H. Adler - The Wall

“Only the names and perhaps the towns. I no longer know the addresses. They most likely are no longer any good.”

“Many have in fact found them through the aid center.”

“You want to make me hope something will happen, Anna?”

“They will certainly help you, Arthur. If you want, they will even help you leave the country. They arrange collective transports, and you can sign up even for a one-way trip. It won’t take long. Yet it will be difficult, for you need papers, guarantees, visas, sponsors, and so on. Your friends—”

“Have to find me first.”

“And as soon as you are out you can arrange for me to follow.”

“Do you also want to leave, Anna?”

“Who among us do you think wants to stay? But I won’t fill your head with our worries.”

“I see. The so-called revenge against the intruders! But isn’t it only the culprits, the really bad ones? And, in addition, a couple of violators, who will straighten out over the course of a few days or weeks, such as Peter’s bride and the like?”

“Guilty or innocent, that’s a difficult question, but here there is no distinction. It has nothing at all to do with guilt. When an entire people have to believe as one, then everything is different. That means no more incursions will be allowed.”

“Is that so bad?”

“I’m not exaggerating.”

“Is it bad for you as well?”

“Not so much, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I can indeed make my way through. And I even have some special income, as they call it — for instance, the inheritance from my mother, something from my own past that I can be very proud of, and Arno for everything else. The money comes from him. Oh, it’s so sickening! But he had really good friends who know me and continue to take care of me. Today it’s tough for you, they say, and tomorrow it will be our turn. It’s a chain that has no end. What can I say to them!”

“Before the war we lived well here, all of us in this country. Aren’t you being a bit dour?”

“That’s what you think? You know, I really don’t want to burden you with it all, but perhaps it will help you if I tell you something about us. About us, not me, for I have nothing to complain about; everything is fine for me. It’s very bad, Arthur. I’ll spare you the details! But they just take people away, just like how they took you all away a few years ago.”

“Really, is it that bad?”

“No, forgive me! You make me feel ashamed. It’s of course different, and no comparison should be made, but it’s easy to feel wronged when you suffer and are persecuted. True pity seems harder even than love. A lot more happened to all of you, something more systematic and precisely carried out, bureaucratic and requiring loads of paper. It was written out in longhand with cold calculation. What’s happening to us now is for the most part not as bad; not as many are dying as back then. One can hope for more for the better part of us.”

“Don’t you see? It’s all because of those culprits.”

“It’s not that simple. It’s true for most, if not all. The horror we face has a limit. There was no limit to what was done to you, as long as there was still someone left breathing.”

“It will be all right, Anna. We didn’t suffer so that injustice would prevail.”

“It will be all right? Unfortunately, it doesn’t look that way. People are hauled off. Even friends, papers, and bribes are of doubtful help and do not last. A bad example was set, and everyone got the picture.”

“Are you in danger?”

“I already told you, I’m fine. Right at the moment, I’m almost certain. I don’t expect anything bad to suddenly happen. The people in the building are seemingly decent, the porter is on the straight and narrow, and that’s the most important. He managed to fend off the mob that came inquiring from house to house right after the war. Then he spoke so well of me to the police, the national security, during the investigation of war criminals, to the governing authority for the identification of state enemies and traitors, and who knows who else? Yes, my dear, that all surprises you! ‘Frau Meisenbach is one of us,’ he said. ‘She behaved better than many of our own people, and her brother was a hero who died on our behalf.’ I don’t make too much of it, but until now it has kept me safe. As have Arno’s political friends. Then, after a few days, I received a declaration of harmlessness from the police, a red card. That’s the best that one can get. It’s signed and is stamped in several places. But whether that will last forever? Even though I don’t have to leave, I don’t want to stay here.”

It was soothing for me to learn of so much unfamiliar sorrow and of Anna’s personal troubles. I was wrenched from the loneliness of my own pain, yet it affected me almost more than I could bear. Expulsion and flight, the urge to steal, hatred of others, bitter people, the sword of injustice; I knew what it meant to feel powerless, and the despair of those who feel worthless. Such ruin had not ceased, and it claimed victim after victim.

From outside, military music thumped along closer, tin horns and drums, pressing at me and hurting my ears, although the noise was muffled, since it came from somewhat far off.

“We have to hear that every day, and sometimes more than once a day. At Peter’s, up near the vineyard, you’ll hardly hear it at all.”

“Military music in any country is unbearable.”

“I don’t like it, either. They celebrate so much right now, and they need it for that.”

I closed the double windows in the face of the lovely June day without even asking Anna, but it seemed the right thing to do. The warlike flood of noise could hardly be heard. Smiling, Anna said that the closed windows had the disadvantage that it would be hard to tell when the band was finally far enough away.

“Should I open them up?”

“We can try it in ten minutes. By then the festivities will certainly be over.”

Then Anna said that she had to go out to do some shopping, and that she’d be gone around fifteen minutes. If I wanted, I could come along, but she would understand if I preferred to stay in the apartment, which is what I decided after mulling it over for a bit.

With a large bag in tow, she headed out. I wanted to accompany her to the elevator, but I only stood up and closed the door behind her. I had agreed with Anna that I would not open it, even if someone rang the doorbell. Peter would certainly not be coming in the meantime, and, besides, I know his signal: three quick rings.

Left alone, I inspected Hermann’s books more closely than I did yesterday, but, once again, I didn’t pull out any of them. I was too deeply shy, the books themselves causing me to feel this even more than the thought that they belonged to a dead man and were left behind to no end, beautiful books calmly standing one next to the other, arranged according to height, though perhaps also color, rather than content, the works of most older writers in several languages, many philosophical works, history, memoirs, and letters. In some ways, all books were letters to the world — envoys, complaints, bearers of joy, intimations, endless information, and public news. But who is meant to read them? For whom were all of these thoughts really put together? All had proclaimed themselves, had expressed something to the formative memory of those living in the present and to future generations. But who had the many continuous letters actually reached, and did they all really wish to stand there exposed so obviously as a pack of lies, such shameless lies? Each book a corpse, describing something that once was but is no longer; in fact, it never was, my dear girl. If one blocks one’s ears against the silent chorus of so many dried-up voices, then there’s nothing to hear, not even time. It had all been said, love and hate, but all of that had been said already and didn’t mean a thing. No, the books seemed like inept messengers who had failed in their duties and didn’t mean anything to me. With my thumbnail I flicked across a row of them from right to left, raising a soft whistle like a long, drawn-out note. That was strange — the letters were effaced and were worth nothing anymore. I did it again and again, then I had had enough. The spines of books are sensitive; my fingernail could leave marks, and that would not have been right.