Life Goes On: A Novel

by Hans Keilson

  * * *

  They had cut down the woods up on the hills outside the city and made a path, with a bench. The view stretched all the way to the meadows and the remaining forests on the main high road. Even chopping down the woods didn’t bring in enough money for the city to make all the social welfare payments it needed to. The city borrowed money, built roads, improved streets and sewers; for a few months everything was taken care of, but then it had difficulty paying the interest on the loans, and the burden was heavier than before.

  Herr Seldersen was untroubled, though. He had a stock of goods on his shelves, bought and paid for, and that was all it took. The mailman came twice a day, but his arrival was no longer cause for alarm and despair the way it had been. He and Mother went to bed at night, slept well, woke up in the middle of the night and drank a sip of water, and drifted back off into a peaceful slumber until it was light out. Then they got up, didn’t have to worry about what the day might bring, and got to work calmly and dispassionately. Herr Seldersen sat in the shop, or stood in the doorway and looked out at the street—always the same picture. People came into his store, bought things, put sums on their accounts, told stories of their troubles, asked for special consideration; nobody had gotten any richer. Life took its course, monotonous and unvarying, with only occasional great events that overshadowed everything. Then they could feel a tense excitement in the air, even there in their small town, until that too turned out to be nothing.

  One day not long afterward, Herr Wiesel dropped in.

  “I’ve been standing in my store for three days and barely made anything,” he said, visibly agitated. “Just think of the expense! And all to get a few pennies for the till.” He had never experienced anything like it.

  Herr Seldersen understood his agitation only too well. “It happens sometimes,” he said; “why get so worked up about it?”

  Herr Wiesel was an old businessman, his business on Eisenstrasse always did well, his stock was all paid for: why shouldn’t he have to feel the tough times for a change too?

  “I’ve never had anything like that happen to me,” he repeated several times.

  “It all depends what you’re made of,” Father said.

  “I don’t understand,” Herr Wiesel shot back. “What you’re made of? What does that mean?”

  “I only mean that some people can survive it, standing in their shop for a long time making hardly anything; others can’t. That’s the difference.”

  “No one can survive these days,” Herr Wiesel insisted. “That’s what I say.”

  Herr Seldersen disagreed. This one will shut in six months, that one will stick it out for three years, it’s a big difference. A lot can change, and improve, in that time.

  Herr Wiesel couldn’t deny that. “But we’re all heading in the same direction, I don’t think any of us have three years.”

  “And what about six months?” Father asked seriously.

  Herr Wiesel said nothing. “You made a mistake, Herr Seldersen,” he began gently. This was actually the real reason he had dropped by: he wanted to discuss things out in the open. “You made a big mistake when you settled your debts last year.”

  “You know about that?!” Father exclaimed.

  “Of course I know; you thought no one would know?”

  In truth, Herr Seldersen hadn’t believed it would stay a secret, although he would have preferred it if it had. As was typical for him, he hadn’t talked about it with anyone. But it couldn’t stay secret forever; it eventually got around that Seldersen’s shop wasn’t doing so well. People shook their heads, they didn’t want to believe it, and every time they walked past the shop they craned their necks to peer in but only saw the same thing they had seen there for years: Seldersen sitting behind the counter, making sales or doing some other kind of work, saying a friendly greeting to everyone who passed by and looked in. He looked old, that was true, but who among us doesn’t bear the traces of time? He also looked a bit troubled and anxious; that fit with the rumors.

  “What do you mean, made a mistake?” Father asked earnestly. “There was nothing else I could do. Should I have shut down?”

  No, no, he didn’t mean that, everyone was having trouble, the difficulties just had to be overcome, that’s what made you a businessman, especially in tough times.

  “So what was I supposed to do?” Herr Seldersen asked helplessly. He hadn’t been able to think of anything; he thought he had explored every option. What did Herr Wiesel mean?

  “Why did you do everything in secret, without talking it over first with me or someone else? We would have been happy to give you advice. But no one can come to you with help if you don’t ask.”

