H. Adler - The Wall

Impudent, I stand before my wall. Is it the Wailing Wall, where the sadness of all prayers is nurtured? Sadness? Prayers? No, it’s not the Wailing Wall. Yet my state plunges me into the depths. A continually sunken resistance, which nonetheless hardens and does not budge. I remain silent within my abyss, completely guilty and always guilty, nor can I even once do something for myself. That I still exist cannot be reckoned with. How can I ever confidently exist even for a moment? You, however, say that I can find forgiveness, for your grace is endless. You ask that I not doubt so intensely and not doubt myself so. You send me forth upon the four winds, such that I gather myself in both the seas and the deserts, the open fields and the dense cities. You command trust because you have sounded out my weaknesses, and into the world’s battles you drive my steps so that they can learn to transform themselves into peace. This I say aloud, drawing the belief in the truth of the unimaginable into the sensual poverty of my slack limbs. I turn away from the dreamy misery of the resentment and dissatisfaction that I had been carrying and apply myself to the future legacy of my children, who have no idea of my misery, but who need to heal in order to fill the chasm between which I have created with my scattered existence.

When I look at Johanna I am often happy, though sometimes also sad, yet always something is affirmed, and many fears are tamped down. What happens between us folds in upon itself and creates an understanding; we trust each other, there’s no need to search for anything else. Thus we stoutly believe in each other. No matter how strange and distant we are, our hands are always entwined as one. Perhaps I am wrong about Johanna. It’s easy for me to be near her, for then I am lost to the light. She is awake; she has unconscious control of me. She beams at me, she wants me, she makes me real, she sees me, she talks to me. This is the deepest effect she has on me. For she is never despondent; seemingly docile, she conquers my sudden, often startling disappearance with action conjured out of nowhere. When I don’t exist, she doesn’t break down; if anything, it entices her to provide all the more strongly what wouldn’t exist without her confidence. All of my weaknesses are only inducements to her. It almost seems that she needs a weak man. For the fact that Johanna has chosen me remains as unfathomable as it does unrewarded. Did she consider the consequences of our relationship? What ingratitude lies in such a question! I am amazed, and it still upsets me when I recall how it all happened. My long journey, my hope coupled with a new country, the strange hazy city, so much fog, for weeks given the runaround for no apparent reason, then a glance exchanged at a gathering, and there was Johanna, once, then again. I didn’t know why, but I spoke to her, and already the marriage was settled.

I had been referred to others along the way before I had taken flight, and my friend So-and-So provided me entrée in the metropolis and to what I told myself were influential personalities. They welcomed me politely and led me into their circle like an exotic mythical beast, and indeed I was met with nothing but wincing curiosity and a gaping desire to know more. Meanwhile, I just took it all as part of the urge to extend to me a friendly invitation to join their ranks. But no, I didn’t mean anything to them, for they just stared at my mouth as it spewed out surprising news that they wanted to listen to, only to go on making light conversation, the stinging accounts about the horrors endured pleasing the spoiled ladies and gentlemen. But I myself disappeared, a passing folly who was persistently mistaken in thinking that he would be taken good care of, though I was nowhere present in any of the stories themselves, and was not at all even comprehensible, even when they listened to my own story. How foolish of me to feel satisfied with how others were astonished at me and fawned over me with cheap courtesies. The allure of the stranger soon dissipated, everyone having heard enough of my plans, all fondness for me dissolving. Awkwardly, I displayed my displeasure and could not regain the advantage; the beginning of my isolation had been fatally set in motion.

In the first days, I was invited by Herr Dr. Haarburger and his wife once or twice a week, they being wealthy refugees in a luxuriously furnished villa whose contents had all been purchased in their native country. During one of my first visits, the Haarburgers had arranged for me to come to dinner, after which friends and some guests of rank and renown were summoned to appear, handsome men and bejeweled ladies who drank their coffee and gawked at me from all sides while eating cake and smoking cigarettes, Frau Haarburger having urged me in a well-meaning way to make sure and show them my best side.

“Make contacts, that’s all, my dear Herr Landau. Professor Kratzenstein is president of the International Society of Sociologists. He has fantastic connections, as well as with publishers, and he has access to loads of money and stipends. But you need to be in good form, Herr Landau!”

“He will indeed be. He’s certainly clever, Hannah!” Dr. Haarburger reassured.

“And can he do something for me?”

“But of course, and a lot! Indeed, he can!”

Frau Haarburger then counted off those whom Kratzenstein had already helped.

“He’s tremendous. But you have to make your move! You can’t just be difficult. And Frau Singule is nearly as important as he is. You must know the name. No? I’m flabbergasted! What do you make of that, Jolan?”

“Nothing to worry about! Please, dear, he can’t know everyone. Actually, Singule used to be a zoologist. But that didn’t work out so well for him.”

“Then he turned to medicine.”

“He was great at that. But now he’s general secretary of Europe for a rich, perhaps the richest, American foundation. His central interest is natural science, biology. But, nonetheless, the job suits him, for he’s someone who is interested in everything. Indeed, his word is as good as gold. Too bad that he’s not here himself. He has so terribly much to do and rarely can get away. Perhaps next time.”

“For Herr Landau it’s probably better that he doesn’t come. Don’t you think so, Jolan? Frau Singule can handle it all herself. Just a suggestion from her to her husband — that’s all it takes to get his ear and have him on board with anything.”

Frau Haarburger’s hopes were fulfilled, for Singule didn’t show, his wife apologizing on his behalf with great fanfare. Instead, others appeared. Kratzenstein was the star attraction—“What a head! Could anyone look more clever?” Then there was the bookseller Buxinger—“All I need do is say one word to him and he’ll lend you any books you need!” As well as Herr and Frau Saubermann, a rich couple who owned factories and had humanitarian interests—“How much good they have done, and with such humility!” And Resi Knispel, a Zurich press agent—“Simply brilliant, well educated, and works for some kind of literary agent as well!” And, in addition, Fräulein Johanna Zinner, an official in a refugee organization—“Not so important, but a heart of gold. Jolan and I love her like our own child!” There were others as well, but none that I recall any longer. First, I was introduced to Frau Singule.

“Herr Landau — in fact, Herr Dr. Landau — just arrived, our new friend. You’ll see how famous he is! He can tell you all about it!”

“My pleasure, my pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine, madam.”

“All that happened to you doesn’t at all show. Maybe what happened wasn’t so bad, but bad enough, I understand. Or were you lucky?”

“Lucky, madam.”

“Yes, that’s what my husband says as well. Too bad he’s not here. He never has any time. One of his family members died. How terrible! Too many. Most likely you would have known him if you were there. Dr. Berthold Singule, an attorney. He was such a good person.”