H. Adler - The Wall

“The lovely, you say?”

“Yes, even the lovely. Rarely, I know, do I speak of it. But, believe me, what human beings are capable of and once were — something of that, a possibility, a reappearance, a shadow of it can also rise up within our breasts. Separated from everything, cast out as part of the last and strongest consequence of our lost Paradise. But something of this Paradise still remains — something that survives, that stands firm and will remain firm, all of us under one law and thus the same, but with a thousand different interpretations.”

“We should talk about it later. I can’t leave little Eva on her own too long. What’s the other letter?”

“Wait, I haven’t looked at the signature yet. Just remember that we can’t forget about poor Anna, even though its Resi Knispel, of all people, Resi Knispel!”

“Just a moment, I’ll look in on little Eva. I’ll be right back.”

I buried myself in the letter and with some effort deciphered it. Johanna didn’t keep me waiting long, having found that the little one was fine.

“What, then, does Resi Knispel want?”

“Let me read it. It’s not very long.”

I then read the letter:

My Dear Landau ,

Aren’t you surprised that I’m writing you? I’ve meant to do so for so long, really for years. I said so to Haarburger and friends in his circle, but they probably didn’t say anything, and now I hear that you’ve ceased all contact with those people. At last, though that was some twenty months ago, I heard something about you from a fleeting acquaintance, Konirsch-Lenz. He said that you are in a bad way, that you’re lonely and have fallen out with the world and with people. That surprises me. That doesn’t jive with how I remember you. I asked Konirsch-Lenz to tell you to give me a call. Nothing came of it. More than likely, he didn’t let you know .

Now listen, Landau, come tomorrow or whenever you can, though not Saturday or Sunday. My address is above. It concerns a wonderful project, a journal. I need you as much as bread itself. Agreed? Greetings from

Resi Knispel

Eva’s voice cried out during these last words, so we couldn’t talk about it, while it was also already time for me to pick up Michael, who had been attending preschool for the past few weeks, since he turned five. I rushed out of the house in the direction of Toro Road, where at the corner I was met by a wet and snuffling Santi, the Simmondses’ dog, who barked a greeting and, jumping up with its front paws, soiled my coat. I shooed him away, at which he abruptly toddled off and I hurried along. The rain had ceased, only thin strands of it still dripping, the drops shining like the finest splinters of glass. How I had always loved this gentle shimmering, and before me I saw the mountain woods. I had entirely forgotten about Stereotyping Through Prejudice , as well as Resi Knispel, instead seeing the mountain woods, having perhaps thought of Anna, there where we walked along the border, while afterward she was across the border with her Helmut, the big, strapping man with the face of a boy.

The face of a boy called to me from the vestibule of the school, where he waited for me, hopping about and fidgeting, it being Michael, while I was a bit late. At this, I pushed away any thoughts save of him and turned to his good cheer. He was, if possible, more talkative than ever, and we were home before we knew it. At home, Eva called out, “Mi!Mi!” which meant her brother, and he replied with “Evi, Evi, hihihi!” At this, his little sister cheered. Michael got his food, pleased by the honey, but his mother had to scold him for playing around with it. Then a banana caught his attention even more, and I had to make a little man appear from the peel. Eva was fed by Johanna, the two of us having some tea and eating a little something.

After the meal, I went back to my room and wrote to Anna. She should come as soon as possible. I couldn’t promise to find her a job, though both Johanna and I would try our best to help our friend in the time ahead, she needing also to see how well she liked this country and the metropolis. She just had to get here, and through her savvy life skills she would certainly soon find a suitable occupation, for everything would work out fine.

Then I leafed through Stereotyping Through Prejudice . The book didn’t seem all that bad, though there was nothing new in it, everything following the current fashion for many statistics, results of opinion research, including quotes, but pieced together with diligence and attention to order, and in a seemingly fluid style, even if in places it fell into loose and embarrassing violations of any kind of responsible use of language. Yet another book and yet again the gaping emptiness, I thought to myself. Why was it printed and recommended? Why did someone bother to stir up so much that was already known and done? I shoved the book to the side. Today, I didn’t want anything to do with it.

Then I picked up Resi Knispel’s letter. I couldn’t decide what I should do. This woman belonged to a world that had done me nothing but wrong; I wanted as little to do with it as it had to do with me. I was completely done with it and it all lay behind me; I simply didn’t know if I wanted to go knocking on that door again. Of course, working for a journal remained, as always, an enticing possibility, one where I could have an important influence, where I could state my views, which had been denied me everywhere else, refused me as a result of stupidity or nastiness or indifference. It could grant me, if it was well-intentioned, a free hand. But could I expect that? Didn’t Resi Knispel already belong to the corrupt literati in which scholarship and literature were mixed together in the mishmash of a reportage spouting off about everything but hardly grasping anything, peppered with sensations and a faux-modern style, all of it turned into a wretched journalistic stew? These cliques, with their disgusting wishy-washiness, where as a kind of victory lap I was supposed to be welcomed as a comrade-in-arms who didn’t see through such mischief, though I couldn’t let on about it, while despite honest efforts and novel achievements I was not seen as hostile — all of this I wanted nothing to do with whatsoever. I had finally accepted my social isolation and therefore could no longer curry favor, even if someone from there, whether out of curiosity or with good intent, lifted a pinkie for me.

But was it right to dismiss it all before I had even heard her out? I had to look into it. I just had to avoid senseless compromise, or take any promise seriously, refuse any improper impositions, as well as keep a watchful eye on the separation between my own aims and invidious requests. Either I would be taken for the person that I am, and allowed to have my say, or she would be willing to listen to me and allow me to accomplish something for which I would be responsible. If, nonetheless, it became clear that this was not what she had in mind, then I wouldn’t be disappointed, but cheerfully and calmly withdraw my name from consideration before I was even offered anything. I couldn’t be so dumb as to offer up all my effort and work for nothing the way I had done with Eberhard S.

That night I talked with Johanna at length about whether I should just answer the letter with silence, politely decline, or look up Fräulein Knispel. Johanna worried that I would get upset if I let myself become involved with people like this again. She was happy to see that I had achieved a partial and tolerable sense of resignation, and advised sending a friendly note to decline or writing to ask for more information. I could reassure Johanna that I now knew enough already, that writing would only draw things out, that I felt I was above all trickery, and that I would take it all in stride, even if it was a sham.