The Wall (66 page)

The thought of seeing Bergmann—now Birch—again was pleasing to me; even today I will admit that there are few people whom I have felt closer to. He was always the essence of life itself. Franziska beamed whenever she saw him, for he was dazzling, a tireless source of energy, full of good humor that ranged from light kidding to exuberant jokes. Oswald’s life force seemed inexhaustible and hardly allowed for sleep, he seeming always fresh and infecting Franziska and me with his beaming alertness. If you spent an entire day and half the night talking with him, you didn’t feel tired afterward, but instead always pleased and stimulated. Once we spent a summer with him in the south, Inge also joining us, a spirited, dazzling creature, delicate and beautiful. She liked us and we liked her, and we could all talk with one another endlessly. She wrote short poems about the landscape, acerbic and sometimes brash formulations that she thought very good, more so than her nearly fantastic stories in which the relentless unfolding of the plot was forwarded
through surprisingly witty occurrences, all of it expressed in tautly rendered sentences. Also pleasantly exciting were her children’s books, from which she earned enough to allow her to live modestly and give small amounts to Oswald when he needed money. However, that summer trip two years before the war began unfortunately ended not only our relationship with Inge but also with Oswald. They rarely wrote to us anymore, and then we heard that they had happily gone abroad. Soon I lost all trace of them. Then, a few months after the war ended, when I, prodded by Peter, tried to reconnect with any former contact I could remember, I also reached out to Oswald after So-and-So sent greetings from him in his second letter. I was still reluctant to do so, because Inge had never responded to Franziska’s letter years ago, but when I later told Anna about Bergmann her face lit up immediately with joy as I had never seen it before; it was the charm of his personality, which affected anyone who ever met him. Anna informed me that she had once happened to hear him give a lecture on a subject far outside her field. She had been dragged along to it, Bergmann having spoken about Neolithic marbled ceramics, but how interesting and terrific it was, much of it still memorable to this day, particularly the technique of scoring the surface, stringing bands of clay, and incised adornments. Bergmann had explained it so clearly that one could never forget it, an unusual occurrence. Anna was so full of this person that she felt compelled to see him again, and, through a fleeting acquaintance with a woman, she was able to gain entrance to a gathering to which Bergmann had been invited. Thus Anna spent an evening in his company and was even able to speak with him. “He is the sun itself; you have to write to him for sure!” That was at least what Anna felt.

So I wrote Oswald a long letter while Anna’s story was still fresh in my mind. It was a confession of all that had happened in the past years; I had never opened up to another person so candidly and in a manner so heartfelt. I didn’t just inform him about what had happened but, rather, explained it to him, presenting matters to him in such a way that it would be clear to anyone, despite our having experienced different fates. I also wrote him a lot about Franziska, something which today I doubly regret, for it not only lies closest to my inner being but also amounted to a transparent depiction of the unforgettable, which I never succeeded in doing again. When
I, soon after arriving in the metropolis, asked to borrow the letter, Oswald promised to give it to me, but then couldn’t find it. At the end of the letter I had let my friend know, which unfortunately back then I did not shun, my present situation through oblique hints so that he might understand what I needed—namely, help through a bit of attentiveness, a path into the future. But I never got an answer, neither from him nor from Inge, while inquiries in letters to So-and-So were ignored or fleetingly addressed. Only once did I receive a passing greeting from a traveler, who could tell me little about Oswald, since he never really knew him. My friend had merely told him to look me up and had told him about knowing me just in case it might be of use to him.

Anna found Bergmann’s silence off-putting, and she could hardly understand, for such an adorable person surely had to be loyal as well, and everything she knew about him said that he was simple and humble. Now she regretted that she had turned down an invitation to see him again because Hermann had been jealous, she being foolish and young, and in fact she never did see Bergmann again, though he had never escaped her thoughts. I should just be patient, or write again, my letter simply must have been lost. Should I try again? Everything inside me resisted doing so. I just told myself at first that Oswald had always been a terrible correspondent. What had to be shared with others he passed on through acquaintances, while anything intimate or important he had Inge deliver whenever possible. Indeed, he had hardly ever written to me before the war, preferring instead to send a telegram or, better yet, to call me out of the blue, while whatever I should have received in black-and-white was always written by Inge. I reproached him for this once and remember how he, as charmingly as always, roguishly smiled as he replied, “That you dare to complain, that takes the cake! I’ve raised a writer in my family who is fabulous, and you don’t even appreciate it.”

