The Wall (9 page)

The wall keeps everything at a distance from me and also coalesces everything for me, depending on the side from which I approach it or from which it regards me. A wall that defines nothing and yet defines me. A wall that changes me more than I want to be changed. A wall that advises me and is also my adversary. Johanna’s ultimate explanation often made me wonder whether it could even convey or temper my beliefs. I tried to imagine if I could even think as far back as the first time the wall appeared. I never could. No matter how deeply I look inside, the wall has always been there, and when there’s no going back any further there stands the wall. For as long as there has been something in me that says “I,” so it has been, and for just as long there has always been for me this wall, that which separates, which is unique, that which does not seem as incurable in other people but which certainly threatens me with expulsion from the continuum. To go it alone, this desire, which so many people acknowledge, seems to me not worth remembering, for nothing is more certain to me than exactly that, since, even if I don’t wish to call it my curse, it is still my greatest burden. Whoever has a wall is a loner; whoever doesn’t have one would alone be able to take part in the continuum, able to know what is held in common. In all humility, I cannot say this is not a blessing, yet I don’t want to assert my desire for what has been closed off to me as an ideal true for all. But is the continuum that I dream indeed simply there, unquestionable and self-evident? This I don’t know. If one is not aware of the wall, is he then not a part of that which is self-evident and thus a part of the continuum? This I don’t know, either. Perhaps others who don’t worry about such things
are just part of the herd, are not individuals at all, and are not part of any continuum. Then Johanna would be right and those people would have no wall; they would just be a part of nature, a creature of contingency tossed back and forth in its element without knowledge of its limits, nourished by unknown currents, susceptible to the beat that moves one to dance.

No such beat, however, stirs or moves me, for I dance to my own drummer, always on the margin, the odd one out, the recalcitrant crank, and yet I’m not at all sure of being that blessed. This doesn’t make me despair but, instead, feel exposed, with no feeling of having been born of a woman. If I had just a single tiny picture of my mother, or perhaps just a picture of me as a child, then it would be easier for me to imagine myself a descendant with parents. I have no way of tracing the lineage of my features, for all those whose faces I have not seen for years exist only as a shadow without the help of a picture of them. Is that why I feel so distant from my mother? She has sunk away. I call out to her memory, but there is no answer, no echo resounds; as there was no mother for me, no one held me in her arms, rocking me and singing a lullaby. When I appeared, I was the same as I am today; what happened before remains unknown. No family home, no protected childhood, exists in my memory. Johanna was the first to teach me what that means—here are the parents, here the children, Michael and Eva dancing in a circle, then the mother enters. I look on. But where should I enter? When was it a part of my own upbringing? Can someone without a past of his own fulfill the present? The past, which helps Johanna and most people affirm their present, has left little within me and instead has left only instability, most of it being dead or, at a minimum, deaf and unreachable. Often, Johanna pleaded for me to describe my mother. To no avail, many words occurred to me, yet whatever I said turned out dry and empty, like a report from a file or an arid book. There is nothing comforting in such accounts, nothing that eases or fulfills me. I arrived, or so I say in horror at the paucity of my knowledge of my own birth; all I have is headlines, chains of letters linked together as part of an understanding that the heart cannot embrace. It’s not fear that prevents me from bridging the gulf but shame that holds me back from pressing the investigation further.

It is similar to the shyness I feel whenever I see a mother and father on the street with their offspring, one perhaps carried, another pushed in
a little stroller. Even then I wouldn’t dare mention birth and procreation; the children are just there, not created but, rather, having only arrived, after which they grow up fast, their clothes getting too small, though a veil remains drawn over where they have come from. The grown-ups wander about everywhere in ready-made fashion, having no link to the beginning. No matter how far back memory bores, it must still cease, a rupture occurring, though the abyss of such monstrous ignorance is not released, even by all the accumulated heights of learning. What drives the grown-ups to procreate is also well hidden and has nothing to do with parents and children. The animalistic ties between the sexes involve a particularly libidinal and amply documented yet insufficient knowledge, for it says nothing, is unknown to me, even if it so keenly informs the lives of ever so many wise men. When human beings associate with one another in general and in doing so do not think about sex, they only point to the ancient ties between them in familial terms, though they are hardly any less separated from one another than I am. They have their families, feel themselves to be family members, but even if they live alone they still protect the family legacy, even if it amounts to no more than shabby goods. Beyond this they have another gift, which I lack: they can hold the familial inside them, talk like father and mother, citing similarities and dissimilarities to each and telling the children about them.

