H. Adler - The Wall

In awe, we walked on arm in arm, the quiet road not causing us to hurry, it feeling as if perhaps we weren’t walking at all but rather that the road just slowly moved beneath our feet. We approached some houses, not even a village, much smaller than Vaynor, though it had a name, a sign saying Dol-y-gaer. Quietly we wandered through, thus remaining unobserved. What were the people doing behind those walls? Only a child rapped against a windowpane and shouted, though he didn’t meet our gaze and hardly noticed us. After only a few steps more, we had left Dol-y-gaer, this being another non-place. Peacefully there lay, as if embedded in the bottom of a large kettle, green and slate blue, a lake. Johanna knew that it was called Pen-twyn, and said that it was man-made, its waters functioning as a reservoir for many cities of the country. A little while later, we then reached two farm buildings on its shore, at which point we left the road.

It had stopped raining and was brighter than it had been in recent days. We turned left and climbed uphill, scrambling over two or three barrier hedges and eventually arriving in a damp pasture. Frequently we looked back, the lake smooth as a mirror, only looking darker from farther away, less watery, more metallic, its waters having secretly swallowed up the light, a rich denseness, viscous and filled with unfathomable depth. The little houses on its shores looked toylike, toylike, as well, the embankment with its rails, toylike above us the blank sky that pressed its whitish blue between the swiftly moving clouds that billowed up white and drifted soundlessly. The sun sequestered a hillside here and there in soft yellows, wandering out over the lake as well, its lit-up surface dazzled by its soft glittering, its rays soon reaching our slope, pushing on farther, striated by shadows that distinguished depths and heights that were gray but also patiently anticipated the unfolding wonder.

We eventually reached the top. Since we had climbed vigorously, the weather continually opening up the skies and then clearing off, and since the air in this windy land hardly stirred, we were warm. Only the stunted plant growth made it look like winter; otherwise the time of year didn’t seem at all evident, it smelling of late autumn or early spring, the view of the mountains almost making it feel like summer. The soft, pearly mist, the treeless barren hills, the sloping summits and sharp peaks with their dark cliffs transformed the Black Mountains — a moderately high range that, some miles north of here, barely rose to twenty-five hundred feet — almost into a high range of triple the height and five times the length, as the peaks appeared much grander and more distant than they really were. Thus we climbed along as if in alpine meadows and pastures. Beyond lay a runnel with a little creek running through it, no more than an arm’s length across, while to the left we saw a mountain that was also only a hill, yet still looked much larger than it was, and which we wanted to climb. Johanna called it Twyn Croes, though certainly she didn’t know the name. It hardly took us half an hour to reach the top. I regretted that we didn’t have a map, but Johanna explained the view to me as well as she could.

“When we go down again, and hopefully soon, you should have Betty tell you, for she knows better than me. She knows every corner of this country. She’s proud of that, and happy when someone asks her about it. We’ve walked in a sort of semicircle, for we’ve come back some ways by climbing the heights that we didn’t wish to leave. Now the man-made lake in Pen-twyn is to our north. You see the road along which we were walking; it’s a Roman road. Near Pen-twyn it forks in two. The road to the right runs pretty close to the train to Brecon. The left branch climbs sharply higher and runs directly north. Without hardly wavering, it leads to Brecon. Betty is always amazed by the raised mounds of Offa’s Dyke, and proudly points to them as if she had built them herself. Do you see them? The steeply rising mountains toward the left in the distance are the Brecon Beacons. They are the highest peaks of the Black Mountains. Somewhat craggy, but the view from them is nice if you’re lucky. Toward the north side, from which you can see Brecon deep below, they fall off even more steeply. Farther left, where the heights are softer, I don’t know my way around as well. But the valley before it — you can only guess where it is from here — it’s very deep and particularly beautiful. The colors there look almost as if one were in Italy. I love it. It’s called Cwm Taf, and the brook that flows there is named Taf Fawr. At Cefn — you saw it when we went for a walk with Betty on the first day here — it joins up with our beloved Taf Fechan. There you also see the hollow where Merthyr Tydfil lies, and which then grows smaller. That’s the Merthyr Valley. Behind that range are the mountains of Aberdare. Straight ahead of us we can almost see Vaynor. I don’t think it can be more than three-quarters of an hour away. Then there is our old familiar Morlais Hill, which blocks the view of Merthyr behind it.”

“And there, where the smoke is rising?”

“That’s already in the middle of the wastes of coal country. Dowlais, a poor and miserable place, an ugly town — that I know. It looks as if all the violence of the war took place there. Nothing like that happened in Dowlais, but that’s what misery can do. The area has been depressed for years, for the men have no work and have to be taken care of by the state their whole lives. The coal mines stretch out farther to the east, valley after valley, one after another, a brook running through each, as well as the railroad next to it, and high-piled black mounds of coal waste. Tredegar, Ebbw Vale, Brynmawr are some of the names.”

“I’m amazed that you can remember such difficult names. I doubt that I could.”

“It took me some effort. Betty badgered me to get them right. Well, is that enough for now?”

“Yes, Johanna. It’s enough for today. We’re near a border here, and borders have always meant something to me. But this time I want to remain on this side of the border.”

“Not in the coal country?”

“No, not in the coal country. Not in any country. Just here.”

“So, then, no longer in the metropolis?”

“That’s unavoidable.”

“I can speak to Betty. Maybe it is avoidable.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Betty wants to help me and will do anything I ask her, if she can. Several times she’s suggested that I should move closer to her. Perhaps she can use us to help her with her baked goods or find something else for us.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“No, Arthur. But I can.”

“No. That wouldn’t be for me. Unfortunately. There are no prospects here for my work. My escape can’t end up landing me in complete isolation.”

“I’d be with you, Arthur.”

“Of course. I know. I’m so grateful you are. But I meant something else by this.”

“I understand. You have to follow your own path.”

“You understand me so well, my dear. Opportunities have to be followed up on. I already know so many people, and each week I meet new ones. There has to be something right for me. My efforts can’t continue to go for naught. True, at the moment everything is still uncertain, more uncertain than ever. But must it remain so? Is there no way for me to break through the wall? Can’t I finally be a person among persons? I believe, dear, it will happen. Together with you — when you’re not afraid of my uncertainty, my abyss, I can achieve something. Oh, to achieve something! I’m filled to the brim with things I want to do, books and essays to write, lectures to give, to articulate my ideas and thereby attract the interest of a small number of worthy people, as well as good friends for the both of us. Do you believe that can happen as well?”