An Offering for the Dead

by Hans Erich Nossack

  He now raised his glass, in which the evening sun was glowing through the red wine, and he drank to the hostess's health.

  But then he continued in an ominous tone: "If I therefore have to admit that I too am prey to hallucinations, then this should alter nothing in my conduct. Instead of pursuing the unknown and thereby confirming it, it is better to explore ourselves, which compels us to assume that unknown things exist. The behavior of that old scientist who, upon hearing the news of the eruption of a volcano, promptly hurried over to observe this rare event and thereby lost his life, is, for me, the only conduct worthy of a human being. And I do not wish to discard my habit of being human. If, therefore, a natural catastrophe were to erupt tomorrow — whether a deluge or a collision in space or a disintegration of all solid things, or the transformation of human beings into animals, nay, perhaps into such dream birds as we thought we perceived today — not because I consider it my duty to salvage some of our present knowledge for a future mankind — how would I arrive at such nobility? — but because it is interesting to study the law of the progression of such a deluge and my own concomitant behavior — indeed, that is the sole reason why I wish to survive as the last and only human being. I am ready."

  That was a declaration of war. We exchanged looks. How clear and transparent were his eyes, without the slightest warm tinge or dark uncertainty. I was dazzled, and I probed deeper and deeper into his gaze, seeking the bottom of so much clarity. For a long time, I found myself in a vacuum. But at last, I came upon ice. He hated me.

  It saddened me greatly. Perhaps I should have avoided it; my father would certainly have avoided it; but I said: "You have forgotten about fear."

  "Fear?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you trying to feign courage by mentioning fear?"

  "I simply mentioned it. I do not know why."

  "And what is the consequence of your fear?"

  "I do not know," I said.

  "Could this be possible?" he turned to my neighbor. And then back to me "Very well, my friend. I will tell you — I, who am not chosen and therefore probably need to be alert, but not afraid of what the choosing has in store for me. The consequence is that it is a lie — the way we sit around this well-set table and act so certain, as if nothing had happened. And the way we are together today for the last time."

  After these words, one might have expected everyone to jump up from the table in order to start out immediately and prepare themselves. But nothing of the sort happened. The hand with the opal settled on my hand, and everything remained calm. They joked back and forth about what everyone would do if the Deluge came tomorrow. And eventually, one of the young women said amid general concurrence: "Tonight, I will fix some sandwiches and pack my new dress. After all, we want to look attractive when the time comes."

  We had gotten together to be happy.

  I often had such conversations with the man who was my friend. Usually, he talked away at me, and I held my tongue. I held my tongue because I always felt that he was right. Often I thought: Why am I not like him? It might be better now too. Yes, I am astonished that he is not here instead of me. After all, everything pointed to his future success. He was bolder and prouder and always stuck to his purpose, while I frequently had no idea what I would be doing from one moment to the next, and I then had an endless amount of trouble orienting myself. Granted, he would not speak like me now, he would find himself ridiculous and poke fun at himself; but, in the same situation, he would not for an instant hesitate or doubt what step he must promptly take as the most necessary.

  However, he perished, and I stand here. I probably always knew that he would perish. That was why I loved him, and he hated me.

  For when I held my tongue while he spoke, he mistook my silence for scorn and grew even sharper in his formulations. He simply would not believe me when I agreed with him. He thought I was merely trying to silence him. He viewed me as more intelligent than I am, but he would never have admitted it.

  For example, I would never have talked to him about my father, or about the others who sometimes visited me. At the very start, I must have betrayed myself. "How can that be?

  The man is dead!" he instantly retorted to my allusion. And when I told him that my father was not dead, he irately flared up: "He died on such and such a date. That can be proved at any time." And he named a precise year. Naturally, I held my tongue; for it was painful arguing about my father in this way. But my friend thought I was making fun of him, and he angrily stormed out.

  Although I henceforth kept silent about my father, my friend did not hold back with concealed attacks; I often got to hear: "What does your father say, your father, who is moldering in the grave and, incidentally, is not your father?" Yet I am firmly convinced that he knew my father as well as I did. Why else would he have fought so hard against him? After all, he would not have had to do so if my father had really been dead. Also, my father often sat there when my friend was in the room with me, and he listened to him silently as was his wont. At times he sat quite near him, and my friend was undoubtedly talking not to me, but to my father. Yet always as if trying to prove to my father that my father was not there. Even if my friend did not really see my father — which is possible; for his movements towards him were those of a blind man — he must nonetheless have constantly sensed that my father could hear him.

  My father and I had a tacit agreement not to speak about my friend. We treated him like a sleepwalker, at whom one should not shout if one does not wish to make him fall. And indeed, he lived in a very fragile glass envelope. Everything was always bright and clear and orderly. But no light shone on the outside, and that was why when anyone who lived inside bumped into the envelope, he believed there was no outside, and he was glad that he could survey the entire world. Everything is correct here they said delightedly, and there was no denying it. But if an alien shadow fell across their world, they quickly altered the numbers until it was all correct again. What an effort it cost them.

