H. Adler - The Wall

“One only looks for next of kin. The son of a cousin, that’s asking a bit much. But don’t let that hold you back. In such a situation, write and they will answer. They’ll even be grateful to you for writing.”

I found that ridiculous, but Peter talked me down and argued stubbornly that I accept his point and get hold of myself. Fine, if I didn’t want to hear anything of Uncle Strauss, then I should write someone else. Friends were great, even better than relatives. Finally, I agreed. Letters to friends and relatives. I wrote and wrote. But I didn’t mail what I had written, because I disapproved and was inept at pressing myself onto the world. I got into a routine, and soon the writing came easier, but when I read through it I found it weak and the sense too meager. Finally, I decided to write a letter to one of my best friends, perhaps the best that I had before the war, which was So-and-So, as I called him. To him I wanted to write in detail before I sent any other letters. I threw out all the drafts that I had already written to different recipients, and thought about what I wanted to share with So-and-So. A portrait of my sufferings poured out of me. I suddenly said, after many long sentences, “Death.” That was too heavy and cumbersome. Yet the best place to end, in a fragmentary manner, when I thought about it, for I had to admit that I had not gone too far. To cover it all in a single letter, that was impossible; namely, to state my case and to convince the recipient that the letter really was from me and nothing in it was exaggerated that might seem suspect to the recipient or would be tossed away in anger. How do you speak to someone when in fact you are not dead? Which words can convey the truth, such that the person believes you?

“You write about what you experienced.”

What had I experienced? There was no beginning, and thus I had not experienced anything. I had to find something, a story. Once, there was a person. He was born in a house that was in a city. His parents lived there — definitely, they did. You could visit them, there was a way to get there: from the Reitergasse you turned onto the Römerstrasse, then came the Karolinenweg, until finally you were there. The parents were happy to see you, and you congratulated them, asking what the little one’s name was. The parents then responded, Yes, we have named him, he’s called Arthur. What did you say? Me? Buttons fiddled with, counting off one, two, three, seven, does she love me or love me not? For real? Or not? Arthur and Franziska. What happened to them? Didn’t people come and again offer their congratulations? The two celebrated their luck at having found each other. They decided to live. Why did Peter keep standing here, why these nagging questions in his face full of such blind faith? Would it be better if I were talking about Adam? Listen! Then he left and searched, but he could find nothing. The bloodthirsty fields were all dried up. Or had his eyes simply become cloudy? They saw nothing good and blinked sadly while looking into blank space where the wall still stood. What was behind the wall? Forlorn Adam, whose story had befallen him. One had to tell it, just how it happened, first one day, then another, then. Yes, then … What happened then? Something wrapped around a branch with fruit, then a letting go. Gazing at your hands, feeling your own skin, somewhat too dry, the skin peeling. Peter, the apple has become wormy through and through; it’s no longer edible. The guests have not touched it and have turned away. The parents are now alone, happy to be with their little Arthur, who whimpers unaware in his crib. He will have a future, says the father, and takes the mother by the hand. Then they tiptoed out the gate. Could you write that to a friend? No matter how hard I tried, conjuring up a useful fable was not my forte.

“No fables! Say that you were there, that you survived, and you need their help!”

Nor was it a topic for conversation. You didn’t say that you were there. Either it wasn’t true, and therefore had no point, or it was true, and therefore pointless to talk about. You didn’t point a finger at yourself. Nor did you talk about having survived; if you were writing, then you had survived and it didn’t feel right to say, My dear So-and-So, I am still here and have survived. Survived what? you ask. Yes, you’re right. Well, let’s see, what has been survived is time — years, war, myself — and that is why I am here. I don’t know if you remember me, but I should hope so, because earlier we were friends, and on top of that you always had an excellent memory. Isn’t that true? Do you still recall why we called you So-and-So? You gave yourself that name and would nonetheless always be furious when we teased you with it. Finally you got used to it, my dear So-and-So. We shared the same interests, talked a great deal with each other, did a lot of things together, for we were, so to say, friends and thought it likely that we would maintain a close friendship as life went on. I certainly can’t remember all the particulars. The reason being that they are not pertinent … meaning they are pertinent (the idea that I don’t need to explain anything to you because you’re probably familiar with it all already — that’s circuitous, disingenuous, skips over too much), for certain reasons that are not easy to express, in part because they hardly lead to a proper understanding, and in part because it is hard to understand the reason our hopes and plans never came to fruition, such that our relationship, unfortunately, was interrupted.

Why should I write that? It might shock the recipient, for So-and-So was always hypersensitive. There was also no reason to think that he would welcome such a letter. Nonetheless, I had to write something if I was going to write. But the reference to reasons that could not be revealed, never mind be valid — there was no reason to go into that. (Our relations, which I considered close, they having always been especially sweet and easy, suffered an unforeseeable interruption, which you, I am assuming, also noticed.) That was a risky assumption, but Peter and Anna were always inclined to encourage such presumptuous expectations. Sometimes they succeeded in convincing me that I was entirely right, but when I began to write it down I couldn’t maintain a proud self-confidence. I had to change the point I was trying to make, for it could be expressed differently, or at least more humbly.

The ties we maintained have nothing to do with the fate I have suffered of late, even when looked at in the most favorable light, which is why I ask that you not think of me as out of line when, in good conscience, I have also imagined that, from your completely different perspective, it is possible to feel sympathy for me. If I am wrong, then blame the circumstances, and please forgive me! You don’t have to answer, but instead just throw the letter away.… After such reductiveness and emotional presumption in a first letter after many years, strong objections cannot help but be raised. I showed so little confidence in the constancy of my friend’s attitudes that I ended up, first, presenting myself as a poor witness and, second, suggesting that I didn’t at all expect to be esteemed as a true friend who has remained loyal. I had to be determined to move ahead more boldly and, in the process, be more reserved as well. I gathered together all my powers and wrote this letter:

Dear So-and-So!

No doubt you will be surprised to receive a letter from me after so long and somewhat unexpectedly. Perhaps it will also make sense to you just why I ask you to think of the first sentence as not having been written. Forget it, take it in stride, and quickly read on. All I ask is that you choose one or the other possibility and don’t be angry with me!

Look, I have indeed reappeared before you — in written fashion, yes, and yet almost directly. It’s my handwriting. It hasn’t improved with the years but, rather, the other way round, yet you will certainly recognize it and think, indeed, it’s the same old me. I haven’t grown any older, for the war years simply don’t count.