Authors: H. G. Adler
Yet what kind of son was I? What good was I? I had not saved my parents from the war, had not sent them the smallest of gifts, not even the smallest memento that the dullest of soldiers brings home to his dearest ones in order to assure them of his love, and that he had faithfully thought of them while in the trenches, he having brought some crude little thing, a picture frame for his mother, a cigarette holder for his father, which he had carved himself with a pocket knife during the melancholy hours of those endless days. Then the parents, who had believed that their own flesh and blood had disappeared, would know that the love of a son never fades despite the years. I had failed to do anything; dull and dejected, I hadn’t brought the slightest gift. But then I had an idea, for there I stood, Kutschera’s apples in hand, which I could lay on the grave of my dear parents.
“Take and give thanks, my dear dead! Blessed may you be with this food! You will never be forgotten, you who took the trouble to feed and clothe me. It is only a meager sacrifice that I carry over the threshold to you in your holy silent realm, but please accept it with grace! One thing is certain: this gift carries no guilt. I didn’t shoot the enemy in his garden in order to steal from his fruit trees. I was not a good soldier, nor did I become a good murderer. Instead, I was cowardly. I stayed back in the hinterlands, though I was not fed. No sweet apples were handed out; it was a meager time, neither an easy nor a dangerous stage, though I don’t wish to talk about that, for it wasn’t particularly difficult, because here I am. Indeed, it’s really me. It’s my own skin and bones. Why don’t you answer? Don’t be so cold! You have to hear me, I have to find you. Please, open the door! I know you’re in there, hidden deep inside, for I can hear Father in the bathroom drumming on the large mirror, as he always did whenever he shaved. Then the clatter of the dishes and silverware—only Mother could make that sound, nobody else. Why can’t I get to you? This wall, this awful wall; I can neither get through nor over it. Oh, how impossible it all is.”
With a quavering voice I said all this in a soft rhythm, determined to move forward, and yet not taking a single step. I stood there frozen in the
Helfergasse, the seething rush of the Karolinenweg nearby. Pleadingly I held out my bag of apples, yet I couldn’t help noting with a shudder how miserable it all was, a pathetic attempt at an unsuccessful return home. Then I wrenched myself away from the spot, passing continually back and forth as one does when one waits for someone on the street and can’t stand still. Perhaps someone would come along, a relative or one of the old servants, Herr Nerad or Frau Holoubek, a person who is always tied to us, and even today is still a part of us, as such closeness never disappears. All I needed was a little patience, for by the time evening settled in someone would have to come along who could help me. I reproached myself sharply for not writing a single letter the entire war, not even sending a simple card home, myself the disloyal son. Why should he expect anything now in return? Indeed I remembered that we could not send any mail, for our guards would not allow it, as they hated to waste time with such things and simply said no when we asked permission to mail letters and cards. Yet that was no excuse. I had simply done nothing but remain silent, ever silent, as only the dead are allowed to remain! No doubt Mother would remain silently in the background, knitting away, stitch after stitch. Could a mother renounce even such a bad son? No, she was sweet and almost deaf, though Father was highly enraged, not letting her know that I was nearby, which she could not perceive, lost as she was in the melancholy of her lonely knitting. If only Father didn’t stand in the way, I could have gone to Mother!
“You’re not getting past me, Arthur! Can’t you see that your mother is decorating the shroud of her dead son with stars? A noble piece of work done by ever-faithful hands.”
“Father, I brought you apples, fragrant shining apples! Mother should peel them with the gilded fruit knife and cut them into pieces! She can sprinkle them with sugar and arrange them in the shiny crystal bowl for us all!”
“Too late. You should have come earlier. Others came home a good while ago. You made us wait so long.”
“The war—”
“I know, the war. That’s what one says when he perceives the long-neglected love of his parents as an inexpiable wrong. We couldn’t wait any longer for you. Even if it’s you, we don’t recognize you. In the cemetery,
when they erect a gravestone for children who have died far away, they will collect money for it, and we will have your name engraved so that you are remembered. Get out! What I’m telling you is the only comfort you’re going to get from me.”
“Do you really not recognize me? Do you really want to deny who I am?”
