The Wall (79 page)

I could neither renew myself nor feel secure through contact with old or new friends without them feeding upon me, even if they did not intend to. My situation was iffy and also remained so, but the uncertainty of my standing was first made evident through my friends, because they found me ridiculous and did not appreciate the potential within me. That which was questionable about me became all the more questionable. That which was barely contained within itself they tore apart, dissolving it into nothingness until it was unrecognizable, and, fool that I was, for a long time I could not let myself draw near to people, or, better yet, let them draw close to me, without the last wisp of security having been wrested from me
and my existence destroyed. However, it was, in fact, this uncertainty that I couldn’t come to terms with, and which overexerted my willpower and led to a transformation in my condition. Before the collapse of most of my failed relations, my brief contact with the churlish Konirsch-Lenz finally revealed my outer ambitions in the face of his insanity, and I decided from then on to avoid anything that could possibly cause a person to undermine his own sense of self-worth.

It would have been easier if I had resigned myself to this much earlier, but for too long I lacked the courage, as well as the intelligence, to do so. I had been too enamored of myself—and that is wrong, as long as your inclination is to zealously seek your sense of self-worth among people you either love too little or not at all. That I came to this bit of wisdom by forfeiting my own existence! He who perseveres night and day, who lives and goes on in this way, feels the general misery of every born person infinitely heightened if he—if I—feels within himself the loss of his essence. I had hoped for too much, wanted too much that was not possible. But in my situation there was only one option: to continue on and wait for a moment of grace. Eagerness, vanity, concern for Johanna, worries about money had for so long kept me on the wrong path; I was in a panic, of which only the horribleness of a Konirsh-Lenz was able to cure me. Nonetheless, it was clear that if I let myself be consumed by fear our meager means would soon be entirely exhausted. I saw my wife and children starving, while I stood by without acknowledging or doing anything about it. Something had to happen. Not that I had to submit to the will of my foolish or heartless or two-faced advisers and supposed benefactors—no, not at all. But, still, something had to happen. I had too little faith in my unconquerable powerlessness to feel that I could handle it skillfully. Thus I was three or four steps behind the eight ball, all of which meant that the attainment of a middle-class life was unlikely. That first year was a time full of hopelessness in which, at first, something had been promised, but after that came the time in which I had to realize that a victory amid the storm was forbidden me, after which I struggled to find the right situation for my intellectual pursuits at any price and to get past all impediments.

I whistled louder and now walked much more slowly. Before me was a little park in which I saw a red telephone booth and stopped. With disgust,
I thought of the charlatans who were the cause of my forlorn wanderings, and whom I should call up in order to report the miserable fruits they had brought me. Eberhard S. was probably the most pitiful of all those I had dealt with. A tall fat man with the pale face of a child and a monocle on a little black tether. Eberhard S. now and then gave somewhat public lectures, Otto once having persuaded me to go along with him to hear this man whom he did not know personally but who fascinated him. Eberhard S. spoke on the theme of “The Sorrows and Pleasures of Loneliness,” and I got myself involved in the discussion that followed. The lecturer spoke to me afterward, praising my comments, asking for my telephone number, calling two days later, visiting us, and inviting me to call on him. He presented himself as a doctor twice over, the fool presuming to be a medical doctor and a sociologist. He was perhaps a medical doctor, though a terrible one who performed his quackery with questionable cures and surrounded himself with a great hubbub, though he was certainly no sociologist. My first impression of the windbag was indeed bad, nor was Johanna impressed with him, but with a great deal of flattery and promises he lured me into his plan for a psychological-sociological journal, such that I accepted his offer despite all that my previous misadventures should have told me. I was supposed to be the general editor, at first with no salary but with all my expenses covered, but as soon as the journal was launched, which could only be a question of months, I would then be well paid. Eberhard S., who had chosen the name
Eusemia
as a “good sign” for his venture, was the publisher and editor, and wanted a propagator, author, and, especially, a recruiter to bring on talented colleagues. He sent me to printers, to news agents, bookstores, advertising agencies, and to many personalities in order to do something for
Eusemia
, during which I met with nothing but hassle and only rarely got anything worthwhile accomplished. Despite all this, by hook and by crook some issues of the ill-fated journal actually appeared in fitful starts. I could be pleased that only his name was at all involved, while my contributions remained unsigned or carried a pseudonym.

