remains ever faithfully yours ,

Anna

I walked straight to Johanna in her room and showed her the letter. She read it while I played with Eva, who was crawling around her playpen and shrieking with pleasure. I fancied myself a proud father, to my credit. Johanna said we had to help Anna right away and invite her. Eva, who felt neglected and was protesting strongly as we spoke, was soothed by her mother as she turned her attention to her new rattle. We left the child alone in her playpen and went to my study, where we considered what we needed to do to get ready. Anna should live with us as long as was necessary. The rest would work itself out.

Then I said to Johanna that there had been some other mail as well. She opened the little package that contained the promised book of a young sociologist with the title Stereotyping Through Prejudice . On the cover there was a blurb signed by Kratzenstein, whose style stirred rollicking laughter in Johanna. At this I stopped trying to make out the crabbed writing of the other letter and listened to Johanna read Kratzenstein’s praise aloud:

“The author responsibly undertakes to come up with answers to the most burning problems of our time through this probing existential study that fathoms the role of prejudice in causing our ills, and which is based on stereotypes. Within the intellectual confines of the scholarly appreciation of essential structures, he desires to use cool-handed methods of sober analysis to put his finger without fear or shyness on one of the hot spots of our day, but also to be a sensitive friend to man and a helping doctor who knows the worth of a real and manifest understanding of existence. After the careful exclusion of all utopian theories, the needs of all those threatened and oppressed are examined layer by layer through the piercing insight of sociology and the only possible solution revealed in the prescription of a humane democracy. I wish this impressive accomplishment great success.

“—Professor James Kratzenstein, President of the International Society of Sociologists.”

We both laughed heartily at such jargon.

“If I want to pretend, all I have to do is read the blurb and not the book. I could just concentrate on the name under the blurb, for thus says the famous Professor Kratzenstein, and the work is anointed. But, I promise you, I won’t be that lazy.”

“We should be ashamed, Arthur. Here we are talking about this gibberish, and Anna is in despair. We’re so rude and unkind.”

“You’re right, Johanna. That’s enough. Sometimes I think the old mystic had it right in so many words, even if he didn’t understand it all himself, when he said, God, the Devil, the world, and everything is in our hearts. Only the admiring praise he showers on the heart I cannot go along with. Existence — how we live it — is confusing, too much for the heart, its ordeals swamping it, and we rarely say what’s clear, rarely what’s true. But let’s not be too hard on ourselves! We certainly have not at all grown callous. We observe the surgings of the ugly and horrible no more than the sublime, and especially the sweet and the tender, even the lovely.”