H. Adler - The Wall

“Time’s up! Now go! Off with you!”

Then I retreated quietly, softly, creeping on tiptoe. I didn’t want Mother to hear that her former son was leaving her forever. I had to really make an effort to get away, for the air had become so thin that I could hardly breathe. As I left the ancient lost couple, the old man’s voice called out once again.

“You should leave the apples! I could really use them!”

Whether that was the porter to the House of the Dead or my father speaking, I had no idea. It sounded too normal and pleasant to be my father. Yet I was relieved not to have to worry about the fruit any longer. I wanted to gently lay down the bag, but I was clumsy and it fell from my hands, the bag springing open and the apples tumbling across the ground. I was shocked and ashamed to have carried out the order in such a poor fashion, but I didn’t want to pick up the apples, either, as they rolled around on the ground. Upset to no end, I simply fled.

It had gotten no cooler outside, but evening was approaching, the shadows stretching out long and deep over the pavement, the last rays of the sun now anxiously springing off the peering panes of the windows before they were extinguished. People hurried along, having been granted their evening as they reflected on the hours of celebration and their many pleasures. All the routes I had taken had been in vain, for I had achieved no clarity whatsoever. I had been disowned, the city didn’t care about me at all, no one would look out for me, no one would offer me a roof if I wandered aimlessly around the streets. At best I would encounter a policeman, and after a suspicious look he’d order me to move along, dispatching me with a slight push in case his look wasn’t enough to get me moving. No, I couldn’t risk walking around the streets at night, but I had to, since the way to my parents was closed off. I had to keep a lookout for my own apartment, for it would provide me refuge, even though it had been seized at the start of the war.

I had little money on me, only the small amount I had taken along when I set out on my journey. When I arrived at the train station, I made sure to locate the collection point for homeless war refugees and asked for support. I had imagined that I was home, so I didn’t think any other kind of help was necessary. You had only to walk and move a little farther along until you recognized the right building, stormed up the steps, knocked on a door that opened right up, the ruckus and roar of overwhelming welcome greeting you: “It’s really you, yes, it’s finally you! Just look, this is no prodigal son!” Cries of blessed thanks follow, questions and talk muttered in a sweet unconscious manner, for everything has turned out well. Between the kitchen and the living room, throughout the entire apartment the family members walk restlessly back and forth, glasses clink, plates rattle, anything available in the cupboard and pantry is hauled out and served up in order to regale the one long missed. Wasn’t this how I pictured it all so beautifully? Not entirely, for I knew they were dead, all dead, yet there was one still alive, one of many, a representative, and so I deceived myself into thinking that someone would be there for me. Wasn’t I born in this city? My childhood games still linger in certain corners; the familiar chatter has hardly faded. I can still hear it — it was just yesterday, it cannot all have gone silent! If that’s so, why do I have to speak to some civil servant? I had left my pack at the station, someone having been happy to take it, myself unburdened and hoping for a fresh start. It smelled as of old when I walked out of the station, the wind wafting the dust of home onto my face, me hurrying next to the trolley stop across the way. I wanted to keep moving; anyone who is away for a long time doesn’t let the dust gather. And so I bounded along impatiently, and as I saw the park before me I had no urge to wait. Weaned off the old place, I had to entrust myself to its walls as a convalescent; the slow allure of the remembered streets should ease the wounded heart and grant the right state of mind. Thus I had chosen — now I had to savor the error and was lost, not wanting to return to the station in order to submit myself to a horrible asylum, ticket in hand from a gruff fatherly warden, led off to a hall in a shelter full of bad air and dust: “So here’s your bed. A blanket spotted with stains at the foot of it. Ten o’clock is lockdown. Seven o’clock, everyone up. Eight o’clock, coffee. Nine, everyone out.”

Away, away! I had to get away. I was not in the city to which I thought I had traveled. Or if indeed it was that city, it was not me who was here and already lost within it, swallowed up by the evening. How could I begin? Away, away! Perhaps that was the wrong corner; nothing is to no avail so long as I keep walking. The wall yields and retreats the moment I really wish to go on; one step may be all that I need to take. I staggered on, I didn’t know where to, yet I sensed that I was moving forward — no memory of where I was, the street names unfamiliar, the way unknown, everything shyly retreating from me. Once, I stumbled and fell down. It hurt a lot — my knee was badly done in. I staggered like a child, eventually falling hard, ashamed and weeping. All I could think to do was lie there and wait until Mother came, until she called, “Stand up! Stand up, my child! Off to bed, the bed is already made. I’ll just blow a puff of air. Then the sandman will come, and Arthur will know of nothing more. Early in the morning, when you wake up, everything will be fine again.” But I didn’t do as she said and stand up; I was too afraid of falling again. Mother should grab hold and pick me up, for I was so light and thin, just like carrying a feather.

Yet no mother came, and no one picked me up. I didn’t want to lie on the pavement until I died, so I had to help myself. Two men passed by undisturbed, one saying unkindly to the other, “That’s a result of the war. The fools are not right in the head; they can’t even stand on their feet. They get drunk as a skunk and roll in their own filth. Yet then they sleep well and completely at ease.” The fools could have helped me, not insulted me. I wanted to yell at them, but it made no sense to get involved with strangers who showed only animosity. Already they had moved off and didn’t turn to look back at me again. Awkwardly, I lifted myself up, yet I was so weak and annoyed that I couldn’t stand but could only get on my knees, though one was bruised, me groaning loudly and lifting my hands in desperation, a begging little dog who couldn’t help himself. A pathetic creature, I pleaded with desperate gestures. Someone should put a collar on me and attach a leash, give it a little slack, then say, “Arthur, come,” with a sharp pull of the leash in order to yank me from this miserable spot. Yet no one looked after me, each person who passed by soon moving off in disgust.

Finally, a young man sauntered by who at first looked at me haltingly, then slowed his gait until he stood quietly before me and reached out his right hand. I grabbed hold of it hard, and he lifted me up. Embarrassed, I thanked him, for now I was sober again and no longer just a dog.

“Are those your apples?”

The man pointed to a ripped-open bag that lay on the ground. Two apples had fallen out and lay shamefully old, gray, and ugly in the dusty street. Were these apples mine? I should have answered no, for I had given my apples to my dead father. How could they again have ended up in my possession? I stared uncertainly at the ground, since they lay there plucked and ignored, helpless and tossed away. There was no doubt about it — Kutschera had picked them out for me. Yet hadn’t many customers gotten them? No, they couldn’t be mine. It would be too cumbersome to explain to the young man the long story, the visit to my father, and then the remarkable coincidence that, right at the very spot where I had fallen, there lay the same kind of apples, but which didn’t belong to me. All I needed was to tell a white lie.