H. Adler - The Wall

“So you are at odds with yourself.”

“Set aside for later, not for good. With that comes a sense of guilt.”

“For you as well?”

“How so me?”

“I always thought that our guilt was that we simply left, that we left our loved ones, that we left all of you to fend for yourselves.”

“Meaning that you should all have been ruined like us? No, that’s not true. It’s indeed good that so many left.”

“Your saying that is perhaps not yet a comfort, but it does make it easier. I’ve never again had a peaceful night, simply because I left. Those left behind stand right before my eyes. Having failed to help, whether it be even the most minimal support or reaching out, such chances were neglected. That’s a pressing guilt that I can’t forgive myself. And now you talk of guilt, and also perhaps accepting that we left our loved ones to fend for themselves.”

“That’s one of the hardest questions, but, indeed, I do accept it, in most cases. You know, sometimes I felt deeply sorry for all of you out there.”

“There was no feeling sorry for us.”

“Oh, yes! Even a great deal. That’s how it seemed to me. I often imagined how those on the outside pined away, powerless and not knowing how others were managing, while some of us attained a spiritual freedom that didn’t exist here, one that otherwise in life you attain with great difficulty and certainly only rarely.”

“That completely surprises me. Compassion for us and spiritual freedom, in the abyss, amid ruin.”

“Near-ruin, on its outskirts. We were not the ones to feel sorry for; we only needed help. Meaning rescue. As far as I see it now, that was the essence of the situation, which couldn’t be solved by a few but was ignored by everyone. There was too much sorrow for us, and too little help. Sorrow, compassion, and, above all, the help that never came through. That was our plight — compassion combined with the powerlessness and the coerced idleness. In addition, it seems to me that those who survived also need to be felt sorry for a little bit, and when it comes to actual help, not much has changed.”

Frau Singule had heard the last part of my talk and was upset.

“Well, that’s one helluva thing to say! I myself led an effort in which, during the last weeks of the war, we gathered ten thousand pairs of socks, two thousand pairs of slippers, and at least the same number of shoes, four thousand sweaters, countless shirts, underwear, and handkerchiefs. As soon as it was possible, the things were sent on to be divided up among the deserving.”

“Yes, and the entire lot was never cleaned or mended! It was a scandal!” said Fräulein Zinner quietly but sharply.

“How can you say that for sure?”

“Because I saw the things myself.”

“But you have to agree there were also brand-new things mixed in! I donated some myself. On top of that, you can’t expect that people in short supply of textiles and who literally donated the clothes off their backs would sacrifice their best things.”

“I’m of a different view,” said Fräulein Zinner simply.

“No one can expect that!” Frau Singule replied with barely concealed anger. “One cannot expect anything at all. It’s best to be grateful that you are still alive and don’t have to run around naked. Indeed, too many survived. It would be so much simpler if all were killed and cremated, every last one, for then it would be easier to speak of the crimes and all the victims could be mourned together, a sea of tears in sorrow, fantastic, all done in solidarity, public demonstrations, the outrage of the entire world, the heartrending speeches of famous friends to mankind, lavish contributions from all over the world, as well as a competition to erect a monument to the poor innocent victims. Wreaths and sonorous speeches at the dedication: ‘Never again, we swear to you, the dead …’ Then, after a fanfare of trumpets, all will head home deeply satisfied. That’s how the hyenas of international sorrow will bring it off! That some dare to mourn the end of the war — ah, such a blunder. I mean, to have survived, it’s unforgivable! Each living witness is each day a nasty flaw in the workings of organized humanity!”

Frau Singule looked at me, speechless, before she continued.

“I have nothing to say, Herr Landau. For heaven’s sake, don’t get so excited! People are not as bad as you believe.”

“Ah, but I don’t think they’re terrible at all.”

Against my inclinations, I was once again the center of attention. Fräulein Zinner was nowhere to be found as I looked around for her in vain. But after a little while she came back.

“For the most part, I never talk about such things,” she said quietly, and went on with what I didn’t entirely understand. “Tender feelings exposed in the wrong places I don’t like at all. It’s better not to reveal what one thinks. I have to go, my bus is coming. It was a pleasure, Herr Landau. Exceptionally informative.”

“Could I sometime …?”

“Yes. Give me a call. Goodbye.”

Fräulein Zinner left without even reaching out her hand to me. I was struck by how short and brusque she was, appearing no longer interested, turning sharply away, there and then saying goodbye, accompanied by Dr. Haarburger, leaving the party. It hurt. I was sad that in my excitement I went too far. No one expected me to have friendly feelings toward Frau Singule, and yet I still had no right to inflict my indignant outburst upon her, no matter if it was a thousand times true. If I had gotten into such a touchy discussion with Fräulein Zinner, I would have shut up the moment someone else entered in. I would have liked to explain as much, but her hasty departure had prevented that. I couldn’t think too long about my clumsiness, because soon I found myself lost to the senseless chatter droning on, which had no depth at all. Many thousands of people stood around me, turning into me. Even Professor Kratzenstein sidled up to me, but then quickly drew back when he recognized what I was about to say, as Resi Knispel compassionately approached me and almost went too far in inviting me to visit her. She gave me her card and wrote down the nearest tram stop to her apartment. I should certainly come visit sometime soon. It would be an honor for her to help me — your experiences, my dear friend, what an inexhaustible treasure it would be for me. Fräulein Knispel thought of a novel; it should be titled “The Miserable One,” for though she knew the risk of such a title, it was still so juicy, for it spoke to both the persecutor and the persecuted, though I might not find it very clever. I should write it as fast as possible and bring it to her. The party began to break up, at which point I made an effort, having been encouraged by my hosts, to gain whatever it was humanly possible to do for me but which I had failed to accomplish as yet. So I shoved my way back and forth, casting myself in the full glare so that I might be taken seriously. Unfortunately, I dismissed the fact that I just looked like a fool, a passing wave of foam coughed up far and wide by a spring flood, the fleeting brilliance soon ebbing away, the sensation at an end and none to replace it the next day, myself already forgotten. Then there I was, sitting in my study just like today, though even more tormented and no longer so patient, and I waited.

I sat with my work, which I had pressed at as if I were being hunted down, working quickly as never before and as I never would again, and waiting. I waited for the telephone call, having been promised that it would come at this hour on this day, for sure—“It’s of the utmost importance to me, Herr Landau, of the highest interest.” The call did not come at the appointed hour, nor did it come later, for it never came. I rushed to the telephone, wanting to call myself, but no one was there and there was no one to speak to. I should try again, tomorrow, then in a week, later yet, never.… I tried relentlessly: “You said indeed today — you promised me, you said …” Again, all in vain and, again, an impediment, an unforeseen occurrence, a sudden journey, an illness, a conference, a pressing matter, an unexpected visit, the approaching holidays, just back from vacation, patience, patience. Johanna despaired because it weighed on me so and got me down. She tried behind my back to arrange matters to my benefit, but she had no success and had to finally inform me how she had failed. The sickness of these unsuccessful attempts to meet ate at my heart. I was again saddled with my plight, unable to let go, as I collected new excuses, remembered this one and that, which I should have taken as an attempt to be friendly. But all to no avail, for I wasn’t just being put off; I was being neutralized. That’s what I had to learn, that you did not exist if you did not exist: nothing but a bothersome occurrence that got in the way of things, something that was a bother for a little while but then which could be run over, and then forgotten. The order of the day was such that I did not exist within it.