The Wall (24 page)

All of this was granted with time, it only requiring the will to bring it on, the rest of it coming naturally as I wandered along, be it for a long while or a short time, a single step often being enough, a couple of leaps, and once again the forest was the lord. The culmination, which gave the soul pause through such calming experience, manifested itself suddenly and quietly. The view, which the distance provided, remained potently there and sunk within itself, entirely at rest, covered over and entangled, it being able to be invoked again, only a step, a quick jog to a certain spot being all that it took to reveal itself anew to the curious. Whoever lived in the nearby towns or worked in the valleys or pounded away in the forests, whoever went along with his daily chores here certainly could not discover it in the same way as the committed visitor. However, Franziska and I expected to find it here. We were never disappointed, because we brought our hardships to the mountain forests. The days linked together like shooting sprigs, or was that the placid treetops above us? There were no days as usual, for they rose above the usual cares. Yet within this lay danger, for they themselves grew desirous, wanting it not to end. Thus they almost gave us too much, because freedom is a dream but not a human property.

This became clear to me as I pressed deeper into the forest with my companion and indulged myself in happiness once more. Nature and human beings, was what I thought, but in between there was sin, or Adam cut off from the garden of blessedness. Yet I didn’t let these thoughts flare up too much in my mind, for I felt threatened enough already. It had not diminished in these past few days. In the middle distance I had once taken comfort with Franziska, but no longer, for spikes pierced my being and tore through me, the piercing background boring through the forest, perhaps the next moment cutting into my face. So confident was I that the gentle mountain world would continue to convey the magic of its forests, I was transformed deep down—or, better yet, I was drained and left in a heap, and then filled with the dark fruit of decay, which didn’t fall from my branch,
nor could I get it out of me. Ripe within me I carried the legacy of a deep reluctance, which as a penitent had served to make me resistant, bowing my neck and, even under blows, refusing to accept my demise, since I had always ventured to uphold my being, which after my long patient journey I no longer possessed.

But now I was in the mountains that I never thought I would see again when I longed for them from so far away. Now I had communed with them, and everything in them was still the same, just as I had once known and sympathized with. Away from them, I had to somehow survive. But I had not in fact done so, for I was someone different, one in search of himself, now here again, and yet what was it I encountered? The other one who traced the same steps as a boy here in the forests, the woman at my side so strangely accommodating, an aid to healing and yet injured herself. Recently she had become engaged with her husband’s cousin. The couple hoped to soon leave the country, and my own departure was set for even earlier. Now we walked along together. It was goodbye, for both of us, bound for elsewhere, wanted to partake of what was unforgettable about the countryside.

The Teufelsee lay before us, placid and without a wave disturbing its surface. I had forgotten it. I opened my hand and looked at it, then lifted it to eye level, then beyond it to the water, on which my hand floated like a ship. Where the lake creek took a cool drink from the still waters of the lake and flowed on, we stood motionless before the blank mirror, moved by the cliffs and the forest and the steep drop, a distant cold splendor still present when you stood on the edge and gazed down at the steely depths. The somber spruces were visible on the lake’s surface and looked even more somber as they sank into its depths, the powerful lake knowing no boundary. Water is stone; everything that touches the lake is stone, be it the algae in the viscous damp, the gray roots that cling tangled and wounded to the cliffs, the blackened trunks that have fallen and, relentlessly tough, still loom above the surface stretching out, the path that winds along above, all of it stony, even the needles of the fern with its brown spores. The lake is the cool eye of the mountains, undisturbed, the lake’s rim a craggy brow.