If my little ones ask me, I come up with stories for them as well, for I don’t want to disappoint them, because the children’s only burden should be that they are my offspring, and nothing more. In their presence, of course, I try not to betray good old customs, as Johanna keeps an eye on me and offers some clever inspiration, hoping that this will do not only them but also me much good. I don’t want to disappoint Johanna, and so I play along as best I can. It’s not even particularly hard for me to assume the role of the father of the family. As soon as Johanna is nearby, or when I guess what she has in mind and how things are supposed to happen, all in order, one thing following another—the beloved run of the day, the morning jokes at breakfast, the walk to school, playtime with the children, a merry romp outside in the fresh air, the settling of a fierce dispute, reward and punishment meted out through praise and reproof, the end-of-day gathering together while saying prayers at night—it’s all easy for me to do and nimbly pull off,
any impediments being easily overcome. I have a reserve built up that is there for the goings-on around me, and which the children can tap, Johanna thanking me when I spoil Michael and Eva a little each day. Nothing within me, however, has changed through these riches; I have not changed as a result but, instead, have gathered together something that enables me to have something for those I love most, who should not have to suffer because of my own sorry state.

For years I was unaware that, for the most part, I terrorized others. I was naïve and had no idea how I hurt them, and even when I learned to recognize that I did, I still had no idea what caused it. Even Johanna didn’t at first recognize how odd I was, or misunderstood it. Later, it was she who with diligence and imperturbable patience helped me to see the offense I committed, until I learned to protect those around me, as well as myself, from my many outbursts. I had to consider the needs of my children, which helped to keep some things in good order, while Johanna arranged the rest. All of it helped me, since I worked hard to maintain a protective layer around me, which I called the storeroom of the indeterminate day. Never do I find myself entirely gathered up inside it; rarely am I even a guest, since I feel like a tenant who in exchange for his rent has won the right to put away the goods he’s brought along in an orderly fashion, so that this anteroom of my being almost becomes a completely fitted-out room. I dare enter it only with care, so that I don’t break anything or cause any damage, for none of it can be replaced. What has been stored there serves me with stubborn recalcitrance; it’s not good for much, for with my own strength I can hardly protect it from either friend or foe. No, it really cannot be maintained. If someone were to take it away, I would not even have the right to complain, for what is there transforms itself without my doing anything, especially as others mess about in this room and shift things around without my knowing. If I put it all back in place, I still know that other hands have left their traces.

Once again Johanna comes to the rescue, helping me clean out this room and carefully leading all who ask for me into this room, the visitors, being fooled for their own good, imagining that they have been led to me. Pictures of me hang in the room, pictures that speak, and which turn slowly and sway, swirling together as soon as someone looks at them and
asks something. This works rather well, and makes for a lovely impression, the people satisfied when they are received so. Yet, for me, relations with people are made easier through this, for while I remain hidden from them, silly goings-on full of empty babble and crumbly creases prevail in a rented room. Thus I find it bearable, even when I know that all of it together, what at least lets me think it is me myself, is nothing but an artificial agglomeration of leftovers and flotsam, patches and strange decorations, a bunch of smoke and mirrors for which I should be held accountable, or, at least, as far as I can answer for it.

