H. Adler - The Wall

I didn’t complain about losses anymore. They were indeed a blessing, for as soon as from the wilderness in the first weeks I managed a return that was more survival than triumph, that which was familiar appeared now too familiar, accusing me because I had not recognized it, though it wasn’t me but someone different from me, the me that was bound to the familiar, dissolved in fear, the me that disappeared suddenly there with naked objects that drew the soul from the body, object and soul delivered, there on the transformed table, eyes falling out of the head, small shining tears, eyes clinging to thin strands that are tangled with one another and choke the eyes, then the head eyeless with two empty chasms out of which blood flows, slowly, yet unstoppably, gangrenous with age, an insurmountable separation of soul and heart, in between an impeding wall, the murky dead light.

Soul and entity having escaped and the heart lying down with the body, condemned to live — or soul and entity in the night and the heart with its body hounded like a shadowy fate through the ruins of the jagged city in headlong flight, where the heart jolts and is not pitied but, rather, catapulted back, damned to oblivion and, despite the strength of the heavings, still caught among the jagged ruins, drowning in the smirking consequences of the temporal and a shiftless life that doesn’t exist, incapable of any avowal or sign, and yet forced inescapably to feel. If I don’t want what I want, I can sense it, and yet I can exist in a broken fashion, this indeed being a blessed yield, a shadow of Being amid its denial, the echo of a judgment that cannot be heard and which is broken off from the start, which in the silence of its desire does not wish to consummate itself, yet nevertheless is something gained, because the heart and Being of the alienated person do not have to split from each other, and because the eyes, even if they are hopeless and in the dull-witted clutches of a certain end, do not fall from their sockets and provide the inverted images that have emerged from the given world.

“Oh please, you must believe me, you are mistaken. Who could know better than I? That belongs to someone else; it always did. Don’t disagree! Her eyes never saw that, her hands never held it. Everything that she had looked entirely different. Recall for yourself, try to remember what she wore for necklaces. It had large amber stones, dark-blond drops of honey that smelled of the forest and the mountains. Not pearls! Certainly not! Please, not pearls! She didn’t like their watery sheen. Too damp, too strange and painful, she said. You have to believe it! She always spoke the truth. She couldn’t stand the feel of pearls, nor could she stand the sound when they slid through her fingers.”

The pearls lay there pathetic and only in their closed box; they were ashamed of themselves amid the lush brown velvet, which, quiet and forgotten, smelled sweet. The box didn’t know what to say and turned this way and that, the top quietly snapping open and shut. The string of pearls wound itself in ever-tighter circles, shivering. Someone would surely want them, but, distressed, I refused to help. I hardly looked at them and held up a hand to guard against jewelry and little boxes. Across from me, the other head hanging there nodded. A small chin and gray hair.

“That’s right. She loved to wear amber. But there’s no amber here. Unfortunately. No amber came through. There are pearls, a property ready to go. Lovely large pearls, real pearls. Much more expensive than amber. Whoever has pearls can exchange them and get a lot of amber for them.”

The old man’s tender hands laid them out, shoved them forward on the hand towel, fingered the pearls, closed the lid of the box, and snapped shut the lock fastened to it. The figure got up almost soundlessly, looked for something in a drawer, something crackling with an acute, sharp sound. The white satin sheet unfolded, covering the table like a hanging flag, light and shadow bathing its pure surface, four fingers bent over the trembling sheet, the second hand lifting the little box, the sheet spreading out under it, watchful eyes following the ark that quietly floated upon the combing waves of light, thumb and middle finger steering it roughly toward the middle, which at last was reached, a delighted look, not at me but at the almost finished display, both hands then working powerfully, twice folding the fabric, the ark drowning in ample snow, more folding, two wings lifting up tautly and sinking down once again, the pale bird now flying aloft, though the hands grasp it and hold it, one palm extended flat, holding it, though it did not struggle, it being patient or asleep, a dark-red thread creeping, long and lugubrious, the free hand already having seized hold of it and laying it down upon the white surface, then both hands turn quickly and twirl the small weight until it was wrapped and tied, the trimmer only saying a brief word as he cut the thread, the bundle finally exhausted. It lay there finished and could rest, the eyes still above it, though soon they withdrew cautiously. Behind the table they rested. Desire slept and knew nothing of the darkness.

