H. Adler - The Wall

I’m sorry not to be able to give you better advice. I have written at such length in order to show you that there’s no lack of good will on my part. I only wish for you to understand it all well. I swear to you, if I had enough influence you would be here tomorrow, and the day after you would have a professorship. See to it that over there you find a position that is bearable, which can’t be that hard to do. You have no difficulties with the language there, and you’ll make connections in no time at all. People over there will still be interested in oppression. If I can be of any use to you through word or deed (e.g., with finding books, materials, recommendations, etc.), it will bring me great joy. I am also thinking of how else I might support you, but nothing has occurred to me. Write me when you need something. My means are, unfortunately, reduced, but they are enough to humbly serve you, be it cash (don’t forget to mention me to Dr. Blecha!) or anything else that you both might need. Though there’s also less here than you might think.

A friend who is planning to fly over today will be bringing along a can of aspic with black-currant jam. It’s exceptionally strong and rich in vitamin C. Take a spoon of it each day. As this friend has shared with me that he reckons that no proper shaving brushes can be had over there, I’ve also given him one for you. Let me know that it all arrives safely! If the rumor is true that our old teacher Herr Prenzel is still alive, please pass on my greetings. And keep your chin up, as always.

Always yours,

So-and-So

You looked at me patiently, Peter, seeming a bit derisive in a good-natured way. Then I held the letter out to you, or you took it — I don’t recall exactly — and you began to read, at first seriously, soon mumbling something, then individual words aloud, here and there like a psalm, and, as I recall, “principles”—“prince-eeee-pills,” you piped — and grimaced as you spoke. Other parts that moved you to immense scorn you also bastardized. Such as: “Finally I degenerate to such stupidity, no matter how bitter it might sound, to sincerely con you into realizing that such an idiotology of the bent and stooped … certainly can’t be dumped here, no matter how I rattle on and keep rattling.” Not exactly brilliant, but you managed to succeed in brightening my grim, dismayed mood. After reading, you were really in fine spirits and took shots at example after example, full of droll and biting expressions used to nearly blast poor So-and-So to bits. Do you remember his letter?

“Tell me again, Arthur, why is the guy called So-and-So?”

“I’ll tell you. He couldn’t stand it when he had to say his name during ho-hum introductions. It was pointless, he thought, nor did anyone remember a name. Therefore he mumbled something incoherent: So and So. Soon many people called him that. Then he got upset about that, but then started to use it himself and was in the end proud of it.”

“A lovely friend, the fool, your So-and-So. Are you taking this drivel seriously? Come on, don’t be stupid. A kick in the rear, but gently, so that you don’t waste your time with him! It takes all kinds. Just wait, we’ll keep a spot warm in hell for him.”

“How can you say that? The letter doesn’t contain a single attack. On the surface, it’s all nice and smooth. He handles himself well.”

“Who says that we want to go after your dear friend? That’s not at all what I’m thinking. We’ll just latch onto him, you see, so that he cannot escape.”

“He should be the one to latch onto me!”

“He can do that as well. But afterward. It’s more important that we latch onto him first and for sure!”

“I won’t write him again. Such noble support he offers! Shaving brush with black-currant jelly. No, I won’t have anything to do with it.”

“Just let me take care of it.”

“This time you won’t change my mind. I won’t write to him again!”

“The question is how you will indeed write to him, your dear So-and-So! We’ll let a couple of days go by, and then you can write to him. He won’t get away from us!”

“He’s already gotten away from me, more than I have from him. I need funds … as soon as a nice round sum becomes available … if I just keep after Dr. Blecha … No, I can’t just sell my dignity in order that So-and-So can sleep more easily with his renowned conscience.”

“Arthur, don’t be stupid! He has to vouch for you in order for you to get a visa! That’s the main thing, and we’ll certainly engineer it to happen! Everything done just right, so that you don’t have to pay a thing. As far as the oily nonsense in his letter, we won’t worry ourselves one bit.”

Thus Peter reassured me until my anger subsided. He understood so well. He had helped me with so many other such letters. No matter how many of them arrived, and no matter how different they all were, they almost always said the same thing! I also wrote many of them myself, more and more letters to those who once knew me, people that I was looking to contact, for now I was the one who wished to find them in the hope of recognizing myself through them, of living through them. Always the same worry, wanting to grope for and hunt down apparitions. Never was I too humble to ask. And then the answers came, letter writers from far off, creepy little worms from out there in the world, in a city that had been saved. I could read their joy, hopping little worms with very tiny hearts, unfortunate hearts, for that’s what it always said: “unfortunately,” each letter overflowing with it, all of them poor, consumed with worries and to be felt sorry for. They fished for my approval. I needed to understand, not resent them but grasp their need, advise them, share information, run errands for them, while, most of all, the worms yearned for my solace. Peter cursed like a fishwife whenever he thought I played the servant. Then I no longer wrote at home but, rather, at the museum, where no one bothered me when I was alone in my office.

The office had become my main headquarters, where I ruled over my riches. I was laden with things that wanted to be with me, things without mind or being, the fate of sifted possessions, I now the proprietor. My ears were struck with lashing blows, legal property. I was entitled to them and they were mine, my hands schlepping a suitcase, my pockets stuffed such that my sides hurt, until I could toss away the coffins along with the dead and bury them here in the dingy cupboards. Yet why? My memory called out to me, Listen, the names, they are people you know. You need to go. They are waiting, and they are waiting for you there; you will recognize them. The comfort of your days lies in things that fulfill you, that you possess once again. Only one who possesses things can be. Then my heart pounded, I grew warm, I propelled my feet forward, this raging stumble through erstwhile streets that had returned, the old row house washed pale by weather and tired, hoary plaster, often already flaking and crumbly, falling down when I knocked. Then through a gate, shadows closing in as soon as the latch clicked shut, then the smell, cinnamon dissolved in a watery solution and the mustiness of dirty clothes, the breath held, the steps climbed, as quietly as possible, yet weakness in the legs, sweat on the brow and down the neck, already the knuckle of the index finger scrunched up and the knock. Who would hear it? Better to ring the bell. Another past sound again reawakened, which draws shuffling steps from inside, the lock snapped with foreboding, mistrust soon eased by names. Hands extended, my heart no longer pounding but storming reluctantly into the dungeon, where Franziska and I hid our humble treasures. Bent over in my chair, matters pressing, there I am, there you are, a cloud of rambling laments, waves of sympathy. Where are the others? Silence amid the extended floors. Lost. Most of the things lost. No longer there. My parents’ collection. Little made it through, not even the clothes from the shop in the Reitergasse.