Life Goes On: A Novel

by Hans Keilson

  Then, the next time Wurmbach settled up, Seldersen couldn’t exactly tell how much Wurmbach had actually received from him and how much he had sold. The list Wurmbach showed him could have been entirely correct, or it could just as easily be concealing something, there was no way to tell exactly. Wurmbach brought the money, took out the sum meant for him, and asked for new items, but this time Herr Seldersen hesitated. First he wanted a precise statement, and told Wurmbach to bring one tomorrow. Wurmbach went home empty-handed. Herr Seldersen discussed matters with his wife, who wanted him to wash his hands of the whole thing, Wurmbach had never made much money for them and now the situation was starting to get murky. If he was trying to pull a fast one—well, he was a poor devil; even at the beginning Seldersen should have known that no one could make ends meet with what he was earning from their deal together. He was trying to look out for himself, and if it didn’t work to do it honestly, well, he’d have to try some other way. But still, why did he have to walk into Herr Seldersen’s shop of all places; it wasn’t as though he himself could afford any losses on top of his usual course of business.

  Wurmbach came back the next day, but with an itemized list that was even more confusing and opaque than the first one. He spent a long time explaining the calculations to Father, trying to convince him that the statement was all in order: here were the items he had received, here was what he’d sold for this much money, and he still had the rest. Then Herr Seldersen said he would like to see the rest with his own eyes. The whole situation didn’t seem so serious to him at that moment; he wasn’t actually trying to prove that Herr Wurmbach was guilty of something. But Wurmbach gave a start. All right, Herr Seldersen could see it whenever he wanted, just pick a time, but still, didn’t he trust him anymore? He had something to say about that. Maybe it would be better to dissolve their partnership. He, Wurmbach, would conduct his business on his own.

  That’s probably for the best, Herr Seldersen replied, he was thinking the same thing himself. In any case, Wurmbach should feel free to come by whenever he wanted any items, he just had to pay for them on the spot. Herr Seldersen would only give him things for cash from now on.

  Wurmbach gave a mocking laugh. For cash? Please. If he had cash on hand he wouldn’t need to do any of this in the first place. After all, it’s no small matter to constantly ride around by bicycle every day.

  “I know,” Father assured him. “It’s hard, but I can’t let someone pull a fast one on me.”

  “Pull a fast one?” So he didn’t believe him?

  “I don’t know what to believe,” Herr Seldersen said. “You’re a poor devil, maybe you’re cheating me, maybe not, you’re a poor devil.”

  Wurmbach: “Don’t talk to me about cheating. I need to live, simple as that, my wife and child—”

  Herr Seldersen interrupted him: “I’m still honest. Whatever you’re doing is up to you, but find someone else to do it with.”

  Wurmbach wanted to answer back, but Seldersen cut him off. Wurmbach stood there embarrassed, not knowing what else to do. Seldersen promised him that he had no intention of reporting the whole affair to anyone, but his own situation was too perilous to let anyone trick him or cheat him, maybe he hadn’t made that clear enough at the start. Wurmbach left the shop without saying goodbye and never came back. He continued to ride around the streets of town on his bicycle, with his package tied onto the basket mount. Who knew where he got the goods from? He carried on, and then, after a year, he suddenly disappeared from town.

  * * *

  The Seldersens realized that Frau Fiedler had recently started going around quiet and subdued again, the same as when Fritz had disappeared from town the first time. She only rarely dropped by, and when she did, she avoided the subject of America. The Seldersens didn’t dare bring it up—they wanted to spare her; you could see that she didn’t want to talk about it. Fritz was still in America, and it had been almost two years since he’d left. Letters home came only rarely and no one knew exactly where he was at any given time. Last they had heard, he wanted to go to the West Coast. Since then, no news—a short postcard from Chicago, and then total silence.

  One day, Herr Wiesel came by full of excitement. He had news to tell them, they wouldn’t believe it, but his brother who lived nearby, in M., had assured him it was true. Fritz Fiedler was in M.! What did they think of that?

