H. Adler - The Wall

If you were here you would, I’m guessing, soon make fundamental changes. The snooty ladies and gentlemen, who represent everything counter to what I already stand for, you’d set straight in no time by making them see what asses they are, while I am a genius. You would make something of me; I have no doubt of that. Nevertheless, I’m glad that you’re not here and that, as a result, I am — you love strong words — a complete wreck. That’s always preferable to me than being at the vineyard, spoiled by you. I realize things should be much different for the children, but they hardly go without. They are growing and are healthy; they have what they need.

Dear Peter, but how can you exist without me? You must miss me; we talked so well. But no, there’s no need for such worry, because certainly you don’t need me. Whoever exists doesn’t need someone else. Like a dachshund, you certainly follow the trail. Don’t you remember? You didn’t need me there either but, rather, it was always the other way around. Do you recall how you used to shake with laughter, as finally, after many weeks of tense waiting for a response from So-and-So, a letter arrived? You handed it to me as I came home late one night. You hadn’t opened it, although I allowed you to open any mail addressed to me. I told you that it didn’t bother me at all. As I pounced with curiosity on the letter — a long epistle typed on a terrible machine with a miserable colored ribbon — you went into the kitchenette and brewed some coffee. You could deal with any unpleasantry and always worked to hold yourself in check whenever you wanted to oblige me. “Call me when you need something,” you said, and shuffled off to the foyer and the bathroom. Then you were right there, with a jaunty step, the moment I called you. The coffee was done, you filled two cups, I should drink some right away. I must have been quite confused, which amused you. You were a rascal, yet you also displayed your funny sympathy, slapping me on the back as if to reassure me that it couldn’t be that bad, as I reread the letter — which I had rushed through in my excitement — one more time, slowly, from beginning to end.

My dear, dear Arthur!

What unspeakable joy, what a monstrous relief did I feel after so many years of pressing worry that darkened my days like a black curtain, when I held your brave letter in my hands, nearly the first sign of a world that I had continued to think was completely gone. Each of my friends who, albeit more happily than I, was able to hold up a weapon during the liberation had been given your name and a precise description of you in order to seek you out and connect with you. It was all in vain. Also, the list of names of the survivors that was posted here by the Office of Refugees never let me breathe easy. Arthur, to see your handwriting after six years! I was so happy that people on the street looked at me as if I were crazy. So much has happened, so many terrible things having overwhelmed us all, such that with any piece of news that one receives you can’t help but ask, Is it true? What you read and hear is, unfortunately, always much worse than what one thinks in the worst of hours, for reality is always worse than fantasy, which indeed leads one to the brink, but also, and that is its blessing, it allows the nasty shadows to disappear, such that even the worst calamity appears more bearable and is not just romanticized through false comfort but rather revealed for what it is.

I wish your letter (which I’ve read a hundred times already, often out loud, and which I’ve given to others to read) had arrived earlier. But imagine what kind of mix-up caused your letter to take nearly five weeks to get here, and, as you can imagine, there was little point in answering you right away, because I at least wanted to provide some of the information you asked for. That’s why I didn’t wire you, for I didn’t want to alarm you. And so I had to let you wait, for everything takes time, nor are people these days as fast or reliable as one would want them to be, despite one’s justified impatience. But I didn’t hesitate for a moment, that you have to believe, and I wrote as soon as I could.

What most captivates me in reading your letter is the incredible will to live and the courage evident in each word. When I read how you depict it all, I can hardly breathe, for now I know from a serious person that certainly much was not so very horrible, as many in these parts believe and who in understandable rage are shaken by such horrors. Certainly, I don’t wish to diminish anything. It must have been terrible, and the wounds ripped open could not have healed so fast. Thus I read with greatest sympathy about Franziska. I’m so saddened, and that’s hardly saying anything — such a lovely person. She, above all, had to have survived; that’s what I always hoped, and even now I ask how it can at all be possible. In spirit, I reach out to grasp your hand. You must realize that I want to know more about this misfortune, if it won’t upset you too much, my poor Arthur.

I have also since married — which only shows how one betrays one’s own principles — and Karin, my wife, whom I’ve told much about you and others, was just as pleased with your having written and sends her warmest greetings.

I find it very touching that you are at all concerned about how things are for me. It shames me. Nonetheless, if I tell the truth, and you would expect nothing less from me, I have to admit that everything here is extraordinarily difficult — the strange new language, life in an unfamiliar and unwelcoming neighborhood, and the overall feeling that the scholarly occupations are no bed of roses. In the first years, I suffered great privation. Over the course of time, things indeed got a bit better, but still my situation doesn’t allow my earnings to cover even the most elementary of needs. If one is not rooted somewhere and wishes to lead a transitory existence, this is the place. And yet I am alive, and that’s the main thing.

Certainly I will make no bones about the fact that it would be easier to build a life over there than it is here once the postwar developments quiet down a bit. The sums made available by such a small country for cultural renovation are very inviting and almost make me envious. I’ve also seriously thought about the question of whether or not I should consider going back, even if one simply doesn’t wish to give up his hard-won little success in the new country, which my wife is against, she also fearing the problems with the language she would have among you (German is indeed not liked and has little future there!), while also out of her work comes a relatively large part of our humble family budget. Just to inform you, Karin was originally a sculptor and has made some charming small pieces — animals done in clay, the best being goats and gazelles, which were then fired, though here she, like so many, has entirely changed course and now makes dentures in a dental laboratory.

So I’m hardly likely to decide to return, although I would be glad to cross over and at least am hoping to visit and indeed see you again soon and talk about everything that can’t be put into a letter. In between, however, we must write each other a great deal, especially about things that cannot bear to be put off. My dear mother has, unfortunately, indeed died (did you know that?), yet an old aunt who is almost deaf miraculously survived the war. It would be nice if you could visit her sometime soon: Frau Sophie Basch, Gerstengasse 44. You will likely have to ask the concierge, for she sublets there. In addition, it would be so helpful if you could personally pick up the things that my mother left behind with friends for safekeeping when she had to leave. Aunt Sophie wrote me about them and will know the address. Also, a conversation with my lawyer about the return of the house confiscated from my mother is very important, as well as other questions concerning, for example, the inheritance and further compensation. My practical advice is as follows: Look up my lawyer, Dr. Blecha. The office is at Kronenstrasse 63. Please tell him that I have sent you, and I will, of course, inform him as well. Ask him about the state of my affairs, and let him know that someone is looking out for me. I have heard that otherwise no lawyer will do anything. I have no use for anyone full of empty promises, who is lax about everything and only has his hand held out. Hopefully, my fears are unnecessary, for Dr. Blecha began in my father’s office as an apprentice lawyer. But one never knows. I prefer to trust no one, and certainly things will move along faster if you apply yourself energetically.