  It was not until the very end that I discussed women with my friend. Actually, it began at dinner, and it could no longer be avoided after that. We should have started earlier; perhaps certain things might then have been avoided. In this respect, we were both dishonest. I do not know what prevented him from speaking about that topic and acting as if women did not matter. I, for my part, held my tongue, because I would have been embarrassed if he had categorized them under numbers and concepts or even as the object of a physical need. On the other hand, I was not so certain of my opinion as to risk arguing the point.

  But not once, even at the end, did I ever mention my mother to him. He would have instantly replied: "That woman does not exist. She is merely the figment of a milksop's imagination!" And I must confess that I tried to believe him.

  My mother never came to my room. I do not believe that she even stood outside the door, holding the knob in order then to turn around because I did not allow her to enter. I simply refused to admit it to myself. In this respect, I resembled my friend. I acted as if my mother did not exist.

  And therefore, of course, no childhood existed for me. I heard others talk about their childhoods, and I wondered if something like that had not existed for me too. I tried to go back, but never got any further than that wooden arbor which I have spoken about; and by then, I was already a rather fully developed adolescent. My name was already lurking for me in the bushes. But — curious whether I could make as cheerful a fuss about it as others — if I tried to open the door beyond which I suspected the presence of childhood, it was as if people were sitting on the other side, having supper. A female voice whispered: "Quick, put everything away." Someone choked down the final morsel. An astonished male voice asked: "What is wrong?" And the female voice hissed back: "Someone is coming." And then, apparently speaking to me: "Ah, how nice of you to come. Unfortunately we have just finished supper. Perhaps there is a cup of tea left in the pot."

  I found this unpleasant; that was why I refused to probe any
further. After all, it was possible that they had neglected to give birth to me, and the people found it unpleasant being reminded of this omission. So far, I had gotten along quite well without a childhood, and should it prove necessary, I might be able to make up for it.

  It was only that afternoon that everything changed. It was almost too late.

  But first, I wish to report a conversation that I had recently had with my friend. I was reminded of it after dinner. Someone had just come up with an invention that people were afraid of. I have forgotten what it was; even back then, I did not take it as seriously as the others did. Like all inventions that people came up with, this one too was suitable for both preserving life and destroying it. One day, when my friend entered my room, he could speak of nothing else. My father too was present.

  "You will see," my friend cried, "we will be able to wipe out everything with one stroke." As if he were proud of it. And he actually was proud of the power that he thought he held in his hands. Perhaps he had something to do with it, for he had such precise knowledge about it. His habitual coolness abandoned him, and he went so far as to say: "The earth will blaze up. The inhabitants of other worlds will say: Look, a new star!" And he beamed at me in triumph.

  "No," I replied, "that will not be possible."

  "Why should it not be possible? Just because you do not wish it?"

  "Because no creature can kill itself," I said.

  "What do you mean?" he asked in amazement. "I can hang myself or shoot myself."

  "But you cannot strangle yourself with the strength of your own hands. And if you could, you would already be sick and ready to die, because you would be making the attempt. A tree is toppled by a storm because it is rotten or because its roots do not hold fast. Or people chop it down because they need it. But it does not kill itself."

  "I am not a tree," he retorted, annoyed, "still, I will take you at your word. We are sick and rotten, for all I care. But it is an unalterable fact that we are capable of killing all life." And he proved it to me scientifically, and I was unable to argue. Still, I shook my head.

  "You do not believe it," he jeered once again, "because you do not want to."

  "Of course I do not want to," I confirmed.

  "It will do you no good. It will kill you too."

  "Perhaps it will."

  "You and everyone and everything. There is no way out," he concluded.

  But this time I dug in my heels. "You yourself said they will shout: Look, a new star!"

  "Well?"

  "So they kill merely in order to live."

  If my father had not been sitting with us, I would scarcely have managed to say that. But I did not wish to disappoint him. You see, I figured that he expected this answer from me. I uttered it for him.

  Standing alone on the terrace after dinner, I was reminded of my father's eyes, his trustful way of looking at me during that conversation. The meal was over; the others had stepped into the room where I had previously seen the books and the piano. Neither my friend nor that woman was with me. Only a big, brown, shaggy dog pushed against my knees. I scratched the fur on the back of his neck, and he looked up at me in the same way as my father had looked at me when I said: They kill one another because they want to live. Those eyes had so much confidence, they relied so thoroughly on me as a matter of course that I too had no doubts that I had said the right thing. As if those eyes were speaking to me: What can happen? You are here.

  Kill! Kill! How many killed people run about and do not realize it. They were killed by a thought or by someone else's wish. No one sees it. Everyone thinks: These people are just like us. They make the same movements and everything is as it should be. How are we to find out what might have become of them if they had not been killed prematurely. Indeed, the murdered live together with their murderers, sitting at the same table, and sleeping in the same bed; for the murderers too have long since forgotten their deeds. And if they remembered, it would be even worse; they would ask perplexedly: Who made me do this deed? And by then it would be too late; the murdered person would not have the strength to say: It is my fault. I disappointed you. They would then run about like spurned victims.

