H. Adler - The Wall

That did it. Someone came up to me, shook my hand, said how happy he was to see me again, and slapped me on the shoulder. But I didn’t recognize the man, nor did I want to ask who he was; it didn’t matter to me. He had to be someone from the Reitergasse. I waited anxiously for the man to disclose something even more important to me, but he just stated again his joy, until I interrupted him and asked him for news of my father and for him to take me to him right away, since he must have just passed through here, though we had, unfortunately, missed each other. I only wanted to talk to him as soon as possible, since it had been so long, because of the war, since we had been able to talk.

“He must be in the shop. I need to hurry in order to get to him before it closes. For then he won’t want to open up, because he’ll have to tally the receipts and feed the cat. Then he runs out the back door and is no longer to be found. Please, take me there, I’m tired, I feel dizzy. Go on ahead of me and let him know that I am on my way. But be careful that he is not done in by the joy!”

“What.… What’s that, Herr Landau, who do you want to see?”

“My father!”

“Your father.… Where might he be?”

“I don’t know for certain. He must be in the shop. You know which one I mean. Quick, before it’s too late!”

“In which shop …?”

“Don’t be that way! There! A couple of buildings farther! First you cross the Römerstrasse, then just two buildings on—”

“I don’t understand.… You’ll have to—”

“What don’t you understand? Don’t you see Herr Kutschera’s fruit stand there, all those boxes and baskets taking up half the sidewalk? Just past that? It always bugged my father how sloppy Kutschera is and how his stuff stood in the way of customers wanting to get to our shop. Don’t you see it? There’s the shop, HAL — Haberdashery Albert Landau!”

The man looked at me appalled, his mouth open, he not knowing what to say. When I asked him once again to come with me, that there was little time left, he ever so lightly tapped me on the forehead, said something inaudible as apology, turned on his heel, and left without saying goodbye. “It’s me! It’s me! Why are you running off! I didn’t mean to upset you.” But the man didn’t turn around and had already disappeared. Nor did I hear anyone calling out again the name of my father or my name; instead, strangers flowed on by me without a care, none of them concerned as I looked around helplessly in all directions, wondering if anyone else might indeed recognize me, though in vain.

There was nothing else for me to do but venture on and look for my father unannounced. Hopefully, he wasn’t out front in the shop but out back in the office or in the workroom or the storeroom. Then from behind the counter a salesclerk would ask in a friendly voice if I needed any help, most likely not one of the old ones but someone new. I would then take the salesclerk aside and tell him that I was the younger Herr Landau — indeed, just take a look, it’s me, though I’ve changed quite a bit, the long war, though I’m fit as a fiddle, but you don’t have to worry about your job, for I’m just a meager scholar and no salesman, since I don’t know anything about selling clothes. But, please, just go back and tell my father that I’m here. Prepare him for it carefully, for I don’t want the shock to kill him! Just tell him that a gentleman wishes to speak with him, and make sure to tell him it’s no stranger but someone he knows, so that he slowly comes to experience a wonderful surprise, rather than him thinking that the dead have risen from the grave, as used to happen in the old days, though if you think about it, such an event is not that pleasant to think about. Go to my father and carefully let him know that someone wants to see him! And, once he’s listened to it all and is curious enough to push you to the side and walk out to the front, take him by the hand, making sure that he doesn’t hurry, and then tell him very quietly so that he understands: Herr Landau, it’s someone who knows you very well, a friend. It’s Arthur, your son.

That’s what I imagined would happen as, with eyes blinking, I quietly crept forward. I had already crossed the Römerstrasse on the old familiar way home to my parents’ apartment, and I was already at the baskets of fruit and nuts eagerly displayed by the Kutscheras. I shoved my way past the crowd of customers and saw that today my father had closed early, the shutters all down, only the large display window still left uncovered. I didn’t dare go any closer, because I was already terrified to see that the shelves were empty — no shirts, no beautifully appointed goods, nothing behind the pane coated with a thick layer of dust, only the empty depths of the showroom and its closed display cases, past which I could gaze into the pooling twilight of the shop’s depths, all the way back to the counter and even as far as the very hazy shelves behind it full of boxes. I pressed against the neglected pane, closed my eyes for a little while to make sure that I simply wasn’t seeing things, then opened them again to spy what was before me. But everything was real. Or was it? Was I standing there? Was this the old shop in the Reitergasse? Why had I let myself become confused, and why had I wandered here? Hadn’t an inner voice warned against ever returning to this city, as it no longer held any trace of home or anything good, both of which would be easier to find elsewhere than in a place from a past that had disappeared?

There I stood in front of a wall, my gaze sinking into the tidy little realm that my father had run for so many years with diligent work, and now it stood empty, not even a stranger having moved in. The window was too dusty for me to see whether the counter and the shelves really were still in their old locations. I stood up on my toes, wiped the windowpane, but it was covered with dust on the inside. In order to have a better view, I jumped up and down a few times, but this also failed, me feeling ashamed in case the Kutscheras or anyone passing by had seen my foolishness and thought of me as a dog whining before his dead father’s house. He was not there; there was nothing to be found here. A final glance confirmed that the shop’s sign had disappeared. Only the empty frame, whose glass had broken, loomed. There was no sign to read.

I wanted to get away as fast as I could. Wherever everything was lost, every moment disappeared. If I wanted to find out where my father was, it would be better to check elsewhere, be it with relatives or friends, but perhaps best of all at home, not in the Reitergasse. My father was already an old man, which had not occurred to me. He was now way past seventy, and therefore he would have preferred to close the business rather than sell it to a stranger. That would have pained him to no end. Instead, he had decided to rest and enjoy what he had earned. He had always looked ahead to a comfortable old age and wanted to have a large garden on the edge of the city, where he could build a little hut to get away to on the weekends in order to be closer to his flowers on warm, lovely days, his greenhouse full of exotic plants and his beloved cacti. I needed to hurry home, where Father would be meeting Mother on such a lovely evening when the strawberries were ripening, though neither would be expecting me. If it so happened they were away, I could leave a message with the porter and ask him where I could find the garden, and then hurry on to it as fast as I could.

But that’s not the way it worked out at all, for I couldn’t convince myself that the hope of seeing my father again in front of the shop in the Reitergasse was entirely useless. I also couldn’t help thinking that it was a long way home, and that Mother would have no clue that I’d be arriving. I had not shaved in days, and I had been gone for years. A father would understand that, for he would think of the war, but it wouldn’t be right to show up in front of my mother old and haggard, tired and dirty, in a tattered uniform and clunky shoes. To call home with a voice composed would be the best, or to ask Frau Kutschera to help me out. Unfortunately, the Kutscheras were not very pleasant people, but as an unexpected arrival I could hope for a little courtesy. In any case, it made the most sense to ask at the fruit stand, for hanging about in front of Father’s shop made no sense and was depressing. As always, the Kutscheras had a lot of customers who didn’t at first step into the shop but instead lingered outside on the street. The couple and the two harried salesgirls had their hands full and no time to keep an eye on each individual customer. It all happened fast, but whoever wanted to be served did better to call out loud what he wanted, rather than wait outside and expect to be served. But how should I make my presence known? I stood among the group of shifting customers, all of whom were trying to be served next. Their number hardly shrank, for there were always new people arriving as soon as others withdrew. Nonetheless, I remained hopeful and stood there very patiently, believing that one of the Kutscheras would notice me, though it was a salesgirl who finally looked at me with concern, because it bothered her that I kept peering in at the Kutscheras. No, I said, I didn’t need any help. I quickly shifted my glance, and the young girl turned on her heel to help someone else.