H. Adler - The Wall

Should I get out? If I hurried, I could just make it, no matter how heavy my bags were. The platform lay on the other side, and I had to see it, to see the chance it offered. Then I was in the corridor, where I also shoved down the window and looked out, thinking that perhaps I could hail a porter. But there weren’t any, not even a single passenger waiting for our train, only some people sitting heavily bundled on the open benches, waiting for a slow commuter train that would carry them off to stops nearby. Otherwise the only other one visible was the stationmaster, whose steps resonated on the checkered tile surface. The man stepped slowly toward the train and appeared in no hurry, not knowing anything about where we were headed. Two conductors had left the train, though it was hard to know if they were really getting off or if each was just hanging on to a stair railing with stiff, outstretched arms, swaying his lantern back and forth such that he looked to be impatient and in a hurry. I leaned out fairly far, but no one paid any attention to me, no matter how conspicuously I turned in every direction, trying too eagerly to catch someone’s eye with an upraised finger, there being no chance to do so. A devilish game with the danger of misfortune occurring — so I puckered my lips, though I didn’t whistle “Augustin,” but instead turned serious and felt in my pockets for the book of tickets, passport. Everything was there; the journey could continue.

I wasn’t paying attention at all, having let myself get too wrapped up in my own thoughts, when we started off again. A strong burst of air hit me, spraying moisture with it, though it wasn’t rain but condensed steam from the locomotive, and so I pulled in my head, which much too carelessly leaned out the window. The tightly woven outer districts of the city gave way, then we meandered slowly toward the river and sped along right next to it for a ways, though it was too dark to see its water. When the last suburbs on the other shore, with their lights swaying on the water — more remembered than recognized — were behind me, I switched from my perch to my compartment, shoved the door quietly closed, freed the straps holding back the curtains and closed them, such that the embroidered coat of arms, with its two winged railway wheels, stretched out properly.

Now I was alone in my room and safe, except that it was too cold, even though the heater spewed out heat, and so I raised the window, leaving it open a crack. I remained standing as before. In your room you can gather what is dear to you, everything here being mine, belonging to me, the riches of the world. I had paid the rent and taken care of my bills, and thus I could rule the roost. And yet what feeble pride there was amid this doubtful joy! What had I won and what had I fulfilled, such that I seemed so certain, when in fact I remained adrift and could determine nothing but, rather, had to wait for what would be allowed me and what not? The trip was pleasant, but what was the point of the destination awaiting me at the end? I slid into the corner of the compartment and hunkered down there, it being the only thing I was owed, for the ticket still hung there on a thin cord saying that the seat had been reserved. But I was under way; what was and what will be did not exist here, they were excluded, and between the cities that were exchanging me I was still indeed something, which I could assert, since here there was a protective code with which no one could argue. As long as I followed its rules, I would be carried along, the code having taken me in and encompassing me with its order.

Once again the door rattled open with a rush, the curtain swept to the side, an official cap, ticket puncher, and lantern appearing before me as someone said good evening and asked for my ticket. Quickly I handed over the booklet, the eyes sinking down, a pen marking a cross, the ticket puncher snapping, then the booklet was handed back and was quickly shoved into my pocket. “Stretch out on the seat,” I heard, “but put newspaper under your feet. The train is empty. It will be a long journey. Good night.” Then the back turned to me, passing through the door, the door rattling shut, once again the lantern lighting up and passing on. Only the curtain wasn’t properly closed, and flapped miserably. The conductor was right; I was tired, if not sleepy. The curtain straightened out, the window entirely shut, only the vent opened, my coat hung up on the hook, my shoes off and placed under the seat, I stretched out on my back, my eyes half closed, blinking at the light and waiting and traveling on.

The night had plenty of time, far more than I did; it took me into its core and I dwelled there. It stretched from the dark quadrants of sleep to the rush of endless forgetting and was not at all concerned with me. For me there was still the light in the compartment, not as a means of protection but as affirmation that I could look at the night’s pure darkness through the existence I had been granted. Thus could I speak to it and tell it that a life existed. It listened patiently. I assured it that, really, a life existed, and the borders of this life flowed into it. Shadows spread, stretching across the traveling room and orientated to no particular stop, but there and allowing the soft darkness to slip through fine cracks, back and forth, quieter than the dormant wind that hardly stirs. Franziska moves about, admirably dead and not afraid of the night, since she no longer suffers the borders that hold on to life with fingers that gently grasp it. But, indeed, there is life, though not much of it, and what is there is on loan from the sacred night, and yet it exists, sensing itself there in the midst of it all and remaining there, calling silently to silent death.

“Was it bitter?”

“Was. Yes. It was bitter.”

“Is it no longer bitter?”

“Was, was, my friend, was.”

Life could be heard above the roar outside, slinking away from the lights as the past dared to rumble along. Yet Death also dared to come closer, its dry scent uncurling sweetly from the light toward Life and extending still further into the unknown future. Are we alone? it asked silently, repeating this noiselessly in waves: we alone, alone, — one … Can Life travel on? was the question hesitantly asked by Life in return, to which came the answer, It travels, but it does not escape, finding itself come to a stop in the realm of slumber. And again Life asks, Does it have a right or a point? Oh, it has a right to exist, and that, and nothing but that, is the point. But when Life wishes to assert itself and step beyond the fear of its limitations, what right does it have to that? Oh, it has a right, and its point is indeed encompassed by that right. You say encompassed, but is it free? No, something other than free, because it is indeed encompassed. Which is it, then, dear Death — encompassed or free? Free of encompassment and freely encompassed.

Then Life drew itself up into a tight bundle in order not to deny any part to Death’s deeper grasp, in order that he could find a way to it, and not upset him with any kind of stubborn resistance, which indeed pleased him. Life also diminished its own questions, submitting its questions quite humbly in order not to disturb the inaudible with the lisps of the audible. But Death was patient and kind, sending out imperceptible rays of feeling that still reached beyond the borders to Life and commanded it to be. Should Life then ask, Do I exist? Should it do anything except just exist. But a voice spoke, and it sounded loud and clear.

“Life wishes to know: Where am I?”

Then, in one mighty gulp, the stillness drank down time, and one could hear it, there being no answer forthcoming, because Life is endless, endless right up until the green depths of Death. Thus everywhere Life stumbled on. Indeed, everywhere, but that is the wall and not a different place. Then a last question rose up from the depths of memory.