by Hans Keilson
Then many things started to take a much more serious turn for Seldersen’s shop. It started with what was at first just an isolated event, a letter, but soon turned into a long chain of them. The mailman brought it one day and Father had never seen a document like that before, he felt terribly anxious and didn’t know how to pull himself together. He wrote back evasively, and it took a lot of effort before he could write back at all, something with a good balance, not too subservient and not too aggressive: there had been a minor slowdown but he hoped to remedy everything shortly; they should not withhold the trust that they had so amply shown him over the years. The letter did its job. He was an old man and in all the years he had been in business no one had ever had any problems with him, he was in a position to request a little consideration and forbearance, and he got it. They stopped pressuring him. He sent the company part of his outstanding debt as quickly as he could and the situation seemed to be resolved. However, letters with similar contents soon started arriving one after the other from other firms; the same slowdown had rippled all down the line. Some of the letters were written in a sharper tone, with clear warnings, even though it was often only ten days after the due date; they threatened straight-out—they wanted their money. Not that the senders had any particular fear of losing their money in this case; the letters were all written in general terms, they could equally well have been sent to other debtors. It’s just that they were in an embarrassing situation and they needed their money urgently themselves. Whenever the mailman came—first once a day, then every time the mail was delivered—he had another such letter with him. Father lived in constant fear of the moment the mailman would walk into the store.
“Well, what do you have for me today?” he asked lightly, taking the letters. He didn’t even need to look at the sender’s name—he usually knew in advance who the letter was from. He had fallen badly behind in his payments and owed money everywhere. Then he read what the letter said, and fear crept over him every time, even though by that point, after all the frequent repetitions, he should have been used to it. There was nothing else for him to do but sit down and write endless letters like the first one, asking for them to continue to extend their trust, pleading for consideration.… He was soon quite masterful in composing these letters. He presented himself humbly, bowed deeply, it truly pained him greatly. And he tried, as much as he could, to conceal his circumstances from everyone.
One Sunday morning, Albrecht woke up early. Still half asleep, he heard voices from the kitchen, muffled, but fiercely and audibly arguing with each other. He could clearly hear his father’s voice telling his mother: “You just need to pull yourself together! You can’t let yourself go with these desperate moods. The boy doesn’t need to know what’s happening, he has enough to think about with school. I’m holding things in too—if I wanted to show you everything that happens every day…!” He kept a lot to himself. “But I keep the boy out of it.”
Much later, Albrecht could still remember these words. He stored them up, even though he didn’t know what to do with them besides classify them with what he already knew. His father had worries on his mind and didn’t want him to know about them. Fine, he would wait and see how serious they were. Maybe they were exaggerated, blown out of proportion, and they would collapse on their own before long; or maybe there was a lot of truth in them after all.
* * *
School had long since started again and now there was some kind of conflict between Fritz and his teachers every couple of days. Dr. Selow had been replaced with a younger teacher, a student teacher who was still in school himself. There were changes and reschedulings in the lesson plan all the time now.
Fritz sat there and made it clear to everyone that he no longer thought he belonged there. He was bored, he slept in class, and there were other things too. Sometimes he completely forgot that he was still in school; when something seemed ridiculous to him he just went ahead and laughed out loud, while the rest of the students at least put a good face on their bad behavior. Once, when the principal was holding forth in class yet again about great men—he liked to talk on that topic, and his voice would tremble every time, tears would come into his eyes—and he said, “When the storm-trooper squadrons of great men come—” he broke off in the middle of a sentence and screamed:
“Fiedler, why are you laughing?”
He shook with rage and ran over to Fritz’s desk.
“Why are you laughing?” he screamed again. Fritz slowly rose and stood tall next to the principal, looked at the blackboard without moving, and said nothing.
“I have had enough of your impudence,” the principal said, barely keeping control of himself. Who knew what he was thinking about Fritz, and what bad thoughts he thought Fritz was capable of? Fritz calmly sat back down and the class went on.
These incidents came often and Fritz eventually got tired of them. He stayed home, pretending to be sick, and maybe he was sick—his forehead was hot and his lips were always dry, he drank like a veteran drunkard. A few days later he was back in school, but he no longer showed the same nonchalance as before. He had clearly thought things over and decided to make an effort not to stand out so much.
Genoa didn’t work out, as it turned out. He had made a mistake and the ship left four hours earlier than he had thought; he couldn’t take the next ship, because he would lose the three days’ head start he was counting on. He was sure he needed three days if his plans were to go undiscovered. So now he needed a new plan. He didn’t have any other options at hand. Albrecht almost had the impression that Fritz was not in as much of a hurry as he had been—he had been saying he wanted to head out without delay and now he was suddenly talking about waiting, preparing more carefully.
And so the autumn passed, the first storms came, the forest floor was damp and soft from the rains so that you could no longer lie down in the grass. The two friends walked their old familiar paths almost every evening; only there did Fritz feel safe and free. He lost his outward shyness and reticence and talked about his escape, his plans, and what he thought the immediate future held for him.
