The Wall (11 page)

The man looked at me appalled, his mouth open, he not knowing what to say. When I asked him once again to come with me, that there was little time left, he ever so lightly tapped me on the forehead, said something inaudible as apology, turned on his heel, and left without saying goodbye. “It’s me! It’s me! Why are you running off! I didn’t mean to upset you.” But the man didn’t turn around and had already disappeared. Nor did I hear anyone calling out again the name of my father or my name; instead, strangers flowed on by me without a care, none of them concerned as I looked around
helplessly in all directions, wondering if anyone else might indeed recognize me, though in vain.

There was nothing else for me to do but venture on and look for my father unannounced. Hopefully, he wasn’t out front in the shop but out back in the office or in the workroom or the storeroom. Then from behind the counter a salesclerk would ask in a friendly voice if I needed any help, most likely not one of the old ones but someone new. I would then take the salesclerk aside and tell him that I was the younger Herr Landau—indeed, just take a look, it’s me, though I’ve changed quite a bit, the long war, though I’m fit as a fiddle, but you don’t have to worry about your job, for I’m just a meager scholar and no salesman, since I don’t know anything about selling clothes. But, please, just go back and tell my father that I’m here. Prepare him for it carefully, for I don’t want the shock to kill him! Just tell him that a gentleman wishes to speak with him, and make sure to tell him it’s no stranger but someone he knows, so that he slowly comes to experience a wonderful surprise, rather than him thinking that the dead have risen from the grave, as used to happen in the old days, though if you think about it, such an event is not that pleasant to think about. Go to my father and carefully let him know that someone wants to see him! And, once he’s listened to it all and is curious enough to push you to the side and walk out to the front, take him by the hand, making sure that he doesn’t hurry, and then tell him very quietly so that he understands: Herr Landau, it’s someone who knows you very well, a friend. It’s Arthur, your son.

That’s what I imagined would happen as, with eyes blinking, I quietly crept forward. I had already crossed the Römerstrasse on the old familiar way home to my parents’ apartment, and I was already at the baskets of fruit and nuts eagerly displayed by the Kutscheras. I shoved my way past the crowd of customers and saw that today my father had closed early, the shutters all down, only the large display window still left uncovered. I didn’t dare go any closer, because I was already terrified to see that the shelves were empty—no shirts, no beautifully appointed goods, nothing behind the pane coated with a thick layer of dust, only the empty depths of the showroom and its closed display cases, past which I could gaze into the pooling twilight of the shop’s depths, all the way back to the counter and even as far as the very hazy shelves behind it full of boxes. I pressed against the
neglected pane, closed my eyes for a little while to make sure that I simply wasn’t seeing things, then opened them again to spy what was before me. But everything was real. Or was it? Was I standing there? Was this the old shop in the Reitergasse? Why had I let myself become confused, and why had I wandered here? Hadn’t an inner voice warned against ever returning to this city, as it no longer held any trace of home or anything good, both of which would be easier to find elsewhere than in a place from a past that had disappeared?

There I stood in front of a wall, my gaze sinking into the tidy little realm that my father had run for so many years with diligent work, and now it stood empty, not even a stranger having moved in. The window was too dusty for me to see whether the counter and the shelves really were still in their old locations. I stood up on my toes, wiped the windowpane, but it was covered with dust on the inside. In order to have a better view, I jumped up and down a few times, but this also failed, me feeling ashamed in case the Kutscheras or anyone passing by had seen my foolishness and thought of me as a dog whining before his dead father’s house. He was not there; there was nothing to be found here. A final glance confirmed that the shop’s sign had disappeared. Only the empty frame, whose glass had broken, loomed. There was no sign to read.

I wanted to get away as fast as I could. Wherever everything was lost, every moment disappeared. If I wanted to find out where my father was, it would be better to check elsewhere, be it with relatives or friends, but perhaps best of all at home, not in the Reitergasse. My father was already an old man, which had not occurred to me. He was now way past seventy, and therefore he would have preferred to close the business rather than sell it to a stranger. That would have pained him to no end. Instead, he had decided to rest and enjoy what he had earned. He had always looked ahead to a comfortable old age and wanted to have a large garden on the edge of the city, where he could build a little hut to get away to on the weekends in order to be closer to his flowers on warm, lovely days, his greenhouse full of exotic plants and his beloved cacti. I needed to hurry home, where Father would be meeting Mother on such a lovely evening when the strawberries were ripening, though neither would be expecting me. If it so happened they were away, I could leave a message with the porter and ask him where I could find the garden, and then hurry on to it as fast as I could.