  Herr Seldersen groaned at the accusation.

  “If I were you,” Herr Wiesel said thoughtfully, “I wouldn’t have offered my creditors a settlement.”

  “No settlement? Then what?”

  “They got their money back from you.”

  “Only half,” Father replied. He told him the percentage.

  “That’s much too high—it’s ridiculous, your creditors got a good deal there. You had to borrow the money, and now you’re paying interest on it on top of everything.”

  “That’s true, but what else could I…?”

  Then Herr Wiesel said: In Father’s place he would have filed for bankruptcy. That’s right, bankruptcy.

  Herr Seldersen was stunned. “And then?”

  “Then your creditors could decide whether they’d be happy with the percentage that came out, maybe a third of what you owed them, or else I’d come to an arrangement with them offering five percent more.”

  Father leaned against the counter, thunderstruck.

  “You would have pulled it off, believe me, you would have pulled it off.”

  Father, after a while: “Who could think of doing something like that?” He couldn’t betray his creditors like that, they were already losing enough money on him.

  “Well, if that’s how you feel,” Herr Wiesel said. “Weren’t you a good customer all the years you’ve been running this store? Didn’t they get their money when times were good?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “In cases like this you have to look out for yourself, not for anyone else.”

  “That’s right. And I did that for once, it wasn’t pleasant, it was very unpleasant—when you’ve been somewhere twenty-five years, my wife, the children, all of it together, you understand, Herr Wiesel, I didn’t want the situation to play out before everyone’s eyes, and then … then I would have lost everyone’s trust, and credit, that’s the most important thing.”

  “Trust, right, but what about now?” Herr Wiesel said. “Aren’t you having the same problem now?”

  Yes, Father admitted, he certainly was facing problems. People were suspicious of him, they gave him credit but it wasn’t enough, the shelves were still empty. At the beginning, he went around to his longtime suppliers and asked them not to leave him in the lurch, since he had just found his footing again and was trying to make a fresh start. It was hard enough to have to ask, but what else could he do? Eventually he was given a little credit, but they demanded that he pay even the slightest amount promptly. So he went looking for new contacts, where he could come across as being in better shape and get better credit. He spent a long time looking around, put in big orders, but in the end he gave in to his doubts and canceled half of what he had ordered.

  Pause.

  While they were standing there together, the cartload of timber came by. Every day, at the same time, between twelve and one, a horse-drawn cart passed through the street loaded with thick, heavy tree trunks that had been cut from the woods above town. The cart came down the high road, and since it was downhill all the way to the bottom, the driver always had to keep the brakes applied; the horses proceeded in a leisurely trot, no longer needing to pull a heavy load. The street had a sharp curve in front of the shop, where the driver would dismount, throw the reins onto the horses’ steaming bodies, an
d run ahead to see if a car was coming in the other direction. Then they took the big curve—it was not always easy to make it, especially when there were long logs loaded on the cart. There was no room on the street for any other vehicles during the maneuver: the timber wagon took up all the space.

  Herr Seldersen and Herr Wiesel were happy to watch the show—it was nice to look on at the driver’s skillful performance. Not many loads of wood came past anymore. The forest, the beautiful forest, was getting more and more sparse.

  “But it would have been better for you.” Herr Wiesel came back to where they had started the conversation. “Now you have to pay the interest too.”

  “Yes, but don’t you think that things are ever going to get better?”

  Herr Wiesel shrugged. “Do you think they will?” he asked back.

  Father said nothing. Did he really think they would?

  “You know how many people are unemployed in America and England,” Herr Wiesel went on. “Think about it: America and England, and they’re the ones who won the war, you know?” And then, in a secretive, lowered voice, Herr Wiesel told Herr Seldersen the rumor that was going around: a huge company, with offices all over Germany, was in trouble—bad trouble, its stock price as low as it could go; the stockholders had to take loss after loss; the banks who stood behind the firm had to keep jumping in because they couldn’t just let the company go under.

  What a disaster, and it’s taking everyone down with it. Even the bank’s reserves will run out at some point.