“It won’t be rosy for me,” he said. “I’m sure of that.”
Albrecht nodded.
“But if I can only get out of here, I’ll accept everything else without any complaints.”
He really was serious: he had thought his plan out all the way through and no fear could hold him back anymore. The fact that he had seemed so patient to Albrecht, almost as though he had changed his mind, was only a sign of how he had worked everything out. Albrecht, full of amazement, looked into his friend’s calm face; it showed no hint of tension or excitement.
“When do you want to leave now?” he asked.
Fritz: “I’m not exactly sure yet.”
He wasn’t exactly sure—that meant he didn’t want to say, he was clearly still afraid something might come up.
“I’m telling my parents that I’m going to visit Kern, the forest ranger, in F., and that I’ll stay there hunting for a few days.”
“But hunting season is over now,” Albrecht said.
“Right, I’d almost forgotten!” It would have been an unbelievably stupid thing to say; it could have ruined everything. “Okay, I’ll forget about the hunting and just be going to visit him. He invited me to come see him a long time ago, my parents know that.”
They walked on and eventually reached the city.
“Here’s where you live,” Fritz suddenly said. He stopped on the corner, in the middle of the conversation, not even answering the last thing Albrecht had said. “Good night.”
They said goodbye and Fritz set off to walk the short distance home. After Albrecht had already unlocked the front door to the house, he ran back to the corner and looked down the street. His friend was walking calmly along the edge of the embankment, with his shuffling gait, his upper body bent forward. It was quiet on the street; you could hear every footstep. Even though Fritz was just going home, it almost looked like he was turning off into a little stre
et on the left. Albrecht waited. Just before he got home, Fritz turned sharply off to the right, opened the doors—the sound echoed down the street—and slammed them shut. Albrecht turned away and went inside. The night watchman was standing on the corner, his dog lying next to him on the ground.
* * *
Only Frau Seldersen had any complaint about the evening walks: she accused Albrecht of not caring about his father, letting him go out alone every evening like that. She herself was too tired to go for a walk with him after dinner; Father tried to walk slowly, but after only a couple of minutes he was back to his regular fast pace and she was panting alongside him. They never matched. So, unwillingly, she let him take his walks alone.
Albrecht promised to do what she wanted. The next evening, when Father said that he wanted to take a little walk, Albrecht said he’d go too. Father was surprised, and said no, he could just as well go by himself, that way he could at least walk at his own pace.
“If you want,” Albrecht said without further argument.
Herr Seldersen left the room to put on his coat.
“Go with him,” Mother ordered.
“But he wants to go by himself!”
“Go anyway. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s glad you want to go with him.”
The front door shut.
“He’s left already, hurry up.”
The boy stood up reluctantly. He had planned to spend a pleasant evening at home, reading and practicing music. He made a fuss about putting his coat on, then left and caught up to his father with a few quick steps:
“I’ll walk with you for a little while,” he said, as though the idea had just come to him.
“You don’t have to, I’m fine on my own.” But actually he was glad Albrecht had joined him, even if he knew Mother was behind it. They walked through the streets in silence. Herr Seldersen held his hat in his hand so that he didn’t constantly have to doff it when people said hello to him. Everyone knew him, and greeted him, even in the dark. They left the city and turned onto the promenade. Father had his hands behind his back and was looking down at the ground, and he let out a soft groan at every step, as though carrying a heavy weight that left him short of breath. The sound came from deep inside his body, from far away, rose up, evaporated, and turned into a soft whine.
“What are you groaning about?” Albrecht eventually asked. “Please, I can’t listen to it anymore.”
That sounded a little harsh, although he hadn’t meant it that way. He gently put his arm around his father’s shoulders, which was easy to do, Albrecht was already so much taller. They calmly walked on, and Father cleared his throat. After a while he slowed his pace and suddenly stopped, nodding his head.
“Hmm, hmm.” But not another word. He started walking again. Then, after another couple of steps: “Hmm, hmm.” And so on, for a long time, as though he were giving answers to all the many questions he was thinking about during their walk, questions demanding answers. “Hmm, hmm…”
Albrecht waited.
“It really is too hard,” Father suddenly said. “If only I can hold out long enough for you to finish school.”
Pause.
“Hmm, hmm…”
So that was the great worry he was carrying around with him all the time. It was the first time he had spoken so openly about it.
“Do you really think it can’t go on?” Albrecht asked gently, but he hadn’t fully thought through what his father was saying.
“No, no, it can’t last much longer,” Father replied.
Silence.
“Hmm, hmm…”
Could it really be possible? That something slowly and laboriously built up through years of work, enduring such a long time, might collapse overnight, as though a puff of wind were enough to knock it down?
“And that you have to watch it happen—you, Mother, and Anneliese. That I can’t keep these troubles from touching you.… But there’s no way, I’ve tried and there’s no way.”
