H. Adler - The Wall

“Is that true for all?”

“I wouldn’t risk such a pronouncement. But I certainly would never maintain that it’s only true for me or for such people who have experienced the same or something similar. It’s indeed valid, but it’s not so obvious to all. And you can’t force someone out of his house, out of the house of his soul, out of solitude. Solitude, Franziska said, is the house of the soul. No one can be forced out of it, out of the house in which he indeed knows himself to be safe. But — and it’s worth asking — who still has such a house? Who will have such a house tomorrow? Who has his own solitude? Those beaten down must provide the warning.”

“Is that your mission?”

“It’s not for me to decide.”

“What do you think about, then?”

“Nothing. I just try my best, that’s all. The rest has already been decided. I don’t have to wait for it. It will come of itself. If I can just be, then I am also ready. Otherwise, I don’t exist at all.”

“What to make of you, Arthur? Especially when you say it all so fervently! I can’t compare my experience with your suffering, and yet there’s something—”

“Oh, you’ve been part of so much! Don’t object to what I say or explain to me what I know!”

“Fine, I don’t mean to say you are bitter. There’s no comparison. Yet my life seems to me a dream, and so I walk through life as if through a dream.”

“Are you then saying something different than I am?”

“Not really. Or perhaps only that everything seems much simpler to me. If I wanted more, I would lash out. Do you understand? Lash out, such that I would hurt someone and end up wounding myself. But you can’t do that — or, more humbly, I can’t do that.”

I agreed with Anna, and had nothing to say in reply, and turned from her back to the view. I pointed out toward the Ratscher forest, where the landscape, often covered with trees, opened out ever more among fewer and lower hills into rolling fields and flats that faded into the thin silver of the haze above the ever-spreading landscape. “In this direction,” I said, “lies the old city.” I said its name in an almost imperceptible voice. Anna didn’t know why I was whispering. There seemed nothing about this name that one had to keep quiet about. But when I informed her that it was so for me she understood, and for a moment took hold of my hand in sympathy. Above the far-off haze, which stretched out on the horizon like the dense edge of a veil, cumulus clouds floated almost still with their subdued glow. I couldn’t stand this scene for long, for I sensed the coming darkness, and the stark waning of the day, so familiar to me, reminded me of having to leave. It was indeed time, the shadows lengthening, the smell of evening pressing its cool feel into the warmth of day. Even the easier path that I had planned required vigorous effort, and I wanted to avoid darkness.

Anna agreed, wanting only to take in the nearby softness once more, as well as the alluring green of the hills drifting off. That was a lovely moment, for our eyes flickered before the enchanting distance. We felt as one the pangs of a pressing pain, yet it came more from what we took in than from our wayward wandering. Once more I pointed down at the Angeltal; quietly, several settlements seemed almost to pass before our eyes. But the peace that the distance offered granted only brief satisfaction. I sensed how the buildings floated there lost, after which my eyes sought the comfort of the mountain train rising up the slope from the right. It displayed to us its sunny side, with its little bridge, as it headed farther up toward the narrow peak rising out of the time-drenched rocky contours of the land like a silent lasting message. However, I tore myself away from this enchanting scene in order not to be lost in the boundless distance.

We didn’t need to exchange a single sign as we began to walk down more carefully than was needed. Our limbs felt heavy, ourselves almost done in. As I turned, because the next step required it, everything trembled before me on all sides; at once free of suffering and saturated with pain, it stood gathered before me. I still thought it real, but I could no longer grasp it as it spun around, the border shattered into tender pieces and separating in every direction; peak and valley, sky, the forest splendor, and the green fields mixing with one another, a dense, soughing song pressing into my ears. Was it the mountains? Was it me? Was it the impending departure? I didn’t know. Yet it was good that I couldn’t lose myself for too long in this alluring, all-encompassing feeling. Indeed, it was warming, but, amid its glow, a deadly chill also alarmed me, a bliss almost drunk with destruction that offered itself in an undignified manner. Pleased and relieved, I saw the hiking lodge before us, ridiculously austere and disclosing the riches of its empty plank tables and backless benches.

It looks abandoned, Anna thought, but I didn’t believe it was. As I explored the building, she sat down at a table. The doors were ajar, but they resisted opening with a squeaking noise, as I pushed into the gloomy front hall. Before I pressed into the guest room, a young girl appeared. She didn’t seem at all pleased by the visit and asked me sharply what I wanted, as if she wanted to get rid of the disturbance as quickly as possible. There was nothing to eat. However, we didn’t want anything. But at least something to drink was offered. There was no milk available, nothing special that had been brought in from afar. Black coffee — chicory, obviously, for what else could one expect? — could be ordered. No, no thanks. Soon it was pointed out to us, even if we didn’t want any, that beer was the only other thing available. Fine, then. I escaped outside to Anna and sat down. She had spread a little cloth over the table, and we ate what we had brought along ourselves. After a while, suspicious and grumbling, the girl showed up carrying two glasses of beer. Thin beer from the country that had been destroyed. But at least the drink was cool and pleasant. Anna hesitated, but I told her that this beer wouldn’t make her sleepy. The girl just took a couple of steps back, placed her hand on her hip, and stared at us. She was mad at us. And so I called to her and asked to pay. Would she take money from the other side of the border?

“If I have to. At a rate of one to ten.”

I gave her what she asked for. She didn’t even say thanks for the tip.

“You shouldn’t look at us that way. We’ve done nothing to you.”

She lifted a hand and pointed over the border.

“Not me, I’m from over there. But there they …”

She didn’t say what she was thinking. I had no desire to explain, but Anna nodded at her sympathetically.

“I know it’s not right. But we don’t feel at home there either.”

The girl looked at us as if she would have liked to say something about not wanting anything to do with us. She placed her hand back on her hip.

“It’s fine by me.”

Cold and hostile was how she had spoken. Then she walked back inside the building with a strident gait and closed the squeaking door behind her, though she wasn’t happy about being stuck inside and leaped up to open the door a crack. The girl didn’t look at us again. Soon we left. Anna had hardly emptied half her glass.

I thought of the slow-witted girl who on the first day at the tank station had offered us fresh eggs with pungent boletus mushrooms, a delicious meal. The woman belonged to another people. Perhaps she had regained control of her property from the regime that had stolen it, having had to forfeit it when the border fell, or perhaps she stole the inn from someone else once the border had been restored. The woman herself did not bring the food; instead, a local girl who worked for the proprietor was sent out in a little Cinderella dress, carrying a bowl, a small young girl of grace and mercy, who worked for the expiation of her unconscious acts, as long as she remained in that country. Meanwhile, Anna had been upset by the incident, and I didn’t wish to remind her of it. I kept quiet, both of us quiet and concentrating on the path ahead of us.