  Father said he had heard about it, and at first he couldn’t believe it, but by now it was public knowledge.

  “Yes,” Herr Wiesel said, “this’ll be a fun winter.” Then he said goodbye, repeating his advice not to do things in such secrecy and isolation. They were all on the same side, they would all stick together and help one another out, definitely. And if Herr Seldersen ever needed any items, for instance if a customer asked for something he didn’t happen to have in stock, he shouldn’t hesitate to send around to Herr Wiesel. He’d be glad to help out if he had the item himself. He’d pass it along at cost, Seldersen could mark it up however he wanted.

  “And then we’ll split the profit,” Father said.

  No, no, Herr Wiesel wouldn’t hear of it. If Herr Seldersen made the sale, he’d keep the profit.

  Herr Seldersen was touched. Let me shake your hand, Herr Wiesel; now that’s a true friend, always up front and ready to help. People could say whatever they wanted about him, how he acquired his money.… He didn’t even want to split the profit! Your hand, Herr Wiesel!

  * * *

  Some nine months had gone by. Then, one Saturday when Albrecht was supposed to get the week’s money for his tutoring as usual, his student told him that his mother had forgotten to give him the money. Forgotten—all right, everyone forgets sometimes. Albrecht didn’t say a word; he wanted to be patient. They gave him a small sum at the beginning of the following week: a quarter of what he was owed. The week went by and his student had to keep putting him off to the following day even though it obviously made him uncomfortable. Albrecht kept waiting.

  Finally, at one point he couldn’t keep it to himself: “But you know this is what I live on!”

  Of course the student knew, but why talk to him? “Talk to my mother,” he said. Albrecht rarely saw her. He stayed in his job, sacrificed his time, was given dinner whenever he stayed late, but only received his money piece by piece. He couldn’t understand why they weren’t paying him—they had two cars, a large radio; they lacked none of the outward trappings of success and respectability. They did not have much time for their children—the parents were always busy, invited out, staying late in the city, or receiving visitors themselves. When Albrecht saw them, he didn’t dare talk to them. Finally, though, his student’s father brought the conversation around to the topic himself.

  “Be patient,” he said carelessly, “I’m having difficulties at the moment.” As though that were all it was.

  Albrecht bowed and said that he lived on this money; he had enough for the moment, he had saved up a little, but within a week at the most he needed to know what the situation was.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” the man answered calmly. “It’s beyond my control.” He meant his own difficulties; next to those, Albrecht’s concerns certainly seemed minor, but in any case he couldn’t alleviate them, he didn’t have any money to give him. He had suffered major losses, there had been a couple of very bad days on the stock market; he had a big apartment and two cars but didn’t own anything else anymore, he had long since mortgaged or signed over everything—now he couldn’t even pay his son’s tutor.

  Albrecht realized that his job here was drawing to a close. He would have to find some other way to make money that would be more certain. He was tired of giving lessons anyway. He’d been doing it for nine months—not a terrible experience by any means, he was honest enough to admit that it was bearable, even almost pleasant, for a few months. And even if he often enough felt embarrassed and self-critical when he took his meals there, that was probably mostly due to his own sensitivity, his way of observing any situation from every angle and clearly labeling to himself the position he occupied in it. So he started looking around: he had options; he could apply to work at the post office, beat rugs, wash cars, all sorts of things. In the end, he fell back on something he had been doing for years just for pleasure, never thinking that it would one day take on a whole new meaning: his music. He had played the violin for years, with ardent enthusiasm and average ability, but that was enough for him, although even here he sometimes tried to achieve a bit more with it. He had spent fewer and fewer such hours of deepest happiness and complete devotion since moving to the big city. But in looking for a new job, he thought back to those times, and more: he remembered a conversation he’d had recently with a schoolmate. He had often seen him carrying around a long black case, which he guessed held an instrument, a saxophone or something along those lines. His guess was confirmed before long—the student played music and managed to make a living at it: a relatively good one too, better than a lot of people. On the other hand, he always looked tired and pale and short of sleep.