These last words threw Albrecht into confusion. He wanted to console his father and stuttered out a few set phrases, whatever came to mind: that others were going through the same thing—of course that wasn’t any consolation; or that it wasn’t Father’s fault if the money just dried up. “You don’t need to worry about me, it’s good for me to see how things really are from the start, for us and in general.”
They walked on in silence.
Herr Seldersen had long since made his peace with the state of society and the dim outlook for the future, as far as he was concerned personally. Being content with what you have, living your life as the times require, simply and without making great demands—that was important too, and honorable, just as bringing your little ship safely into port is under healthier, more straightforward conditions. But it wasn’t as simple as all that: there were many other considerations. He wasn’t alone in the world—he had responsibilities, a wife and children. And he was a man, the father, the breadwinner, and his security was based on his own hard work. Everything was closely connected with everything else; when one little stone came loose somewhere, the whole structure would collapse.
The path led off to the forest and passed an outdoor restaurant at the edge of the woods. They stopped in and sat down under a trellis; two other customers were sitting far away on the other side. Father ordered something to drink. There were lightbulbs hidden in the hanging flowerpots dangling from the arcade, casting a dim light over the tables. Albrecht and his father leaned back in their hard garden chairs. Ahh, it felt good to just sit there and relax.
Father looked rather lost, like a small child sitting on a chair for the first time, his legs dangling in the air, arms stretched out pressing against the tabletop, as though feeling the aftershocks of a great strain inside him.
So this is my father, Albrecht thought. He sat across from him and could not stop looking at him, surreptitiously, again and again—his face, his hands, his whole tired body. He’s worked hard his whole life and now this is the end result. All right, then. He apologized to me just now for not being able to make our lives better, and what did I say back? Something or another, but there are no words for it. He hasn’t shaved; it makes him look worse, and much older. I think he’s even crying, to himself, you can’t hear it. I heard him cry once before, it sounded like an animal crying, not a big outburst. It makes you think all the bitterness is just sinking deeper into him.
Suddenly Albrecht was overwhelmed with great pity for his father, sitting across from him—old, lost, hopeless. If before he had thought that there was a certain amount of exaggeration and self-aggrandizement hidden behind his father’s gestures and actions, and if he secretly persisted in certain opinions of his own, now he was converted, now he believed. He didn’t know much about his father, except that he did his work faithfully and with real love; he didn’t know much about his father’s early life. Father never said much about the past on his own, even though he couldn’t have had anything to hide. He had served in the war, four years, and received the Iron Cross in recognition, but he never wore it; it lay in the cupboard, wrapped in silk, and when Mother was cleaning out the drawers she would always come across it. She would take it out, look at it for a long time, then carefully put it back in its place. And that’s how it was with everything: something had happened, once, in an instant, and then it was buried, dismissed, probably not forgotten but simply withheld—it lay in a corner, and you came across it only when you were rummaging around for some reason. Albrecht suddenly saw his father’s life spread out before him, even without knowing any dates or details or external events; he saw its line, its arc, curving from the beginning to now, which was in any case not its end. Later he would remember this moment very precisely, the moment when he and his father were sitting together and he came to understand him. He remembered it as a moment when he had gained enormously in experience, taken a giant step far beyond his own age.
“When did you leave school?”
Father had to stop and think. “At
fourteen,” he said.
Albrecht was surprised. “You were younger than I am now!”
He laughed, and Father nodded and grimaced slightly.
“When I was as old as you are now, I was already an apprentice, almost done with my training.”
Pause. The thought came to Albrecht that he was now seventeen years old. He felt a little ashamed.
“Why did you leave school so young?” he asked.
“We were a big family, and I couldn’t keep up; even in elementary school I never had time for homework because I always had to watch my little sisters, and then my father took me out of school.”
“But your father had lived in England a long time, he knew what was important.”
“He was an educated man.”
“And the large family?”
“He supported us; my mother didn’t make it easy for him. Later he told me a lot about it, but he never complained. He was always satisfied with his life.”
The conversation went on, with Albrecht asking and his father answering, until finally he didn’t have to ask any more questions and Father just told the story himself. A simple life: work, a little success, and more work. As an apprentice he polished young men’s boots to make some money for food, since the meals in his cheap pension were inedible. He became a traveling salesman and rode around the country, and people were always happy to see him. He was friendly, obliging, and clever, did well, and saved three hundred thalers. “Just think, three hundred thalers, how much money that was back then.” He opened a store.
Pause.
And all of a sudden his father was so downcast again, bent under the weight of his sorrow. His hands would fly off if he didn’t quickly clutch them together. It didn’t help him anymore that he was the older man, the father—here he was the weaker of the two, and God knows where his manhood had disappeared to.
Albrecht felt his father’s great sorrow and the burden he had carried in silence up to that point. He clasped his father’s fists in his hands and whispered to him the same thing he had said before—that it wasn’t his fault, that lots of other people were in his same situation.
