H. Adler - The Wall

Yet what kind of son was I? What good was I? I had not saved my parents from the war, had not sent them the smallest of gifts, not even the smallest memento that the dullest of soldiers brings home to his dearest ones in order to assure them of his love, and that he had faithfully thought of them while in the trenches, he having brought some crude little thing, a picture frame for his mother, a cigarette holder for his father, which he had carved himself with a pocket knife during the melancholy hours of those endless days. Then the parents, who had believed that their own flesh and blood had disappeared, would know that the love of a son never fades despite the years. I had failed to do anything; dull and dejected, I hadn’t brought the slightest gift. But then I had an idea, for there I stood, Kutschera’s apples in hand, which I could lay on the grave of my dear parents.

“Take and give thanks, my dear dead! Blessed may you be with this food! You will never be forgotten, you who took the trouble to feed and clothe me. It is only a meager sacrifice that I carry over the threshold to you in your holy silent realm, but please accept it with grace! One thing is certain: this gift carries no guilt. I didn’t shoot the enemy in his garden in order to steal from his fruit trees. I was not a good soldier, nor did I become a good murderer. Instead, I was cowardly. I stayed back in the hinterlands, though I was not fed. No sweet apples were handed out; it was a meager time, neither an easy nor a dangerous stage, though I don’t wish to talk about that, for it wasn’t particularly difficult, because here I am. Indeed, it’s really me. It’s my own skin and bones. Why don’t you answer? Don’t be so cold! You have to hear me, I have to find you. Please, open the door! I know you’re in there, hidden deep inside, for I can hear Father in the bathroom drumming on the large mirror, as he always did whenever he shaved. Then the clatter of the dishes and silverware — only Mother could make that sound, nobody else. Why can’t I get to you? This wall, this awful wall; I can neither get through nor over it. Oh, how impossible it all is.”

With a quavering voice I said all this in a soft rhythm, determined to move forward, and yet not taking a single step. I stood there frozen in the Helfergasse, the seething rush of the Karolinenweg nearby. Pleadingly I held out my bag of apples, yet I couldn’t help noting with a shudder how miserable it all was, a pathetic attempt at an unsuccessful return home. Then I wrenched myself away from the spot, passing continually back and forth as one does when one waits for someone on the street and can’t stand still. Perhaps someone would come along, a relative or one of the old servants, Herr Nerad or Frau Holoubek, a person who is always tied to us, and even today is still a part of us, as such closeness never disappears. All I needed was a little patience, for by the time evening settled in someone would have to come along who could help me. I reproached myself sharply for not writing a single letter the entire war, not even sending a simple card home, myself the disloyal son. Why should he expect anything now in return? Indeed I remembered that we could not send any mail, for our guards would not allow it, as they hated to waste time with such things and simply said no when we asked permission to mail letters and cards. Yet that was no excuse. I had simply done nothing but remain silent, ever silent, as only the dead are allowed to remain! No doubt Mother would remain silently in the background, knitting away, stitch after stitch. Could a mother renounce even such a bad son? No, she was sweet and almost deaf, though Father was highly enraged, not letting her know that I was nearby, which she could not perceive, lost as she was in the melancholy of her lonely knitting. If only Father didn’t stand in the way, I could have gone to Mother!

“You’re not getting past me, Arthur! Can’t you see that your mother is decorating the shroud of her dead son with stars? A noble piece of work done by ever-faithful hands.”

“Father, I brought you apples, fragrant shining apples! Mother should peel them with the gilded fruit knife and cut them into pieces! She can sprinkle them with sugar and arrange them in the shiny crystal bowl for us all!”

“Too late. You should have come earlier. Others came home a good while ago. You made us wait so long.”

“The war—”

“I know, the war. That’s what one says when he perceives the long-neglected love of his parents as an inexpiable wrong. We couldn’t wait any longer for you. Even if it’s you, we don’t recognize you. In the cemetery, when they erect a gravestone for children who have died far away, they will collect money for it, and we will have your name engraved so that you are remembered. Get out! What I’m telling you is the only comfort you’re going to get from me.”

“Do you really not recognize me? Do you really want to deny who I am?”

“I’m not denying you, and indeed I recognize you. Lift up your arms! Turn around! Once more! Slower! Yes, that’s right, I’m sure of it. You look just like him, and must even have known him, for I’m sure he told you about us. Otherwise you couldn’t have found us. Nonetheless, you are not our son.”

Then I wanted to walk right up to my father and offer him my apples before kneeling down to embrace his legs with my arms. He threatened me, however, with a fist raised high, and I knew that I couldn’t try to win his sympathy for my muddle-headed existence. Mother, meanwhile, kept knitting and knitting, sitting there beneath her light and working ever faster on the shroud, though I could hardly see the glow of the stars on it. All I could see was that she used red yarn. Then I called to her again. She might have heard me, for she paused, her hands now still and folded together, she looking down at the strands of yarn that now lay like a fountain of blood upon her dress. Then her head quietly swayed forward, her mouth closing softly, her forehead sinking solemnly and peacefully into a deep sleep. I waited for a while to see if she would sense that I was there, but she sank ever deeper into sleep. Father seemed to have forgotten my presence, for he walked over to Mother and observed with great interest her oblivion. He seemed quite used to it, for he didn’t look at all concerned, though a deep, unfathomable melancholy took hold of his slightly bent figure. Thus he stood there, strong and rigid, his open mouth somewhat aghast as Mother slipped ever deeper into her slumber, and with a heavy nod let her head sink irrevocably low, such that her plain gray hair fell in fine strands over her face. It was almost impossible to see beyond the drooping hair, though her neck was visible, and there I discovered a nasty swollen scar that had indeed healed, but only recently. What had happened to the good woman — how much had she endured? The painful discoloring seemed to be fading, but not yet entirely. Father sensed what I observed, and he turned toward me with the full weight of his age, as if he wanted to see just what the pain I perceived in this wound might do to me. I could barely stand the sight of my mother anymore and was relieved, even if Father didn’t at all approve, to have a reason not to lie down next to her. What Father expected of me wasn’t clear to me at all, so I didn’t say anything. Finally he spoke, and much more quietly than I would have expected.

“You still don’t believe that we don’t need you? You don’t belong to us. You are wrong, you are dead wrong. That’s not your mother, and I am not your father.”

Whatever I might have said in reply simply didn’t occur to me, and so I didn’t say a word. I folded my arms across my chest and defended myself against the father who pressed against me, there being nothing in me that wanted to urge him toward a milder judgment. I simply had to accept that I would remain banished. Too much had passed during the years of separation that prevented our coming together again. Thus parents and son had to separate. So it was decided for good. I reconciled myself to it as easily as I had the moment before thought that it would be possible to be with them, though I faced facts and remained firm that I had to prepare myself to say goodbye for good. I also realized that this was the only chance I would have to say something in parting that might lend decency and dignity to the situation. I had to say something and looked deep inside myself for what my father would take away as my final and only legacy. But my intentions came to nothing. My father firmly raised his arm and waved it back and forth, such that I understood for sure that we were done with each other and that I had missed my last chance at any moment of grace. Indeed, all I could do was take a few respectful steps backward, though I continued to struggle to leave my implacable parents. I tried to gain a last glimpse of my mother, but it was impossible, as she was far removed inside a shadowy veil that her knitting had been transformed into and which was impenetrable. With his right hand, Father held me off, and with his left he covered his face as he coldly and mechanically and strangely spoke to me.