  “Impossible!” Frau Seldersen said. “Fritz is in America.”

  “But he’s actually in M.,” Herr Wiesel insisted.

  “Well, then he’s come back,” Herr Seldersen said. “I always thought it would turn out that way.”

  Herr Wiesel agreed; Fritz’s plan to go to America was far-fetched and ridiculous. The fact that he’d come back home after two years was proof. “America,” he said in a sarcastic voice, “everyone thinks they’ll make their fortune over there in America, once they’ve run out of prospects here. Maybe that used to be true, but now America has to look out for itself, why else would it have such strict immigration laws? There’s not enough work there for their own people, they need more unemployed immigrants?”

  “Exactly,” Herr Seldersen said with a nod, then he left Wiesel alone with Mother and greeted a customer who had just come into the store. Frau Seldersen kept talking but without paying attention, only half listening to what Wiesel was saying. After a while, she heard Father tell the customer that he didn’t have the fabric at the moment but he would be getting it in a couple of days, if she could wait that long. Or perhaps there was some other fabric he could recommend…? But the woman insisted on what she wanted. Herr Wiesel said goodbye: “I’ll come by again later,” he said, waving to Father as he left.

  Herr Seldersen tried his best, bringing out all sorts of fabrics and laying them out before the customer, but she refused to be talked into anything. She said over and over again that she would pay cash too, so he wouldn’t have to be suspicious of anything. “But my dear lady,” Herr Seldersen replied—he couldn’t think of her name at the moment—“I would give you the fabric anyway, we’ve known each other a long time, how long has it been now?”—“Almost eight years,” she said, “but you still don’t know my name.”—Herr Seldersen apologized for his bad memory, he laughed, yes, well, when you get older … It was meant as a joke, but you could suddenly see a damned lot of seriousness and truth behind it. An embarrassed silence fell over the shop. Frau Seldersen stayed in the background. Eventually, Herr Seldersen tried the last thing he could: he picked up a notepad and asked the customer if he could order the fabric for her. But the woman refused that too—she was in a hurry, about to take a trip and wanting to sew the dress herself. “Maybe I’ll get what I’m looking for in another shop; I’m hoping to leave at once.”—“It’s possible,” Herr Seldersen said, his face looking terribly old and sad, “it’s possible. Otherwise, feel free to come back, I’ll order you whatever fabric you need within two days. You can have it the next day, in the evening, maybe even the next afternoon.”—“Thank you very much,” the woman said, and turned to go. In the doorway, she turned around and told him how happy she would have been to buy it here. She always shopped here, he knew that. But money is so tight nowadays, and when you buy something you want it to be just the right thing. No one could expect her to take something she didn’t want. “Of course not!” Frau Seldersen put in; she had stood the whole time without saying a word, following the conversation, but there was nothing she could do to change the outcome. “Of course, we try our best but we can’t stock everything. Well, maybe it’ll work out better next time.” And the woman left.

  “That was too bad, but nothing to be done about it, was there?” Frau Seldersen asked when they were alone again. She was still thinking about whether there was anything else they could have done.

  “You saw it yourself,” Herr Seldersen said testily. He couldn’t stand being criticized.

  “It’s just,” she began delicately, “that’s the third time now that we’ve sent Frau Binge away empty-handed, her name is Fr
au Binge, you know her name, but now she won’t come back, she’s realized by now that there’s a lot we don’t have, and she’s not the only one.”