Eusemia
was stillborn from the start, and for months I had devoted my working hours and free days and often nights, until I was exhausted by the effort to get the venture off the ground. I didn’t receive a single penny for my efforts, and even had to contribute a substantial part of my own expenses
to it. When Eberhard S. said one day with careless flippancy, and as a spur to me, that it had finally gone too far, and that I should be publicly acknowledged as the general editor, since sales of a large print run were assured, the next issue, thank God, never made it beyond proofs, because the business was mired in debt. Eberhard S. had not paid the printer for the previous issue, and the printer refused to print the new one without receiving cash payment for it. Nor did any other printer want to take on the job, which brought this senseless venture to an end, myself all the poorer for the sake of such hopes and with any number of essays and book reviews to burn for fuel. Eberhard S. couldn’t pay anyone for their articles, and I had to write more than anyone else, while he continued building castles in the air, though very few of the articles were any good—nothing but wordy, pompous gibberish against whose publication I fought, or which I had to revise for content and style. In order to fill the issue, we made use of reprints when they were given to us free.

After the collapse of
Eusemia
, I felt completely lost for the first time and had to keep quiet about my disaster in order not to harm my reputation. I said nothing to anyone in regard to veiled allusions about the mockery of this venture. I told So-and-So a bit more, but as soon as he heard the name Eberhard S. he grew furious. I should have nothing to do with this no-good liar, who was not a credible person, and who years ago had plans for a journal called
Eusemia
, and in the process had pulled the wool over the eyes of many people, including Oswald Birch. So-and-So had given him, in order to support what seemed a worthwhile undertaking, an article to use. To this day, he had never received a response. Supposedly it was meant to serve intellectually starved men over there, who, presumably, lapped up vast amounts of indoctrination, to give them some scholarly and cultural-political content so that they had something to read, so that after having made so many fateful errors they could find their way again. Because of such shady dealings that good man was ruined, nor could he ever again show himself in respectable company.

I was hardly inclined to believe everything So-and-So said, and thus ignored all his warnings, for I only took them as a sign of his jealousy. I made it look as if I was convinced of the truth of his words, said nothing more about the journal, and drifted off into my misery. The concern that
Johanna raised was minimal, and when she saw how I blossomed with enthusiasm for this work she hoped, despite her fears, that it would all come to good. Therefore Johanna went easy on me, and I held her responsible for this after everything went wrong. I was unappeasable and bitter, but she spoke to me sweetly and helped me get through this deep disappointment. That, in the process of this misfortune, I had forfeited any outward chance at security she could not indeed deny, but with her help we were finally able to move on nonetheless.

Then the fourth, most desolate phase of my life in the metropolis began. Prior to this, my health had grown so bad because of the exhausting work I did for
Eusemia;
I became so weak that I would fall asleep at my desk, while at night I could hardly sleep at all. I was much in need of rest and recuperation and agreed with Johanna when she said it could not go on like this any longer. Then Betty came for a visit and was shocked at my condition. She wanted to take me straight back with her to South Wales, but since I couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from Johanna, Betty invited both of us. After Johanna made all the necessary arrangements in order to be able to continue with the work she had taken in while we were away, we left for two months. By the time we returned I was feeling much better, yet I was still so weak that I would get exhausted after working for just a brief while. I have never produced so little work as I did in those days. I grew more and more discouraged, and ever more cranky, getting angry without the slightest reason and burdening Johanna, whom I, weak and powerless, would remind, with the tormenting passion of my misery at the most inappropriate moment, of what I had said to her about my faults and failings before we were married. Horribly and to my own detriment, I portrayed my worthlessness in such a repellent manner that I succeeded in shaking her equilibrium. It was certainly bad enough that I could provide her with no means of support, but now I had to rob her of her own self-confidence, myself the one who would have been to blame if she had lost faith in me. Yet she didn’t lose faith, but only became uncertain, and so it was understandable that Konirsch-Lenz would have gained a bit of influence over her if he had come at her with all his guns blazing.