  Yes, a little while ago, I had to ponder quite soberly whether I should not kill. One of the people lying about murmured in his sleep, startling me. I went to him and leaned over him. He was a middle-aged man; perhaps he looked younger than he was. Long thin hair poured, disheveled, from under a sort of cap and stuck to his chin. His face was broad and his nose short and stubbed. Despite his hollow cheeks and the scar deforming his upper lip, his features were soft and vague. Indeed, a bit sinister, for he could have been mistaken for a woman had it not been for his clothes and his beard stubble. Only his hand, which was cramped on his chest, was the hand of a man. Otherwise it was as if this body had not yet clearly made up its mind what it wanted to be. Incidentally, perhaps he would not have made this impression when awake, and perhaps a person is always like that when asleep, because the flesh remembers that it was born of a woman.

  And this is someone with whom I am supposed to live. Ah, a dangerous thought! I tried to make out what he was mumbling. I raised him up slightly by his shoulders, but he slipped out of my hands, and his head dropped back into the clay as if he had no bones. Yet, to my dismay, I had nearly tripped over him. I returned to my post and eyed my hands in disgust. Something of the pasty mass of which this sleeper seemed to be consist had stuck to them. I pondered: If he had talked so loudly as to wake the others, and if he had even (for what do I know about him?) announced something of what had existed previously, what should I have done? And if he did it tomorrow? His face was like a barely kneaded, not yet baked dough. An utterly alien destiny could gain control of it, turning it into something that could not be evaluated. It could become a brother or a scornful adversary. But whatever would have become of it, it would not have been itself. Even if he had eliminated me, it would only have been this alien entity, which would have entered the dough as yeast. I was afraid, certainly! But not so much for my sake. Was it to start again with a murder? And would the dough have collapsed after the deed?

  My so-called friend, who used to address me as "friend," would not have doubted what to do for even an instant. But I was not my friend. I myself am like this gray, indefinite face. Hardship and this filth, which besmirch us, making us unrecognizable, form a crust that shields our marrows against freezing. That is the only security we now have.

  Ah, to think that I must talk about such matters! Perhaps it is hunger that drives me to it, and I breathe poorly because my stomach is empty. I would so much like to think of something beautiful and talk about it. About young girls strolling along the street, arm in arm. They wear new frocks, and their sole concern is: Don't we look attractive? And whoever sees them smiles joyfully and because spring has come. Or about an adolescent boy, who, in feverish haste, writes something that he believes will be an earthshaking opus. And he peers at the sky and says: Let me live until I finish this. And one's heart quivers with anxious delight when one hears this.

  However, my character is such that I do not know how I would act if I suddenly found a lone rosebush in this muddy world. It is possible that the old song would come to my mind:

  Oh, why do you still blossom, rose? To whom shall I give you today? The summer is gone forever, rose, I now must think of yesterday.

  But it may be that I will tear it off, thereby injuring my fingers. And then I would hurl the rose on the ground and trample it.

  As I have said, I was standing alone on the terrace, with the brown dog. Heavily fragrant white flowers were blooming in green boxes all around on the wall cornice. Several belated bees hummed around the flower cups. In the park, opposite, a song thrush sang, a teensy dot on the tip of a poplar, which stood upright like a supple sword, watchfully pointing at the sky. A pair of lovers walked with a rolling gait across the lawn towards the secret bush. Through the gaps in the trees, one could see the other side of the river, which had to be
there somewhere, and the dark, distant line of wooded hills, which separated the world from the boundlessness. The sun had just set behind them. A few beams were still groping their way back into the sky, but were caught by a narrow strip of violet clouds, which hovered over the fiery place of the sunset — like the wings of a gull. And a nameless blue-green arched over it. Anyone who could see it as I did, would have had to cry out: Eternal!

  I listened inside myself. A female voice was singing in the house. It was a lullaby.

  And then all at once, my friend was standing next to me. I had not heard him coming. I winced as if I had been grazed by the shadow of one of the birds that had been discussed at dinner.

  "Now they shout: Mama," he said, his head nodding towards the rooms. He gave me a scornful look.

  I wanted to place my hands on his shoulders and say to him: "Would it not be better if we talked about it?" I wanted to tell him everything I knew. I wanted to hide nothing from him.

  I had spoken about my father and about the others with whom I had been together. Perhaps I would have even mentioned my mother for the first time. That was how shaken I was when I saw him standing before me and I already knew precisely how he would die. It appeared to be my final chance to save him and to prevent what was to come about. I wanted to speak and then leave before he could answer. I did not doubt that he would then go back into the house.

  But my hands were leaden and my tongue was lamed. He shook himself angrily and said: "Thank you, my friend! You are very kind."

  Then he turned his back on me and left the terrace by way of the steps leading to the front garden. The brown dog gazed after him. Then it looked at me, its eyes asking whether I would follow my friend. Perhaps I would have hurried after him, but then the dog began to wag its tail, and a voice behind me said: "Do you not want to come in? They are all gone. We are alone."