  “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it,” Father answered angrily. But suddenly he thought of something and ran out the door, leaving Mother standing in the store. He looked up and down the street until he saw Frau Binge, then he ran after her, with long strides. She was on her way to Herr Wiesel’s when she felt him softly touch her on the arm: she turned around, and there was Herr Seldersen. “Frau Binge,” he said, with a slight smile: “Frau Binge,” he repeated; he knew her name now, “just a moment please, I was mistaken before, my wife just remembered that I have the fabric you were looking for. It’s upstairs in my apartment, I set it aside a while ago for someone who forgot to come pick it up, and he could only afford a small down payment. Come back, I didn’t think of it before.” Frau Binge looked at him as though seeing a miracle take place before her eyes. All these endless apologies a minute ago, and now … the fabric was up in his apartment? She was surprised, and didn’t even realize that Herr Seldersen had already led her back to the shop. When they walked in, Frau Seldersen was standing at the counter, and before she could get over her shock and say anything, Father said, loudly and with significant emphasis, “You could have reminded me earlier that the fabric is upstairs in the closet; how long has it been there? I just told Frau Binge about it.” Mother had no idea what to make of this piece of theater; Father was giving her meaningful looks, though she couldn’t figure out the exact meaning. So she said nothing—the only thing she could do. Meanwhile, Herr Seldersen was talking to his shopgirl at the back of the store, whispering instructions and emphasizing his words with forceful, deliberate hand gestures. The girl’s eyes widened and she vanished from the shop. Father came back to the front of the store where both of the women were waiting, and started up a conversation with Frau Binge again. He talked and talked! Frau Seldersen couldn’t listen anymore and stood in the doorway, where she saw the shopgirl, Lisbeth, on the other side of the street, turning around furtively. She hurried up the sidewalk, crossed the street, and headed straight for Herr Wiesel’s shop. Then she disappeared inside. After a while she reappeared hauling a large package, and, again making a detour to the other side of the street and around to the back door of the shop, came in and, sweating and out of breath, handed it to Herr Seldersen, who untied it in front of Frau Binge. He smiled contentedly. Three large bolts of fabric! What a selection! There must be a small warehouse upstairs tucked into the cupboards. Frau Binge looked and soon found the right fabric; she was pleased. “I’m glad you called me back, Herr Seldersen.” She couldn’t say it often enough, and shook her head when she thought how close he had come to losing the sale. Then she paid and left the shop beaming.

  Oof! That was hard going. Father sat down behind the counter, took out the markup, and sent the rest of the money with the unsold fabric back to Herr Wiesel. He couldn’t do that more than once or twice a day, his nerves wouldn’t stand it. He laid his exhausted head down on the counter, while Frau Seldersen slowly came back from the door—she hadn’t left her place, she couldn’t bring herself to stand and watch while Father sold goods he had just gone and fetched from Herr Wiesel like thieves’ booty. How did he ever think of that? Was this the first time? Who knows how many times he had had to resort to that pathetic trick. She went over to the counter Father was sitting behind.

  “Did you at least make some money?” she asked, her voice full of pity.

  He shook his head without looking up. “Not much, a few cents. Still, it’s better to make the sale.…”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Silence.

  Finally, Mother said: “You don’t need to do that, get things from Herr Wiesel.” She still didn’t understand.

  “Nonsense,” he said testily.

  She listened, then started talking to him, saying he should try again, maybe get the fabric himself somewhere, keep more in stock, he was always so cautious. But scenes like that one couldn’t happen again if the future was to mean anything at all to her. Wasn’t he ashamed of himself?

  “No,” came his answer, in a lost little voice. “I’ve learned not to feel any shame.” He stared into space.

  Pause.

  Frau Seldersen: “You have no strength left.”

  He nodded sadly. “No.”

  “You’re not a man anymore.”

  “No.”

  Silence.

  Suddenly he said: “Where do you think I could have gotten the fabric from? Who would give me anything?” He jumped up, his face tense, and gasped out his words.

  “You’re exaggerating,” she answered calmly.

  “Oh, what do you know? Go upstairs.”

  She didn’t move.

  He sat back down. “Spare me your advice, just go upstairs.”

  She took her key, tears in her eyes, and went up. He went too far when he got excited; for a while now, they had been having a lot of bad fights, any tiny little thing could set him off and make the feelings he had kept to himself until then come bursting out. You couldn’t truthfully say that he sought out these fights—his personality was fundamentally peaceful and harmonious—but he lost his temper and self-control all too easily now. And no wonder, he had been struggling hard for years without ever being able to relax, every day bringing new stresses and greater challenges than the last.