But now I was done with this benefactor, we having split in anger, but I was free and felt better as a result. I could hope once again. My unease had
still not dissipated, but once again I felt satisfied. There was nothing more that held me and reined me in, and that allowed me to breathe easier. Indeed, I had no idea what tomorrow would bring, and yet my worries eased, it seeming to me that things could not get any worse but only better. Someone carrying a heavy bag drew away from the telephone booth across from me and hurried off with long, quick strides. I then stepped in and called home, which was not my custom. No doubt Johanna would be surprised to hear the phone ring. I had hardly said hello to her, speaking to her as cheerfully as my phone manners allowed, but actually quite cheerfully, since all my sadness had suddenly lost its grip on me, when Johanna beat me to the punch before I could explain anything.

“You had a falling out with Konirsch-Lenz. That’s why you’re calling me, right?”

Greatly relieved, I said it was so and was amazed that she knew it already.

“I thought so this morning, right after you left the house. You were acting so strange that all I could expect was either complete success, though I doubted that, or a complete disaster. It was all clear to me already; there’s no need to explain. Don’t worry about it, sweetheart! Everything will be all right.”

Johanna’s voice sounded confident and happy, such that my last worries left me.

“Then I want to come straight home if it’s okay with you. I was worried that you would be upset. Now I’m happy.”

“Come home, come home! There’s also a letter here. A small contract for a book review, and the book is there as well.”

“That’s great.”

“You see. Already things are better. We don’t need any Konirsch-Lenz, nor anyone else. He actually called an hour ago. His anger seethed from every word he said. Still, he kept sputtering his apologies, saying you are the first person he’s never been able to help get on the right track. He likes you so much, but it’s hopeless with you, because you’re stubborn, beating your head against the wall, he said, and I laughed. Then he wished me well, but that I should understand, there was nothing he could do, he was throwing in the towel. I shouldn’t be angry with him. He had meant well.”

“And what did you say?”

“Nothing at all. Or there was something. I said to him that it didn’t matter, I wasn’t angry at him, and only wanted to thank him.”

“No! You told him that!”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, it’s all right! There’s no coming to terms with such people. You thank them politely and then move on.”

Johanna laughed into the telephone, the receiver vibrating and humming at my ear, such that I had to hold it away. I quickly said that everything would be all right, and I’d be right home. Then we said goodbye, our spirits almost too high. When I left the phone booth, however, everything changed, all my cheerfulness draining from me, gloom encompassing me. I had to acknowledge that I was a failure. I was indeed done with my last and most overzealous benefactor, saying to myself with a smile that the wallpaper had fallen from my eyes, though the backlash from this falling out and the effect upon my circumstances were not to be denied. The fiery drive that had served my youth also made it possible for me to get through the bad years, it having continued on into my first years in the metropolis, while even in my efforts for
Eusemia
it was still evident. This drive had always been my savior, the strength that led me on. But now there was nothing left of this drive, I had nothing more, a hollowed-out existence—indeed, no existence whatsoever.

If my attitude was negative, I thought, and if I was out of good ideas, then my sense of dissolution was understandable. But that was not at all how I felt! I still felt fired with the will to go on, to do something in the service of my fellow men through an honest effort, something meaningful, something that would legitimate me. I was a mirror for much of what I had experienced in these times, myself an individual eye that had taken it all in, and to have overcome it all was a worthy endeavor! Why should I be a failure? Only because I cannot exist, since I am an expression of something, not something in my own right? Then I would have to get used to it, an obedient Adam, here I stand, not I, and yet, one, it, a name, it not being easy to say what. An existence, that I don’t have, but, nonetheless, existence in itself is a powerful inner resource. I had come through; now I had to move ahead. I had been beaten, but I was not out. Something remained, something pushed on inscrutably,
that inner resource. There was nothing more I could undertake, but I could just be. Perhaps I was the realization of a supernatural resolution: not an I, yet I; an I transformed by other graces.