H. Adler - The Wall

“If you don’t exist, write letters, so that you exist.” I read that once. How often it occurred to me during these years, during which I especially wrote a lot of letters. For millennia people have written letters for many reasons; people humbly write letters for the very same reasons today. To share something with others, to ask about them, to reach out to someone and ask for an answer. Indeed, many are lost, are not paid attention to, not valued enough or misunderstood and are doomed instead of blessed. Countless letters have been sent that never receive the desired response, or they arrive too late and pass each other in the mails. Any of this can happen. Over the course of time, certain rules and customs developed that threatened to restrain the richness of exchange; whether it be language that is mangled or the expression shrunk, many letters lose hold of their original purpose and end up repeating a million worn-out and tattered tropes. But letters they were, letters that still conveyed a message, and when you received one it was an event; you took it in hand and read it and knew. That’s no longer so, but I have sampled such pleasures; the many exceptions that still exist have little effect on the general perception.

I threw myself into writing, thinking that the least I could do was write. They were long or short bits of news that I formulated, often in a hurry, though later more slowly and more carefully, because I became suspicious when I noted that my letters strayed into nothingness and didn’t seem to reach any point. I actually thought, Consider the words line by line, myself going over what had been written, making sure that it really contained some content, a mind that could be experienced and shared. It was and had to be comprehensible, and so I would read it once again the next morning. Then, when I was satisfied, I’d seal the letter and send it off. I sent letters to friends or strangers with familiar and unfamiliar names. I said what I had to say, explained myself, offered myself, reported on people and events, and often carried the letters to the post office myself.

Three times a day the mailman delivered the mail on West Park Row. I recognized the sound of his steps already from the window, and knew exactly what time he came around. I sat at my desk and looked out at the street in anticipation whenever I heard the gate of the neighboring house click shut. Then he was there, passing by our house, and if he saw me sitting there he waved, indicating that I shouldn’t expect anything. Yet sometimes our gate also clicked, then he came with quickly measured steps to our door, but I was faster and threw open the door in order to receive his gifts in my hands. He brought brochures and newspapers, bills and reminders, he brought something else as well, he even brought letters that were certainly meant for me, but they were not the letters that I was expecting. And then, finally, a letter of this kind arrived, which I opened hastily, yet there was nothing in it, the words empty, barely hanging together, written in a rush and without any attention. I strained my eyes in looking at it and studied it for a good while, asking Johanna to help me with it, but she couldn’t extract anything from it, either. “It says nothing at all!” I bent over the sheet and turned it every which way. Unfortunately it was true, nothing but a disappointment. The letter was empty and was not a letter at all. This was worse than ever, for some words stood out, such as “unfortunately” or “noncommittal” or “perhaps,” the address overly formal (“My Dear Sir”) all of it clear, each letter in place, the signature also recognizable (“Entirely yours” or “Respectfully yours”), and between the address and the signature the empty sentences stretched out over many lines. The only thing that helped was that a letter had at last arrived; this I told myself with satisfaction and plucked out individual words. I did so again and kept doing so, thinking about what they meant. My head grew heavy; I couldn’t think straight. “Did he say no?” said Johanna as she entered in expectation and wanted to hear what he had written me. Then I read it aloud slowly, but she couldn’t understand what it was really saying. An answer to my letter it was not, all of it strange and dark, perhaps meant for me but not just for me. Johanna had already left the room several times and come back. Finally she looked at me directly, and I had to say something. After a long look at the piece of paper, I made my decision. “I think he is saying no.” I didn’t let on how I felt, but kept it inside as if nothing had happened, as if I didn’t care — a simple no, something one might choke on easily discharged. “Can nobody be gotten through to? What’s the point of your having survived?” Thus she sighed as I spread out all the copies of my letters before me and looked through them as if through an illusion, hoping to discover who had written them if only I tried hard enough. I had written the lines with my own hands. My handwriting is strong, so nothing could be mistaken about what I read, because it wished to be spoken aloud, and was not just meant for the eyes. Since I had made copies of the letters, they could be compared, and I asked of them and myself, almost with the pressing need of a prayer, whether they could be deciphered. I just needed to know how they had been read. Secrets that one had to be privy to, the clues hidden to me, no advice given. As I was trying to get a real answer, I wrote new letters, each word chosen carefully, perfectly understandable. I put myself into the letters, me, in order that they be comprehensible. I read them aloud to Johanna and gave them to her to read; I listened to her advice, did another draft, culling everything that she had suggested be taken out. I also made a carbon copy and kept it, so that there would be no doubt when the answer should come. But this effort, though it sharpened my mind and made me more alert with self-awareness, did nothing for my pursuit. It kept repeating itself, leaving me empty or making me more destitute. I thought about it for a long time, because there had to be someone in the world to whom it was worth writing. I felt too weak to do this on my own; I couldn’t write any more letters. It was vile to advertise oneself and to keep appealing to no one, having to wait when I had already been waiting for too long.

No one could know that I was alive, therefore I had to write. At that, I would hear something inside my head. It said, “Why should anyone expect that you survived?” I imagined that others must be looking for me, other returnees having also been found in the first days. To search was to me the first responsibility that anyone in the world had. What did they want from me? For so many years writing was forbidden, and now it felt too difficult, the hand out of shape and unable to say what I wished it to. News headlines blazed from impenetrable walls. If one risked pushing through, he could not hope for any leniency if he was caught. Now this was no longer true, letters being allowed once more, but the situation was not clear to me. To whom should I write? I didn’t know anyone. To whom, then, to whom? Peter listened to me attentively.

“You have to decide. The borders have been open since yesterday; one can send letters to other countries. You should write straightaway.”

This was easy for Peter to say, for everything seemed so simple to him. I didn’t want to, but he was hard-nosed.

“You have friends and relatives out there. My friend, how can you be so dumb! Give them a sign that you’re alive; they’ll be happy to hear from you. You once said that you’ve kept hold of a couple of addresses all these years. Try one! A letter will spread like wildfire out there. Someone will finally help you and you’ll be able to leave.”

But where to? I didn’t know. I wanted to leave. But where to? There was no knowing. To slip through, get out, and then be off; it was ridiculous to even think of. No letter could help make that happen. Some kind of international center for refugees had set up a search service, therefore it was up to them out there to take care of us. Me, the lost foundling. Peter laughed, irritating me as he asked about the people I knew on the outside. An old uncle, who really wasn’t an actual uncle but rather a cousin of my mother’s. What was his name? Karl Strauss. The address? No, I only knew the city, which was not very big. Peter thought that was fantastic. Just the city — the post office knew what to do. I said that I had never been that close to the old man. What do you mean by not that close … that was ridiculous, said Peter. But I said that I would not be writing to such a city if Uncle Strauss were at all inclined to look for me. Peter assuaged my anger. He was so helpful in such matters, and pointed out ways forward for me that I didn’t care for or shied away from.