The Wall (84 page)

That’s not what happened to me. I cannot and may not return; the bridge has collapsed, there is no ground beneath my feet, and I have no means to exist other than through the intellect. Since then, I know that intellect alone cannot encompass all of reality, which is why it is no means to exist; it is only a dangerous enticement, certainly worthwhile if one has a means to exist, but a torrid fire that dries out all your wits when you lack sustenance. Desires, memories, and hopes—they all enhance life. But life does not consist of them, nor can they alone ever amount to life, and
certainly they don’t contain it. It’s true—I can’t deny it—that I once again have so much, much more than I could ever have expected to have, or even wished for, just a few years ago, though it has all run together as one and has been tossed together into this building, which is hardly suited to it.

But what is this? Away from here … away! Is that what I hear? Is it sleep that it’s interrupting? The rapping of time in my sleep? I can no longer wait. I must remember; away sleep, away sleep. There it is again, hard on the door. I tore myself from sleep and jumped up from the chair, shaking away the confusion. It was time, myself already in full stride, bursting out the door. Anna must be standing outside. It was raining; I couldn’t dawdle. Out the room, down the hall, and opening the door. There stood the mailman in his rain poncho, patient, a compassionate man who just waved away my apology. He handed me a little package that was a book, which was why he had knocked, giving me two letters as well, all of them damp with rain. I thanked him, the mailman already heading off toward his bicycle, delivering his messages in the pouring rain. I closed the door and hurried back to my room. Anna had not arrived, but she had written, her clear handwriting before me, covered with rain, as if tears had fallen upon it. The other letter, from the city, had a fancy look about it that I did not recognize. I set this letter and the book aside and read what Anna had to say after a silence that had lasted almost a year.

I walked straight to Johanna in her room and showed her the letter. She read it while I played with Eva, who was crawling around her playpen and shrieking with pleasure. I fancied myself a proud father, to my credit. Johanna said we had to help Anna right away and invite her. Eva, who felt neglected and was protesting strongly as we spoke, was soothed by her mother as she turned her attention to her new rattle. We left the child alone in her playpen and went to my study, where we considered what we needed to do to get ready. Anna should live with us as long as was necessary. The rest would work itself out.

Then I said to Johanna that there had been some other mail as well. She opened the little package that contained the promised book of a young sociologist with the title
Stereotyping Through Prejudice
. On the cover there was a blurb signed by Kratzenstein, whose style stirred rollicking laughter in Johanna. At this I stopped trying to make out the crabbed writing of the other letter and listened to Johanna read Kratzenstein’s praise aloud:

“The author responsibly undertakes to come up with answers to the most burning problems of our time through this probing existential study that fathoms the role of prejudice in causing our ills, and which is based on stereotypes. Within the intellectual confines of the scholarly appreciation of essential structures, he desires to use cool-handed methods of sober analysis to put his finger without fear or shyness on one of the hot spots of our day, but also to be a sensitive friend to man and a helping doctor who knows the worth of a real and manifest understanding of existence. After the careful exclusion of all utopian theories, the needs of all those threatened and oppressed are examined layer by layer through the piercing
insight of sociology and the only possible solution revealed in the prescription of a humane democracy. I wish this impressive accomplishment great success.

“—Professor James Kratzenstein, President of the International Society of Sociologists.”

We both laughed heartily at such jargon.

“If I want to pretend, all I have to do is read the blurb and not the book. I could just concentrate on the name under the blurb, for thus says the famous Professor Kratzenstein, and the work is anointed. But, I promise you, I won’t be that lazy.”

“We should be ashamed, Arthur. Here we are talking about this gibberish, and Anna is in despair. We’re so rude and unkind.”

“You’re right, Johanna. That’s enough. Sometimes I think the old mystic had it right in so many words, even if he didn’t understand it all himself, when he said, God, the Devil, the world, and everything is in our hearts. Only the admiring praise he showers on the heart I cannot go along with. Existence—how we live it—is confusing, too much for the heart, its ordeals swamping it, and we rarely say what’s clear, rarely what’s true. But let’s not be too hard on ourselves! We certainly have not at all grown callous. We observe the surgings of the ugly and horrible no more than the sublime, and especially the sweet and the tender, even the lovely.”

“The lovely, you say?”