But I also remember Oswald talking more seriously about this matter. He loved to receive letters, he explained, but because of the wall that existed between people who communicated through writing he could never bring himself to reply. Correspondence had become an ever more all-consuming black hole. Something written should be taken as valid, and that he believed in very much, but with this validity came a continual danger, for then everything
was set in stone and there might never be the chance to retract something, this being an ordeal that easily led to persecution. Words followed one, and therefore, he had to admit, even if it was honorable to keep up a correspondence, he could not do it and would rather remain dishonorable in this respect. In general, he said then, the age of letter writing was over for good. Modern communications (and the means for it, such as the telegraph, the telephone, and the radio) made the possibility of human interaction much easier, though, seemingly, in reality they distance us from one another much more and create chasms that open in quick-fire fashion, whereby the old bridges that spanned them are destroyed without being replaced, the near becomes the far, and all human beings are separated from one another. As soon as Oswald gave up writing letters, he felt a sense of loss that personally caused him also to feel a new loneliness that within a few decades would be felt in general.

In those days I declined to accept this, nor did I even entirely grasp what he was saying; only later did I come to appreciate that there was a grain of truth in such a renouncement. Already, back then, I was worried by the notion, which beclouded my own hopes, that technical means, rather than easing the communication between people, actually increased the distance between them. I was never a fan of civilizing wizardry in society, but my faith in the basic goodness of human nature had not yet dimmed. I wasn’t ready to demonize an invention that had practical applications, but, above all, I didn’t see that such inventions would inevitably threaten certain aspects in human history that had always been considered assured, if not exactly destroying them, such that traditional values would be threatened or forsaken, whereby moral behavior would be hard to delineate and often insoluble problems would arise, and that finally—as I would express it today—each great discovery, or at least its useful application, would be ripped from the tree of knowledge and therefore mercilessly drive human beings even further away from Paradise and ever further away from the original Paradise. Oswald’s talk prompted me to disagree, and I dared to raise my strong doubts about his views, for which I was dismissed with a wave of the hand and an oblique smile.

It must be lovely, he declared firmly, to relive the centuries gone by with such hope and sincerity, and it’s one of your more touching characteristics.
Oswald hoped that I would always maintain what he called, to my annoyance, such idealism. But, unfortunately, he didn’t believe in it; anything that shook one to the core, or a devastating disaster, could finish off such a noble creature. I didn’t agree with this disconcerting praise and asked him pointedly whether he would indeed not answer me personally if it ever involved a really important letter that was about a matter of life and death. Indeed, I had chosen some passionate words. Immediately, his wry smile disappeared and he became quite serious. No, there was no need to worry about that, for if he didn’t write any other person in the world he would in fact write to me in such an emergency, for such need on my part had to be honored, and therefore he would certainly answer me. He asked only that I not become impatient when it took some time, for it required a great effort for him to gather his thoughts. He explained all this much more at length and with long repetitions, which was not his usual manner, thus resulting in a firm and clear, even sinuous speech. Nonetheless, his word didn’t feel sound to me; I was not certain of his promise. He could sense that, and so looked at me and assured me, “Arthur, I know that an unanswered letter can result in a murder. I’m not a murderer, and you are my friend.”

Oswald was not a murderer, that was clear to me, but his neglecting to answer my letter felt as if he were. So-and-So’s empty responses annoyed me, while the same traveler that Oswald had bedecked with his greetings to me blabbed on like a know-it-all when he had me show him the museum, which annoyed me. Though I couldn’t hold it against Oswald for long, it becoming ever more clear to me with time what I loved about him; from him I expected a completely different understanding and courtesy than from the rest of the foreigners abroad, whose image had faded for me or whose behavior I was hurt by. I had to make contact with him; it was the utmost test of whether I was good for anything. After some time, I felt it would be right to compose a second letter to him. It needed to be something special and began, “You are not a murderer,” and at the end I wanted to write, “If you don’t answer, then you’re a murderer!” But I decided against that, not knowing if my words would resonate within his excellent memory. Instead, I got Inge’s address from So-and-So and sent her a letter asking if she had any news for me, as I didn’t wish to bother Oswald, but perhaps she could write to me in his or even her own name, as I really needed to hear that
things were well with her and Oswald—all I needed was a few lines—and if perhaps the two of them had any advice for me if I happened to be successful in making it over to the metropolis. Meanwhile, the weeks stretched on and I waited for Inge’s answer in vain.