I indeed no longer looked on and also bowed out, trembling with blue fear, for it went on, the process not over, the other head suddenly rising up, steps heard, determined, if also quiet, no, not a stagger, a long retreat, yet shortened and turning away, a searching that rustled. I knew nothing and wanted nothing. My heart stood still, though I couldn’t remain so. I had to look, intently, and the old hand then back again, trembling, poor Father, weeping bitterly, yet why Father? It’s not his time, no, no time at all, but the watch, the watch, and gold, nothing but gold on all sides, the heart of it still always still, not a beat, the watch having no language, not Father’s speech, me not believing the strange workings, a monogram that I didn’t recognize. Nevertheless, I had to listen, for the watch was mine.

“There was also a chain with it. Unfortunately, I don’t have that. The watch and chain came together, lying here with me for months, both of them at risk. It was all supposed to be given away. Two days earlier, your father, as you already know, was still here. He said, ‘I didn’t do anything.’ Like a child. I said, ‘No, you didn’t do anything. Only what was good.’ He said, ‘That’s of no help to me. I have to go away.’ I didn’t believe it. However, he showed me a note. There it was, written out. The place, the day, the hour, and an immense threat. Your father also said, ‘It’s forbidden for me to show it to anyone. Nonetheless, I’ve shown it to you, so that you won’t forget me.’ I said, ‘They’ll ship you back, because it’s a mistake. You’ll see soon enough. You’re also too old.’ He said, ‘No, I’m being sent away. Me and my wife. No one is too old.’ And so I had to believe it, though I didn’t believe it at all. Which is why I said, ‘It’s terrible, but soon things will be good again.’ Your father said, ‘No.’ To which I answered, ‘In three months it will all be over, then you’ll be back again, you and your wife. Then we’ll celebrate.’ Again he said, ‘No.’ I could say whatever I wished and all he would say would be No and No and No. Then he wanted to look at the watch. I brought it out. He took off the chain, a heavy, thick chain. I don’t know what he did with it. The watch he left here. He said, ‘Someone once gave it to me as collateral and never redeemed it. I’ve hardly worn it.’ Thus the watch remained with me. There it is.”

I was happy, because I could protest that I didn’t want anything that had been pawned — well yes, the pearl necklace, if I had to take it, but not the watch. I protested that my father had never worn one. It was no good to me. The watch, which gave off no sound and with its enclosed clock face had hocked time for a bunch of gold, had to come with me without a chain. Two hands took hold of mine, a voice praised my father, the good man. I listened and then was gone, the steps slipping away under my feet, my steps plunging into the chasm, while I would have fallen if two eyes had not landed on the balustrade of the stairwell. The door stood open, allowing me to leave, horrified streets pulling me into their weaving strands. It was raining; the wind bore hard around the corners. I panted as I fled into the damp evening, and was afraid. Yet I wasn’t being targeted. I was no longer followed; that was long over. But I felt uneasy. I felt that I was being followed. If, indeed, there was someone behind me, I was ready to stop the tormentor and curse him outright. Even amid hopeless escape, I knew who I was, the victim seized, but not the ghostly figure that is chased from behind, called names and peppered with addresses, strange faces before me, gaping faces with slit mouths that in large numbers, and recklessly, rumbled through the famed enduring history of the city, always pursuing a deadly desire that answered to no one. Then I found that I was knocking on a door again. Old Frau Holoubek, once my grandmother’s servant, had tears in her eyes as she embraced me. Soon I was sitting in a chair.