We didn’t stand there long. The path soon left the lake, the trail growing wider, the forest no longer composed of trees weighted with time, the light forming itself in thick pools. Until we reached Rotgraben, the incline
was gentle. There, however, we turned left, where the path became steep and led along a half-wild lane toward the lake rim. The slope was brightly lit with daylight, the air smelling wonderful as we entered a new patch of trees. Whatever hindrances lay in our path didn’t hem in the desire to press on. I felt strong again and was happy that my weakness fell away the more firmly each step was met with resistance. My companion smiled at my urge to charge on and was pleased to see me looking like a boy who did not yet know about heavy limbs. She moved her lips to form a word, but then didn’t say anything, only her gaze revealing her understanding. She was happy to help out when too big of a log blocked the path. The edges of it split into long strips, the naked pulp still fresh—clearly there were loggers in the area. One could hear their axes pounding against the branches, their rough calls also breaking through, though we couldn’t see the men themselves as they worked away, hidden in the woods. We climbed higher and were soon rewarded, a new patch of forest rising with young trees, slim beeches, here and there a single spruce or fir tree. The path grew unexpectedly more gentle in its slope, then it disappeared. We had reached the top, an open, flat stretch of garden, but not too wide, as on either side it sank abruptly away, its edges rounded off and falling deep down, until it completely disappeared into the shimmering foliage that hinted more at the view beyond than being open in itself. A garden meant for us; we were astounded and happily took it all in. The ground was so soft and smooth, covered with fresh green grass and rustling leaves, not a single stone pressing through the gentle earth, the severity of the mountain turned into delicate reflection.

“A garden to remember, Anna. Don’t you think?”

“I never would have expected it.”

“No. Yet there are such gardens in the mountains. They are always highly lauded. It’s not at all true, but it’s easy to think that the vast depths of the forest are only there because of this. A magical garden of astonishing loveliness. And one can’t help but speak of it.”

“I feel that as well. Is that what you wanted?”

“Come, we need to rest.”

We sat down, feeling warm from our efforts without being at all tired. It was pleasant, feeling the peacefulness of the grass under our limbs. I opened the knapsack and shoved it toward Anna. She nodded and prepared us a snack.

“Here you can’t help but forget, or at least only remember the good.”

I sat up and looked at her.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Forgive me, it’s so easy to forget. Were you here with her?”

“No, not here. We were farther south. The town is called Aussergefild. What do you think of the name? From there we pressed on, where it was more severe, more dense, more lonely. The forest thickens, and before you know it you are ensnarled by it. You can smell the high moor; it is acutely mysterious. There you can get lost forever. But there is another town, much closer, which I already pointed out to you from the train. You caught a glimpse of it yourself when we stood at Tomandlkreuz. Remember when yesterday we explored the area around the Panzerberg and came to that forest meadow? There we looked across. There she and I were together, and there we first got to know each other. That is now forbidden ground; I don’t want to go there. It’s also too far. But where we want to go today—namely, to the top, which you want to feel beneath your feet—there we were together. That’s enough. I don’t ever want to walk again on the ground that I covered with her back then.”

“You know, it bothers me that I always end up talking about her, for it feels like a raw wound. Nonetheless, I always hope that it’s of help to you. Since that night when you stayed with me after you came to me, I have always worried about you. You told me many things and upset me, but you’ve also remained silent. I don’t like it, it’s true, but since we’re both a wreck, you above all, it’s occurred to me that I understand you better than you think I do. My only wish was for you to get better. That’s why we’re here. In this garden, that can happen.”

I looked at Anna thankfully, but in fact said little. What she shared with me were only the chatty ramblings of many conversations in which I told her something about myself. She meant well, but she came at me much too strongly. Yet it was my fault that it had come to that, for I had often and too intensely admitted my fears and anxieties to her. There were only a few people who even fleetingly knew of my former world, and Anna was one with whom I always shared it. Of everyone in the city, she alone treated me in a straightforward manner, without mercilessly dragging my heart
through the fire of the years of extermination in order to continually revisit the trembling ghostly light of the past, but instead engaging me just as myself. When I was confused, when Peter’s foolishness or encountering other people was insufferable and painful, I sought comfort and ease from her, or at least a distraction. She alone took what I said to be a delusion, and never at all madness, her sympathy being clear. Nor did she, like other women, seek brief comfort, for we demanded nothing of each other. Franziska was a part of me and remained locked within me. Therefore I was doubly happy that Helmut, the pale returnee with the big lit-up eyes of a child, who had so cleverly got hold of some harmless clothing, soon won over Anna to the extent that she entrusted herself to him. He was the right man for my friend; Helmut was a nice young man. We had little to say to each other, but he was captivated by me in a somewhat awkward way, always wanting to hear my thoughts and doing many nice things for me. The most touching was the fact that he was the most enthusiastic supporter of our farewell journey into the mountains, for he talked to me quite heatedly when Anna went silent over my protests, envy and jealousy being entirely foreign to him. And so we could travel together. A lovely understanding existed between Anna and me. The dead from our past granted it to us; the escape we prepared for strengthened it, even though our fates and our reasons were very different. Neither Anna nor I felt compelled to leave this land, yet, nonetheless, both of us had to: I, because of what had happened here, and nothing more being left for me; she because of what had happened now, which meant that she couldn’t stay. Up in the mountains everything remained good, but in the valleys you had to prepare for departure. Up above, we tried to ignore it and pretended to have found a home that was loved and devoutly erected within us, though it was not a home at all.