Alas, such waiting wore me down and almost broke me! The days crept by. Three times daily the mailman commenced his fateful journey through the neighborhood, it being unclear to me what filled his bag when he had nothing but gas and electric bills, coal bills, official notices, useless flyers, circulars, publisher’s catalogs, subscription offers, or needy appeals from charity organizations, or generally decrepit and useless mail that I had no idea what to do with. Meanwhile, important news that arrived and spoke to one’s humanity, saying you, I mean you, out of which something announced itself and from flat paper a figure rose that you knew, whereby you existed, such seemed hardly to be had any longer. Or at least it wasn’t so for me, nor has it changed for me much to this day.

No, Inge had done nothing to give me even the satisfaction of a few lines. Perverse defiance rose within me, causing me to pine for news from Oswald. I was shameless enough to ask the beleaguered So-and-So whether he could help me out with Oswald or Inge, but So-and-So just ignored my question. Letters cut into emptiness; also, whoever picks them up and reads them is lost in them, shaking off those silent expressions, unwilling to take pity on the matters raised within them. Then you write something, the sentences going on in a nauseating manner with their bleak accounts and painful demands, divided up neatly into questions and answers, though there is nothing within them, as you hold the paper up to the light in the hope of something jumping out, or waft the sheet in the air in vain, there being only a rustling sound but not a single living word. Even someone such as myself, who has learned the art of reading between the lines, will not be satisfied as he anxiously reads on with choking thirst. Such a game of silence seemed to me so dumb, and so I confronted So-and-So:

“Please write to me about what’s going on with Oswald, or, if you prefer, how Dr. Birch and Fräulein Bergmann are, what they are doing, whether or not they received my letters??? Why haven’t they answered at all? Do I not exist? Or am I nothing but thin air to them both? Do they think I’ve kicked the bucket? And why don’t you tell me anything when I’ve asked you to? Are
you only reading a part of my letters? Do I have to always read your lengthy missives telling me what I’m supposed to do for you with the horrid Dr. Blecha, that slimy little attorney, and others? If I want something, why is it that you must deliberately ignore it? Oh, please don’t be angry that I am so upset, but it’s gradually become too much for me to experience nothing but despair! If you only knew, my friend, how the situation with Oswald Bergmann upsets me and makes me unhappy, you would do something about it today! I know your good will toward me. So tell the two of them that I feel I’ve been forgotten by them when they don’t answer me. A letter left unanswered can be tantamount to a murder! Take care of this!”

So-and-So would have to feel compelled to do something, but all he gave in return was small nuggets of information:

“Above all, I would ask you not to be so high-handed. The matter of Dr. Blecha (I’m enclosing a note with some instructions for him) should really be a boon for you. It’s as much in your interest as it is in mine. I believe it would be better for me not to acknowledge your misgivings about him—no hard feelings. Now, to your being so wildly keyed up. Here people have a different temperament; they are measured and reserved. We, too, have had to get used to that. If you press a matter, which is exactly what you’re doing, you don’t get anywhere, especially when it comes to friendship. You write, ‘A letter left unanswered can be tantamount to a murder!’ Ridiculous! Have you gone mad? If I were to share such—forgive me—balderdash with Birch, of all people, I would certainly get an earful. For letters he has neither sight nor inclination, and such heavy-handed blackmail will only hurt you with him. Nonetheless, because of your pressing lines I have gone to Birch and made your wishes clear to him, but in softer terms. After all these years, he still likes you, and he’s your friend. You don’t have to doubt his approval. He has spoken of you with such warmth, which he is amply capable of toward you. A letter to him and one to his sister have arrived safely. You shouldn’t have any worries about that. Both are healthy. Birch is working on his atlas of cave drawings throughout the world and is more and more busy. It should be a great work. He and his sister seem fairly happy, send their greetings to you, and will be happy for you to come here. Birch says that he cannot write to you because it would upset him too much to do so. When I suggested that perhaps his sister could write on his behalf, he promised to arrange
that, but she, too, has much to do. She’s working on a new children’s book that Karin will illustrate in order to try to make ends meet and perhaps one day be able to leave dentistry behind. But that is just a plan. Please, don’t mention any of this in your response, for it will only upset Karin, for it’s still highly speculative, and she is also superstitious. Birch also let me know that I shouldn’t promise that you’ll get any letter from his sister, either. Then he expressed his surprise (this I’m sharing with you in confidence) that you were still alive. What he pretty much said was “I would not have wagered one red cent that such a tender type as Arthur would have pulled through!” My reply was “You have seriously underestimated him!” He then said, and he was quite serious, “Of course, I know that!”