“Yes, even the lovely. Rarely, I know, do I speak of it. But, believe me, what human beings are capable of and once were—something of that, a possibility, a reappearance, a shadow of it can also rise up within our breasts. Separated from everything, cast out as part of the last and strongest consequence of our lost Paradise. But something of this Paradise still remains—something that survives, that stands firm and will remain firm, all of us under one law and thus the same, but with a thousand different interpretations.”

“We should talk about it later. I can’t leave little Eva on her own too long. What’s the other letter?”

“Wait, I haven’t looked at the signature yet. Just remember that we can’t forget about poor Anna, even though its Resi Knispel, of all people, Resi Knispel!”

“Just a moment, I’ll look in on little Eva. I’ll be right back.”

I buried myself in the letter and with some effort deciphered it. Johanna didn’t keep me waiting long, having found that the little one was fine.

“What, then, does Resi Knispel want?”

“Let me read it. It’s not very long.”

I then read the letter:

Eva’s voice cried out during these last words, so we couldn’t talk about it, while it was also already time for me to pick up Michael, who had been attending preschool for the past few weeks, since he turned five. I rushed out of the house in the direction of Toro Road, where at the corner I was met by a wet and snuffling Santi, the Simmondses’ dog, who barked a greeting and, jumping up with its front paws, soiled my coat. I shooed him away, at which he abruptly toddled off and I hurried along. The rain had ceased, only thin strands of it still dripping, the drops shining like the finest splinters of glass. How I had always loved this gentle shimmering, and before me I saw the mountain woods. I had entirely forgotten about
Stereotyping Through Prejudice
, as well as Resi Knispel, instead seeing the mountain woods, having perhaps thought of Anna, there where we walked along the border, while
afterward she was across the border with her Helmut, the big, strapping man with the face of a boy.

The face of a boy called to me from the vestibule of the school, where he waited for me, hopping about and fidgeting, it being Michael, while I was a bit late. At this, I pushed away any thoughts save of him and turned to his good cheer. He was, if possible, more talkative than ever, and we were home before we knew it. At home, Eva called out, “Mi!Mi!,” which meant her brother, and he replied with “Evi, Evi, hihihi!” At this, his little sister cheered. Michael got his food, pleased by the honey, but his mother had to scold him for playing around with it. Then a banana caught his attention even more, and I had to make a little man appear from the peel. Eva was fed by Johanna, the two of us having some tea and eating a little something.

After the meal, I went back to my room and wrote to Anna. She should come as soon as possible. I couldn’t promise to find her a job, though both Johanna and I would try our best to help our friend in the time ahead, she needing also to see how well she liked this country and the metropolis. She just had to get here, and through her savvy life skills she would certainly soon find a suitable occupation, for everything would work out fine.

Then I leafed through
Stereotyping Through Prejudice
. The book didn’t seem all that bad, though there was nothing new in it, everything following the current fashion for many statistics, results of opinion research, including quotes, but pieced together with diligence and attention to order, and in a seemingly fluid style, even if in places it fell into loose and embarrassing violations of any kind of responsible use of language. Yet another book and yet again the gaping emptiness, I thought to myself. Why was it printed and recommended? Why did someone bother to stir up so much that was already known and done? I shoved the book to the side. Today, I didn’t want anything to do with it.

Then I picked up Resi Knispel’s letter. I couldn’t decide what I should do. This woman belonged to a world that had done me nothing but wrong; I wanted as little to do with it as it had to do with me. I was completely done with it and it all lay behind me; I simply didn’t know if I wanted to go knocking on that door again. Of course, working for a journal remained, as always, an enticing possibility, one where I could have an important influence, where I could state my views, which had been denied me everywhere else,
refused me as a result of stupidity or nastiness or indifference. It could grant me, if it was well-intentioned, a free hand. But could I expect that? Didn’t Resi Knispel already belong to the corrupt literati in which scholarship and literature were mixed together in the mishmash of a reportage spouting off about everything but hardly grasping anything, peppered with sensations and a faux-modern style, all of it turned into a wretched journalistic stew? These cliques, with their disgusting wishy-washiness, where as a kind of victory lap I was supposed to be welcomed as a comrade-in-arms who didn’t see through such mischief, though I couldn’t let on about it, while despite honest efforts and novel achievements I was not seen as hostile—all of this I wanted nothing to do with whatsoever. I had finally accepted my social isolation and therefore could no longer curry favor, even if someone from there, whether out of curiosity or with good intent, lifted a pinkie for me.