But that’s not the way it worked out at all, for I couldn’t convince myself that the hope of seeing my father again in front of the shop in the Reitergasse was entirely useless. I also couldn’t help thinking that it was a long way home, and that Mother would have no clue that I’d be arriving. I had not shaved in days, and I had been gone for years. A father would understand that, for he would think of the war, but it wouldn’t be right to show up in front of my mother old and haggard, tired and dirty, in a tattered uniform and clunky shoes. To call home with a voice composed would be the best, or to ask Frau Kutschera to help me out. Unfortunately, the Kutscheras were not very pleasant people, but as an unexpected arrival I could hope for a little courtesy. In any case, it made the most sense to ask at the fruit stand, for hanging about in front of Father’s shop made no sense and was depressing. As always, the Kutscheras had a lot of customers who didn’t at first step into the shop but instead lingered outside on the street. The couple and the two harried salesgirls had their hands full and no time to keep an eye on each individual customer. It all happened fast, but whoever wanted to be served did better to call out loud what he wanted, rather than wait outside and expect to be served. But how should I make my presence known? I stood among the group of shifting customers, all of whom were trying to be served next. Their number hardly shrank, for there were always new people arriving as soon as others withdrew. Nonetheless, I remained hopeful and stood there very patiently, believing that one of the Kutscheras would notice me, though it was a salesgirl who finally looked at me with concern, because it bothered her that I kept peering in at the Kutscheras. No, I said, I didn’t need any help. I quickly shifted my glance, and the young girl turned on her heel to help someone else.

Something had to happen. After some dithering, I decided that it was better to approach Herr Kutschera rather than his shrewish wife, whom my father always hated to deal with whenever he had to again complain about the garbage that would end up in front of his door. And yet I also didn’t want to ambush Herr Kutschera with a question out of the blue. If I bothered him with questions that he found disturbing, he wouldn’t want anything to do with me. What I needed to do was make him curious and buy just a little something in order to get on his good side.

“Herr Kutschera, two kilos of your best apples!”

The vendor looked up quickly when I said his name, but he didn’t recognize
me and just pointed gruffly at a sign that said, “Only One Kilo Per Customer.” Ashamed, I called out, “Oh, then one kilo!” Kutschera ripped off a bag from a bundle that hung down, slid his hand in, then blew into the bag, grabbed some apples, quickly threw them onto a scale with its trays clattering, and briskly switched apples in and out until the exact weight was achieved.

“Herr Kutschera, do you recognize me?”

He looked up again. His gaze didn’t reveal that someone he knew stood before him. But he didn’t worry any more about it and just busied himself again with the apples and the scale. What was I to him?

“No.”

Sullenly he busied himself with the apples. The kilo refused to come to the exact weight. I needed to help Herr Kutschera out.

“It can be a bit more than a kilo, it doesn’t matter.”

“Didn’t you read the sign? To hell with your stupid trick!”

“Oh dear, forgive me! Before the war I came here often.”

“And so did many others!” he snapped, closing the paper bag and holding it out to me, waiting for the money in exchange. Frau Kutschera, who was busy with other customers, was already bothered by my talk and muttered angrily to herself as she shot me a dirty look, but that was all it took, for her curiosity won out as she scrutinized me more closely, then was suddenly so taken by surprise that a scoop full of hazelnuts fell from her hand, the tiny balls bouncing all over the ground.

“Jesus Mary, the young Herr Landau is alive!”

With this exclamation I was only partway there, as the woman stared at me a little while longer. Then she abandoned me for her customers and left me to her husband, who also thought he now recognized me. His bleary eyes looked me over with suspicion.

“Is it really you?”

I didn’t care for this question, though I pulled myself together and laughed away the feeling of revulsion rising within me.

“Of course, Herr Kutschera. I’ve just arrived, and right away I wanted some of your apples.”

