H. Adler - The Wall

“How can you stand it here?” I asked impolitely. As if wanting to take back these rude words, I added in a great huff, “Of course, it’s your job.”

Fräulein Zinner deliberately ignored this platitude, having already not paid any attention at all to my previous lack of tact.

“Now you can see for yourself,” she said simply.

I turned away from the cards and looked around at Fräulein Zinner’s desk. Behind glass and simple frames were five pictures: the father, serious and slim, the eyes coolly observing, yet full of good will and sympathy, the look of a doctor, while the mother was slightly hunched, somewhat rotund, diligent, homely and plain, though also lively and keen. Fräulein Zinner looked much more like her father. Comparing them, I nodded to her.

“Was he a doctor?”

“Yes, heart and lungs. Very much loved. They’re the last pictures of both of them that were sent on.”

Parents sent on? I was startled and grabbed hold of the desk hard.

“Always right here as you work. Except when you have to turn to the card file, and, of course, when you deal with visitors, not then as well.”

What I said made no sense. It was the shock alone, the anxiety that rose at the thought that there were dead parents in the photos.

“The resemblance is strong. And they died in their own due time.”

Why had I said that? Fräulein Zinner’s disclosures at the Haarburgers’ had been clear. That I had now spoken of the resemblance was not at all reflected in the look Fräulein Zinner gave me, even though just the resemblance of the photos was what I meant, the belief pressing through doubt that photos can at all be similar to those depicted, that one can at all recognize or acknowledge someone in a picture: that, in fact, that is who they are or were. Names like to be remembered — they exist in memory or are preserved in letters, but what resemblance do they bear to people? Names can attest, but as symbols they lack the power to stand up to the figure they are supposed to fulfill. Pictures, on the contrary, are at the very least vicarious symbols of living figures.

“More like the father,” said Fräulein Zinner somewhat admonishingly.

“Yes, indeed the father. But also the mother. In short, similar. One can have similar features.”

“Are you surprised by that?”

“Yes, it’s surprising. For what is similar is also familiar, the ‘familiar’ being something handed down through the family, and thus what leads to what is similar in the familiar. But that’s another matter. I’m only talking about the pictures and you. The link between you is the similarity in your looks, and that is almost overpowering, for I can hardly believe it. Yet I don’t mean to talk about that, either, just about the pictures. You said the pictures are similar to how they looked?”

“Yes, very much so.”

“That’s lovely and remarkable. It must give you a great deal of peace.”

“How so? What do you mean?”

“I mean, you have your parents. Over there in the card file, no one has anyone. There are statements there, perhaps correct statements, but nothing more. What one can get from them you explained so yourself. But ‘pictures talk’ when they bear a similar resemblance. We had pictures at the museum, and so I know. There it was exactly the same, and in most cases we didn’t know the names at all. An unknown man, an unknown woman, an unknown child. Clearly unknown, and that’s painful enough in itself. But still there, and better to be unknown rather than to have disappeared with nothing but names cut loose. That’s the way it is — do you understand? And now these pictures rest here on your desk. Memories assure you. What luck! Hence you still have your parents and don’t have any doubts about ever having had parents.”

“My friend, they could still be alive!”

“That’s exactly right. The parents at one time could have been alive, but they can no longer. That is for sure. Oh, the ones who still have them! The difference is threadbare, but important. Nearly a comfort. You yourself said it crassly just a while ago: obliterated!”

Fräulein Zinner began to cry.

“Forgive me, sometimes I’m too harsh. But not coldhearted, certainly not coldhearted.”

“Who said you were? Please don’t get upset. I won’t say anything more.”

“Say something! You must.”

“Really, you think so? That’s very kind of you.”

“Don’t you feel the same?”

“Of course.”

“Yes, that’s exactly how it is. Only through language can we fend off danger. Though that’s not quite right, for that which is overpowering cannot be fended off, only secured, ascertained, so that it is defined, thereby allowing life to be a bit more furtive amid the unknown. Only through language can we conjure, can we try to save something. We want a house, a home, a life between four walls where we are protected and can hide, such that we will not — and here’s the main point — be called upon by the unknown, which takes us off guard by asking, Where are you? The desire to escape speaks to what I call, not entirely to my satisfaction, the fending off of danger or the unknown. It would be more correct to say to ‘avert the overpowering.’ We must therefore speak in order not to be continually asked, to be continually threatened. And thus I have explained to you, indeed, why language interests me.”

“What does that all have to do with dead parents?”

“At least your parents are dead.”

“That’s bad enough for me.”

“But dead for sure! Do you know what that means, Fräulein Zinner? Most likely they are buried somewhere!”

“Yes, in the cemetery. There’s not much solace in that.”

“Solace … Who would dare to use such a big word? Certainly no solace, and that’s for sure. But a place. One that you can go to.”

“I don’t want to.”

“That’s different. No one is asking you to. But you can. This lack of solace, which I don’t want to make more comforting, because it remains lamentable, doesn’t deny all solace, for it is indeed a certainty. First the parents died — you have reliable information; you know the date of death or you can find out — and then the dead were buried, in a cemetery, where you can find the spot. Thus there is a place where the dead clearly are, where they have come to rest, their grave, having found their last resting place, or whatever you wish to call it. It’s not at all strange. You should be very grateful for it!”

“Consequently, when I think about what you’re saying, consequently you’re right. But only consequently.”

“Fine, consequently. And that’s again something key. That is, also consequently, already the start of some kind of solace.”

“It’s so hard!”

“A whiner! You said you were a whiner.”

“Do you notice everything anyone says?”

“Actually not, only very, very little. I have a bad memory.”

“That doesn’t seem to be so.”

“Indeed, it is. Make no mistake about it, Fräulein Zinner. There are only a few things that I can recall precisely. Not really things but rather their scope, a kind of network. A memory for structures is what I call it. Hard to fathom, no? Let me explain. I mean, a memory for the relationship between things, for the dense interweaving of experience. I cannot forget any of that at all. But no memory for the phenomenal, for the eventful, the singular, the precise. Or only for single moments of clarity among the incalculable number of single incidents out of which I preserve the spirit of the relationship between them, really the structure. That grants me a certain continuance from day to day, which at least makes it bearable but also turns all of life into a burden, an agony. If I dispense with all the experiences that are comprehensible, and with whose help I can find my bearings amid the flurry of time, then it’s awful, and lost with it are those moments of clarity. Then I don’t know whether something is or is not. There can indeed be a means to replace the moments of clarity or even to fabricate them, and if I have that, then all the better, because then I can convince myself that they are not false, that they really exist. Again a small comfort, or at least the start of one, when one has something like this. Do I — well, I’ve already said so. The means is, namely, possessions, as possessions serve and support memory; also, the strongest of memories is supported by possessions and is in fact built upon them. A strong memory, however, is the true cornerstone on which human life is built. For then it is built solid as a wall. Without it everything collapses into rubble and is not even questionable, like the most miserable of lives, but, rather, worth nothing.”