“Who after us will enjoy this garden?”

My question came out of nowhere and wasn’t very clever, yet she attempted no answer.

“We have said too much already,” she suggested.

“Yes, too much indeed. Yet you can be pleased with me. I have experienced something here, something that, once again, has moved me more deeply than anything else, and yet has not shaken me. Mostly, it has been forgotten. Not really forgotten, for you know me well, but simply absent. It
happened in my youth, and had such a powerful effect that it has outlasted the fate I was dealt. Thus there is something that doesn’t tear me up. But in the towns, the valleys, and the far-off lowlands it has no place. Only here in the mountains does it exist, intangible, ourselves taken in by it, encompassed by the very heights themselves. We disappear when we entrust ourselves to the mountain forest. Only there do I experience what no other landscape does for me. Yet it doesn’t last. The secret doesn’t leave the mountains, and we cannot remain here. Or, certainly, I cannot. We are only taken in by it when we enter it. Indeed, that can be repeated every day, always heading for the forest, always sinking into its midst and being surprised the deeper we immerse ourselves in its density, or follow marked paths or logging trails that fork and finally lead to a grove, the tracks of a gamekeeper, or blindly on to an impassable pile of stones, the warmth of open spots of sun, and then once more into the damp surround of cool bushes. There is nothing else one needs to do, no need for an occupation, no worries and no money, or the daily cares that eat away at your being. Just live—it’s that simple: live. Who can do that? Not I. Yet when you leave the mountain forest you no longer have any power over others. Only a yearning exists that reminds us of the forest, saying, ‘Don’t dally, come back, come to me so that finally and forever I can encompass you.’ I no longer think about it, Anna, but I know that, as a young boy, for weeks with a friend—it was So-and-So. Sure, go ahead and laugh, Anna! Anyway, it was So-and-So with whom I hiked all around the forest for weeks. We had a tent with us. So we never once had to go into town at night, and, as we awoke early in the morning, we were surrounded by mystery. Only every second or third day, when our provisions ran low, did we look for a village in which to buy what we needed and could carry with us. Then off again. But, you know, that’s no longer possible. The short reprieve we were allowed rested only within the existence we are forbidden to maintain.”

I closed the knapsack and lifted it up as we left. All around us was birdsong, very soft and rhythmic, accompanying us through the garden flooded with light which ran the length of the narrowing and descending ridge. The birds were nesting there, a flock of finches, happy to break off their mounting clamor before their song attained the cadence of its short beats.

“We’ve startled them,” said Anna.

“You’re wrong. They’re not startled. That’s just what finches do sometimes. They’re spoiled boys who, because of their somewhat elaborate ways, don’t take anything too much to heart.”

From the west a light wind blew, rustling the beech trees and the more tender birches that stood out brightly amid the rest of the garden. The earth rose up soft beneath us, our heavy shoes making no noise upon it. We floated along, hurrying. But as the tongue of ridge narrowed ever more and finally fell away steeply, we had left the garden. A couple of steps farther stood a pole with many signs in the middle of an empty clearing that pointed to a number of different directions. We had reached the country’s border. Two paths offered us a choice—one running along the border which had followed the crest to here, another which fell away from the border and ran a bit lower, and which was not as arduous and was better protected from the wind, though it stretched out in almost the same direction as the one that ran along the crest. I recommended to Anna that we take the easier one. She thanked me for being so considerate, yet I should have been the one to choose, not she, since the day belonged to me. I pointed ahead of me and set out on the path that ran along the border. Anna followed in silence. After a brief climb, we managed to scale the Zwercheck without halting. There then followed an easy stretch along the narrow seam and down the hillside, after a short while winding through the ample forest, first right, then left along the border markers. White and new and carefully spaced out, these marked one of the oldest borders on earth.