“I’m not denying you, and indeed I recognize you. Lift up your arms! Turn around! Once more! Slower! Yes, that’s right, I’m sure of it. You look just like him, and must even have known him, for I’m sure he told you about us. Otherwise you couldn’t have found us. Nonetheless, you are not our son.”
Then I wanted to walk right up to my father and offer him my apples before kneeling down to embrace his legs with my arms. He threatened me, however, with a fist raised high, and I knew that I couldn’t try to win his sympathy for my muddle-headed existence. Mother, meanwhile, kept knitting and knitting, sitting there beneath her light and working ever faster on the shroud, though I could hardly see the glow of the stars on it. All I could see was that she used red yarn. Then I called to her again. She might have heard me, for she paused, her hands now still and folded together, she looking down at the strands of yarn that now lay like a fountain of blood upon her dress. Then her head quietly swayed forward, her mouth closing softly, her forehead sinking solemnly and peacefully into a deep sleep. I waited for a while to see if she would sense that I was there, but she sank ever deeper into sleep. Father seemed to have forgotten my presence, for he walked over to Mother and observed with great interest her oblivion. He seemed quite used to it, for he didn’t look at all concerned, though a deep, unfathomable melancholy took hold of his slightly bent figure. Thus he stood there, strong and rigid, his open mouth somewhat aghast as Mother slipped ever deeper into her slumber, and with a heavy nod let her head sink irrevocably low, such that her plain gray hair fell in fine strands over her face. It was almost impossible to see beyond the drooping hair, though her neck was visible, and there I discovered a nasty swollen scar that had indeed healed, but only recently. What had happened to the good woman—how much had she endured? The painful discoloring seemed to be fading, but not yet entirely. Father sensed what I observed, and he turned toward me with the full weight of his age, as if he wanted to see just what the pain I perceived
in this wound might do to me. I could barely stand the sight of my mother anymore and was relieved, even if Father didn’t at all approve, to have a reason not to lie down next to her. What Father expected of me wasn’t clear to me at all, so I didn’t say anything. Finally he spoke, and much more quietly than I would have expected.
“You still don’t believe that we don’t need you? You don’t belong to us. You are wrong, you are dead wrong. That’s not your mother, and I am not your father.”
Whatever I might have said in reply simply didn’t occur to me, and so I didn’t say a word. I folded my arms across my chest and defended myself against the father who pressed against me, there being nothing in me that wanted to urge him toward a milder judgment. I simply had to accept that I would remain banished. Too much had passed during the years of separation that prevented our coming together again. Thus parents and son had to separate. So it was decided for good. I reconciled myself to it as easily as I had the moment before thought that it would be possible to be with them, though I faced facts and remained firm that I had to prepare myself to say goodbye for good. I also realized that this was the only chance I would have to say something in parting that might lend decency and dignity to the situation. I had to say something and looked deep inside myself for what my father would take away as my final and only legacy. But my intentions came to nothing. My father firmly raised his arm and waved it back and forth, such that I understood for sure that we were done with each other and that I had missed my last chance at any moment of grace. Indeed, all I could do was take a few respectful steps backward, though I continued to struggle to leave my implacable parents. I tried to gain a last glimpse of my mother, but it was impossible, as she was far removed inside a shadowy veil that her knitting had been transformed into and which was impenetrable. With his right hand, Father held me off, and with his left he covered his face as he coldly and mechanically and strangely spoke to me.
“Time’s up! Now go! Off with you!”
Then I retreated quietly, softly, creeping on tiptoe. I didn’t want Mother to hear that her former son was leaving her forever. I had to really make an effort to get away, for the air had become so thin that I could hardly breathe. As I left the ancient lost couple, the old man’s voice called out once again.
“You should leave the apples! I could really use them!”
Whether that was the porter to the House of the Dead or my father speaking, I had no idea. It sounded too normal and pleasant to be my father. Yet I was relieved not to have to worry about the fruit any longer. I wanted to gently lay down the bag, but I was clumsy and it fell from my hands, the bag springing open and the apples tumbling across the ground. I was shocked and ashamed to have carried out the order in such a poor fashion, but I didn’t want to pick up the apples, either, as they rolled around on the ground. Upset to no end, I simply fled.