  The situation with the bills of exchange had worked out well and he had quickly paid back the money he’d borrowed from Herr Wiesel. But he had not been able to break the habit—he couldn’t avoid it, he again found himself paying with bills of exchange. It helped at first, only later did it add to the tension, the anxious anticipation, and then came the walk to go see Herr Wiesel … it ate away at his nerves. Frau Seldersen was right, there were a lot of items missing from his shelves, but did she have to tell him that to his face? Didn’t he know it perfectly well himself? Especially now that there were constantly incidents that made his shortages unpleasantly obvious. All in all, it was quite a cross to bear: standing downstairs in the shop, having to wait until someone walked in and wanted to buy, the hopeful joy at first, then the desperate looking around, with fear already lurking in the background, and finally the naked admission.… It was all an act, just make-work ending in nothing: no sale, no profit, no pleasure in it, just a cross to bear. No one had a job, no one had money, it all went together; there was no life, no death, just waiting that made you tired and numb. You went around with your eyes closed even during the day, and nothing that happened—no matter how significant, no matter what direction it came from—awakened any particular feelings. It was all idiotic, nothing but meaninglessly putting one foot in front of the other, without thinking about it, without any inner reason for it.… Simply idiotic.

  Frau Seldersen wrote to Albrecht and told him what she had heard from Herr Wiesel, and added what she herself had observed in Frau Fiedler: she was acting different, things must have been going badly for some time. At the end, she suggested that Albrecht act as carefully as he could and not come to Fritz with too much advice or too many suggestions. Maybe the best thing would be to leave him entirely alone, the poor boy! She wrote only a little about their own situation: that Father was moody and unpredictable, he must be facing insurmountable problems again but he never said a word about them and she couldn’t even think about pestering him with questions. Aside from that, she was about to let the maid go and would then have to do all of the housework herself; she had done the calculations and they would save a lot of money that way. She didn’t try to hide that it would be work that she wasn’t used to. She had always been able to afford a maid for all the years she had lived there, but now it was just one more extra expense. As long as her strength held up, she hoped she would be able to handle the work.

  Albrecht received the letter in the evening mail. He read it and calmly put it aside, intending to read it again later. He had received another letter too: a job offer, for a two-mon
th gig as a musician out in the provinces. It paid well and he decided with hardly any hesitation to sign the contract. In fact, he rushed it a little, and he later regretted his decision; the two months were during vacation, so he didn’t miss much, but he too had to start thinking about his exams soon. When he realized that, he remembered his classmates facing the same circumstances, and this common bond made him feel a certain amount of new hope.

  Then he read the letter from his mother again.

  Albrecht thought it over for a long time, then wrote to Fritz. It was a reserved letter, without any violent emotion, saying just that he had heard about his return and was up to date on all the recent events. What had happened was over and done with, water under the bridge, there was no point brooding about it now. But before Fritz decided what to do next, Albrecht asked him, in memory of their friendly discussions from years past, to listen to what he, Albrecht, suggested and to take it seriously. He advised him to pick up where he had left off years before and make up the time he needed to graduate, so that at least he’d have a diploma in hand. Then, in eighteen months, he could decide what to do. For now, Albrecht offered him his support. Fritz could finish what he’d started in peace and quiet, and for the time being would not have to suffer any more of the setbacks and failures he would be sure to face when looking for a new job. Fritz’s answer came back quickly, and you could tell how many times he had rewritten it. “Thank you very much for your suggestion and the personal offer of help,” he wrote—he was truly happy that someone was worrying about him. But he couldn’t agree to Albrecht’s proposal; he had made his choice and there was no going back. “I’ve changed a lot,” he went on, and this open admission was what mystified Albrecht the most—he had no idea what Fritz meant. Fritz asked Albrecht to visit him in M. one Sunday when Albrecht was on his way home, they could discuss everything in person. It all sounded confused and a bit mysterious.