“How flattering. Indeed, your father bought these same apples. The very same.”

“Now he grows his own in the garden outside the city, right?”

“In his garden?”

Herr Kutschera said this so loud that his wife again pricked up her ears. But why didn’t he say anything more? Confused, he just stared at me blankly. It looked to me as if he wanted to say something, or perhaps he was thinking hard what to say. Or was he just stunned and at a complete loss? His silence was painful to witness; all I wanted was for one of us to say something.

“Tell me, Herr Kutschera, did my father give you the address?”

“What address?”

“His, of course. I just got back from the war and want to head out to see Father.”

“That’s not possible, Herr Landau. The old man … went off … also to the war.…”

“At his age?”

“Even at his age. Terrible, don’t you think?”

“And hasn’t returned? Back to his garden? Not even now?”

Herr Kutschera picked a bad apple from a basket, turned it playfully in his hand, and looked at me as if I were mad. Quietly he shook his head, his low brow shrinking between his fat cheeks and his forehead. He was thinking something, but it was something sad, because his eyes grew damp, he finally wiping his nose on his shirtsleeve. Then he cleared his throat.

“I don’t know what happened to your father. No one knows, no one here. I never saw him again. I can’t help you. He was a good man.”

“A good man!” Frau Kutschera called out as well, she now having twice as much to do as before, since her husband wasn’t taking care of business.

There was nothing I was going to get from these people, and I didn’t believe a word they said. How could they know anything? Since my father had retired from business, he was loath to cast an eye on the Reitergasse. There was nothing more for him to do here, and he certainly didn’t want to look at the empty shop any longer, while Kutschera’s was the last place he wanted to buy any fruit beyond that which he grew himself.

“Thank you. What do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” Herr Kutschera turned red and looked more stricken. “For old friends, it’s my honor. Please do me the honor again!”

I thanked him, though I couldn’t help feeling that it wasn’t right. As I said goodbye, Frau Kutschera also called out to me.

“Be well, Herr Landau! Be well! Goodbye!”

She meant well, perhaps, but her screeching voice left my ears burning, thereby causing me to hurry off as if I knew where I was headed, the apples under my arm for which Herr Kutschera had not gotten anything. I didn’t dare look at Father’s shop again and stormed through the Reitergasse. I didn’t want to see anyone or be recognized by anyone. It was clear to me that the people in this neighborhood couldn’t tell me anything about my father. I had to first gather myself together and settle down before I made any more decisions about how to go about searching for my father. Then I reached the Karolinenweg, where there were loads of people walking along together in two cumbersome but swiftly moving streams by which one was relentlessly carried along unless one pressed tight against a store window or fled into one of the wide entryways. The cramped sidewalk threatened to burst with workers pouring from the offices into the streets. The workday was done, most of the businesses closing.

Thus I let myself be freely carried along until I came to the corner of the quiet Helfergasse. I extracted myself from the compact flow of impatient people moving along the Karolinenweg—it taking a while before I had freed myself—and finally was able to stop and catch my breath. The flood of people had not done me any good, it being all too much to take in, and I was hungry besides. How lucky, I said to myself, that I have Herr Kutschera’s apples with me, for they’ll taste good. Yet the moment I opened the skillfully folded bag I immediately felt that it would be better to just give them all away, for I had no right to be tasting forbidden fruit. Adam, Adam, don’t take a bite, mind what you do, and do what’s right! Danger is afoot, evil comes to no good. My father was always an honest man, his basic principles unshakable, and by which he conducted his business. There was nothing sleazier than a vendor who sold his goods under false pretenses. I was ashamed of the apples, which I could feel round and firm inside the bag that was painfully pressed between my chest and my upper arm. If only there were a beggar who could mercifully take them, a pale child whom I could give the apples to! But no one passed by to whom I could give the strange goods. If I wasn’t going to leave them sitting on the next wall, I had to hold on to them. I tried to take comfort in the idea that my father, in order to keep good relations with Herr Kutschera and his wife, had many times given them little gifts, such as a bunch of handkerchiefs for Christmas,
now and then a tie, sometimes gloves or a colorful scarf. Certainly Kutschera had thought of these gifts when seeing me after such a long time, his conscience bothering him, and he was glad that he could do something for the father via his son.