It had gotten no cooler outside, but evening was approaching, the shadows stretching out long and deep over the pavement, the last rays of the sun now anxiously springing off the peering panes of the windows before they were extinguished. People hurried along, having been granted their evening as they reflected on the hours of celebration and their many pleasures. All the routes I had taken had been in vain, for I had achieved no clarity whatsoever. I had been disowned, the city didn’t care about me at all, no one would look out for me, no one would offer me a roof if I wandered aimlessly around the streets. At best I would encounter a policeman, and after a suspicious look he’d order me to move along, dispatching me with a slight push in case his look wasn’t enough to get me moving. No, I couldn’t risk walking around the streets at night, but I had to, since the way to my parents was closed off. I had to keep a lookout for my own apartment, for it would provide me refuge, even though it had been seized at the start of the war.
I had little money on me, only the small amount I had taken along when I set out on my journey. When I arrived at the train station, I made sure to locate the collection point for homeless war refugees and asked for support. I had imagined that I was home, so I didn’t think any other kind of help was necessary. You had only to walk and move a little farther along until you recognized the right building, stormed up the steps, knocked on a door that opened right up, the ruckus and roar of overwhelming welcome greeting you: “It’s really you, yes, it’s finally you! Just look, this is no prodigal son!” Cries of blessed thanks follow, questions and talk muttered in a sweet unconscious manner, for everything has turned out well. Between the kitchen and the living room, throughout the entire apartment the family members walk restlessly back and forth, glasses clink, plates rattle, anything available in the cupboard and pantry is hauled out and served up in order to regale the one long missed. Wasn’t this how I pictured it all so beautifully? Not
entirely, for I knew they were dead, all dead, yet there was one still alive, one of many, a representative, and so I deceived myself into thinking that someone would be there for me. Wasn’t I born in this city? My childhood games still linger in certain corners; the familiar chatter has hardly faded. I can still hear it—it was just yesterday, it cannot all have gone silent! If that’s so, why do I have to speak to some civil servant? I had left my pack at the station, someone having been happy to take it, myself unburdened and hoping for a fresh start. It smelled as of old when I walked out of the station, the wind wafting the dust of home onto my face, me hurrying next to the trolley stop across the way. I wanted to keep moving; anyone who is away for a long time doesn’t let the dust gather. And so I bounded along impatiently, and as I saw the park before me I had no urge to wait. Weaned off the old place, I had to entrust myself to its walls as a convalescent; the slow allure of the remembered streets should ease the wounded heart and grant the right state of mind. Thus I had chosen—now I had to savor the error and was lost, not wanting to return to the station in order to submit myself to a horrible asylum, ticket in hand from a gruff fatherly warden, led off to a hall in a shelter full of bad air and dust: “So here’s your bed. A blanket spotted with stains at the foot of it. Ten o’clock is lockdown. Seven o’clock, everyone up. Eight o’clock, coffee. Nine, everyone out.”
Away, away! I had to get away. I was not in the city to which I thought I had traveled. Or if indeed it was that city, it was not me who was here and already lost within it, swallowed up by the evening. How could I begin? Away, away! Perhaps that was the wrong corner; nothing is to no avail so long as I keep walking. The wall yields and retreats the moment I really wish to go on; one step may be all that I need to take. I staggered on, I didn’t know where to, yet I sensed that I was moving forward—no memory of where I was, the street names unfamiliar, the way unknown, everything shyly retreating from me. Once, I stumbled and fell down. It hurt a lot—my knee was badly done in. I staggered like a child, eventually falling hard, ashamed and weeping. All I could think to do was lie there and wait until Mother came, until she called, “Stand up! Stand up, my child! Off to bed, the bed is already made. I’ll just blow a puff of air. Then the sandman will come, and Arthur will know of nothing more. Early in the morning, when you wake up, everything will be fine again.” But I didn’t do as she said and stand up; I
was too afraid of falling again. Mother should grab hold and pick me up, for I was so light and thin, just like carrying a feather.