  Albrecht asked his advice straight-out. He was in a band almost entirely made up of students, he said, and he invited Albrecht to a rehearsal and told him to bring his violin. When Albrecht arrived, they gave him a friendly greeting and told him to join right in, but Albrecht asked politely if he could just listen the first time; he knew that the music they played there was different and new for him, and he wanted to get familiar with its rhythm, its soul. They said that was fine and he sat down in a corner and listened eagerly. Oh, what he discovered that day! The musicians were mostly young—students, focused on the task at hand but having a good time. Only the trombone player, the last to arrive, had a miserable-looking face, and apparently had trouble holding his instrument and keeping up with the rest. His sad face! The others praised him: he hadn’t been playing the trombone for long, they had convinced him, lured him, practically made him take it up, since that was the instrument they were missing and they couldn’t find anyone who could play it. There were at least two people playing every other instrument, all except the trombone. So this member of the group was patiently learning the trombone, to help out—trying hard until his lips swelled red and puffy, so that anyone who saw him on the street wondered what had happened to him. He kept at it, though, and his pimply, swollen face twisted in pain every time he played. Hence the miserable expression. Only later did Albrecht find out the underlying reason for his sadness: the trombonist was in his second-to-last semester already and would soon have to figure out what to do next.… And he learned the trombone, since he needed the money and hoped that he would have a marketable skill at the end. He earned money, all right, but wasn’t able to concentrate on what was important: his studies. Although he needed to work and prepare for his exams, he spent his time practicing instead—since he had to practice constantly or he wouldn�
�t earn anything. He played his music and made ends meet, for himself plus the forty marks he sent home to his mother every month. Was that actually being a student? No, and his sad face as he blew the trombone was the best possible indication of that fact.

  The other musicians were happier, better suited to their respective instruments and in high spirits. The pianists—there were two grand pianos in the room—were locked in a bitter struggle over who could play the most notes; the musician making the most noise was, without question, the drummer, sitting upright on his stool and pounding the bass drum, playing drumrolls, tinkling the chimes, and smashing the cymbals, with lots of inimitable tricks and effects thrown in. And he kept the beat too; the band’s fate was in his hands. Standing in front, like a dancer, the conductor did his part: seducing the saxophones, subduing the brass, encouraging the banjos, jumping up in the air unexpectedly at a certain point and landing with a powerful stomp on the floor. All the while, everyone in the orchestra was keeping time by loudly tapping his right foot, so that the people renting the apartment downstairs sent their maid up to tell them the chandelier was about to fall out of the ceiling. Albrecht thought the rehearsal was a lot of fun and looked forward to many pleasurable hours in his new side job.

  Then he met Hermann. Hermann was a nineteen-year-old music student, and he told Albrecht about the first time he had played a dance number for his piano teacher. The old man felt it to be his duty, felt obliged by his conscience, to write to Hermann’s father and threateningly demand that he put a stop to this damaging behavior. Hermann was simply throwing away the musical education that he, the teacher, had taken such pains to inculcate in him. Hermann started a band with Albrecht and three other students and they played together every Sunday, year-round, in a restaurant out on the edge of the city: dances in a dark, smoky hall. Before long he was engaged to play everywhere—at balls, weddings, parties, public dances, for sport clubs and dancing clubs and savings clubs—in smoke-filled rooms with curtained windows and dim light or bright, well-lit halls. He went everywhere. He sat on his chair and played while other people danced and had fun. Early the next morning, they all went home tired, but with different kinds of tiredness: the other people because they had spent a happy, enjoyable night, and Albrecht and his bandmates because they had worked—it was a job—and earned some money. Sometimes, in the middle of playing, when he looked at the people on the dance floor, he had a sudden, desperate urge to get up and dance and enjoy himself with them. But that wasn’t his role. He stayed put and played: that’s what he was getting paid for, after all. The others could dance and have fun. It always lasted all night and then he would fall into bed exhausted the next morning.