Perhaps I’m only a vestige of myself, borrowed goods, hearsay; certainly that must be so. In a prehistory difficult to explore, there must have been something—or should I say someone?—which was me, a person, supposedly a person with an ordinary birth, with a childhood, sprouting up tall, as well as making a step-by-step exploration of his neighborhood, where everything became a part of himself and helped him discover his essential nature. Back then he felt connected, sensing within himself a free spirit that could bound across the lawn, propelling him forward, he blindly plunging into childhood’s flood tide, learning, in fact, to forget for a moment, then awakening down below in the depths before emerging again with the densely probing urge of his accumulating thirst for action, experiences of sweet sins and sweeter virtues, wanting his own history, his … his! That would probably have been me, crammed together with others like me for whom my talk meant something and resounded, to whom I could talk, you and I cavorting like polliwogs in the large pickle jar in the schoolyard, followed by the teacher’s magical whistle, the charming bustle of schoolchildren swallowed up by the school’s main gate, then into the classrooms, two by two in four rows, quickly folded into desks in order to be tamed, subordinate next to subordinate, surreptitious rebellion dared, then quickly brought to task through punishment, a heart subdued, the fundamentals—reading, writing, arithmetic, the famous dependable laws of nature—all of it developed and prepared for the curious mind. That was me, one among others, dressed properly, believing what I was taught, the examples given. How wonderful to compete at one’s studies and participate, the hands going up, wide-open eyes shining, drinking in the alluring bits of wisdom while listening unabated, me taking it all in unquestioningly.

That was me, belonging to the others, not separate; through the bonds of community I was carried along and was allowed to feel and know myself. Family, friends, and country—the kinship of all creation before the Creator prepared me well, my delight in the joy of all creation incorporating me into the realm of the living and of all things, feeling fulfilled and able to join in without worry. How everything around me gleamed as I called out and felt affirmed by the echo. I suffered no damage, not even when a shadow crossed my brow and my hands covered my eyes in darkness, or when, suddenly, a sharp pain gripped me for a moment that seemed to stretch on forever and yanked me from the agreeable surround, though soon such suffering came to an end, and I was welcomed back into the fold.

The years of my first investigations passed, and doubts began to punch holes in the dense web of that pure realm. Yet I didn’t grow weak, but instead applied myself and became stronger, powerfully engaged, uplifted, and humbled, as I suffered and rejoiced, all the doubts only enriching me. Those years helped me grow, childhood and youth stripped away, mistakes and achievements building my character, myself able to stroll through good and bad nights, to sink into loneliness, to formulate the murky question of justice, to recognize the difference between similar creatures, such that I laid claim to a measure of judgment as well as a view of a world created for my sake, in which with proud humility I confidently placed myself at the top. Always I remained on track; I was not destroyed, nothing able to force from me the confession that I did not exist.

How, then, after such a promising start did I come to my downfall? How did all certainty cease, such that I came to believe that I was only what others saw me as and I didn’t know myself any longer? No particular set of developments, no specific harm, or any kind of sickness reduced me to such poverty—not poverty, for I would have been poor no matter what, but, rather, plunged into confusion and reduced to nothing! It didn’t happen because of anything I did, nor did it suddenly mushroom, such that I couldn’t help seeing that I was losing my moorings. No, I kept my wits; I believed in myself and did not notice for a long time that I had disappeared. Yet, indeed, that is what had happened.

What lies between the time when I was me and now, when this is no longer true? This cannot be completely forgotten, but it resists being articulated,
for it digs in, puts up borders that cannot be crossed. I feel that one does not die within, that it comes from without, as one is suddenly or stealthily taken away. And then there are those who have power and, behind their wrinkles, will. They say, “Him there? No, he doesn’t exist. We did away with him already.” Pleading protests are raised against them, but no weapon in defense. You are simply hunted down, but you don’t admit it. Instead, you hobble along, legless and missing your head, through suffocating and impassable neighborhoods. Laws are proclaimed which maintain that this is not possible. You are simply confused, because you are dead and present yourself as a dead mistake, a vestige of yourself amid the funeral march of the frozen ghosts in their dance of death. Yet, because the masters of this world are so concerned with their own power, they don’t notice the whirring, and so they patiently choose to consider this rush of bodies nothing more than the day’s residue. They know it will come to nothing; it’s not worth the effort to deny those who have been expunged the last throes of their dance of death, as it will be finished by the break of day. I’m not saying this is what happened to me; it was probably quite different, this being only a depiction of my dissolution, perhaps a small part of the picture. It’s an unfit allegory. The entrance into the loss of one’s essence cannot be made visible, for memory digs its way into horrid trenches, downfall and downtrodden, the fallen remaining, not all dead, but the arisen are also extinguished, their being wiped out behind pale hungry eyes, each living in want, even when they are awake and appear everywhere, speaking words that cannot be heard. Done away with and hauled off, and yet composed, and yet still there. Thus they are, but am I among them? How so … me …?