H. Adler - The Wall

“I don’t eat apples.”

“Apples that cost a bundle these days? One can’t just leave them lying here. If they don’t belong to you, may I have them?”

“It’s not up to me. Many thanks for helping me out in such a friendly way. I have to get going, it’s late.”

The man gathered up the apples and hurried back to my side, for I had taken a couple of blind steps on my own.

“Man, what a killing! You don’t find apples on the street every day.”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s that hard. There’s Kutschera in the Reitergasse. He has the most beautiful apples!”

“In the Reitergasse? Kutschera? Oh, him! Is that the one next to the closed shop?”

“Yes, next to Haberdashery Albert Landau.”

“Was that a clothing store?”

“Yes, of course. Men’s clothes. Very nice clothes.”

“Probably at the start of the war? One of the ones that were closed at the start of the war?”

“Was it closed at the start of the war?”

“I think so, for it’s empty now.”

“You’re not sure?”

“No. I mean, not exactly. I wasn’t yet in the city back then. I moved here later. But surely you know as well that many shops were closed back then. Simply taken away. Some were sold at a loss, some were taken over by others. Whether or not they will return to the same hands — who knows? I don’t. Yet most of them are dead.”

“Yes, Landau the clothier appears to be entirely dead. I stopped by there today. Kutschera is alive; Landau is dead.”

“Landau dead. That could be. But many are still alive. Not all of them were killed. Some escaped to other countries or were liberated. Landau isn’t one of them.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s what I think. He would be pretty old already. They were all killed, if they didn’t leave beforehand.”

“Yes, but how could you know him if you weren’t in the city and never visited his shop?”

“I don’t know him. But as you talked I remembered that a girlfriend of mine knew all about it. She once told me as we were walking through the Reitergasse that this family was sent away.”

“So your girlfriend knew …?”

“Yes. I suppose she did.”

“Do you think your girlfriend knows more about Landau?”

“Certainly possible. But I can’t guarantee it.”

The young man thought to himself for a little while and then looked at me, as unsure as when he had helped me to my feet.

“Listen, I have an idea. Let me visit my friend Anna Meisenbach. If you have the time and inclination, you can come along.”

I looked at him gratefully. Would I like to come along? Did I have time? Perhaps I had time; in any case, I was tempted to find the time. The lost years had stolen time from me, or it had unraveled, someone having yanked away at it too hard and it tearing into thin shreds. I couldn’t go chasing after it, for I was held back, submerged, then everything was lost. Once I finally could walk away, I had to move as fast as I could in no time at all in order to save what I could.

“I might just have some time.”

I said that for myself, really, and asked the man not to walk too fast. Although I had my fall as an excuse, it was not so much the leg that kept me from keeping up with his stride as the nagging fear of having met someone whom I didn’t know but who could possibly produce evidence about my father, my mother, and even me. In addition, I didn’t feel quite right about rudely detaining a man who was rushing to his girlfriend, for who knows how impatiently she might be waiting for him, no matter how generously he offered to help me. That’s why I forced myself to walk along more quickly; it was indeed in my interest to figure out if I had come to the right city or if everything had to remain to no avail. I was tempted to ask the young man about his girlfriend, but I didn’t think it right to meet his friendliness with curiosity. What did his love or his love story have to do with me? He was in love, and if he felt loved in return, how happy I was for him! Twenty-four or twenty-five years old, I guessed, but he could also have been only twenty, the war perhaps having sped up the maturing process. But then how old might the sweetheart be? No doubt some young thing, most likely younger than the boy. How could I have any idea about her if she had been no more than a child at the start of the war? What information could she give me about my parents?

She’d never met my parents and knew about them only from hearsay. She was the daughter of a customer who complimented the nice clothes and who came home grumpy one day and said, “You wouldn’t believe what happened! I was walking through the Reitergasse and it suddenly occurred to me that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to pick up some new handkerchiefs. How lucky to have Landau right here! But I looked and looked. Everything was shut. As if boarded up. The fruit vendor next door, with a fat, ruddy face like an apple that’s been baked, he stopped me and said nonchalantly, ‘You buy from him? Well, it’s all gone now. Yesterday they closed the shop.’ I asked, ‘How is that possible?’ Just imagine what he said! It all happened quickly, he told me. Two men in a car pulled up, went in, threw Landau and his employees out on the street, thrashed around inside the shop, hauled out some stuff, loaded it in the car, locked the door, sealed up the joint, and saying, ‘All right, let’s get out of here,’ they sped away in their car. Just like in a gangster novel.” The girl’s father had told them about this between bites of his supper, for he could hardly believe what was happening these days, and yet he had to keep chewing, for he was very hungry, and his wife could only shake her head and say, “It’s hard to believe what’s happening. Those poor people.” Then she dished out the pear compote she’d made, each getting a hearty portion. The father sighed quietly, the situation bothering him, for he couldn’t swallow well at all, and then they talked about other things in order to lift their spirits.

The daughter had matured early and was striking. She took all this in stride, although the situation didn’t mean anything to her, nor had she asked any questions. But, ever since that day, whenever she passed by the old shop in the Reitergasse she remembered the story, until eventually she shared it with the boyfriend. It wasn’t right to be brought along to the girl; it was senseless, nothing more than pressing weakness on my part. What should I say to such a stranger, given how I looked? What kind of looks and talks would I have to endure? Why was I schlepping out of my house so tired at night? All of it just to satisfy a morbid curiosity that could only end up a useless, painful lump of knowledge? I no longer wanted to see the girl.

“Listen, I really don’t want to bother you.”

The boyfriend protested that I wasn’t bothering him at all. There were perhaps other unknown men, I thought, but not such as I, instead people with purpose and intent, led by reason, people who lived there and would stay awhile, who were expected and would bring along flowers or lovely apples, but none like me. That’s why I wanted to impress upon the boyfriend that my visit was pointless. Indeed, I actually had something I had to do this evening; perhaps I could look him up another time, so if I could just write down the address quickly and then send a card, though tonight there wasn’t enough time for an unexpected guest. And yet I couldn’t get out all of my objections, because the boyfriend began to chat away mindlessly. Then he looked at me again and asked whether I had been injured in my fall, since I seemed so tired as I got up. “You need a doctor” is what he said. I clearly heard it. Though he meant well, it sounded hard and threatening. I had no desire to see a doctor, and refused to do so.