Free The Wall by H. G. Adler Page A

daughter, Eva.” The little slumbering bodies are gently covered, only the heads sticking out from the blankets that long to cover them, sometimes a hand as well, all rosy with five fingers folded together, maintaining a sure grip upon some dream or carefree oblivion, the children alive, their quiet breathing protecting them within a sleep lovingly observed, and from which awakening is promised. Your children—so Johanna confirms in a subdued monotone meant to disturb no one, though she also affirms that their sleep is deep; the children don’t wake up even when roused. How wonderful this sounds. I have Johanna to thank for these children, little strangers who do not belong to me, who are cut off from me and, because of what I’m able to understand, separate. But indeed they are mine, though alas not mine, yet still my legacy, my gift to a memory that I myself cannot fully share, West Park Row in a strange city, in a strange land. Johanna stands between us, the go-between, who moves me to hidden tears, the guide who asks no questions but, instead, mercifully acts on my behalf. But how can I live up to such caring intervention?
    Empty, the wall before me, empty, no way to know whether it is permanent. From the cracked-open sash of a window on the fourth floor of the apartment building on the other side of the street, two old ladies look out, their faces lit up by the sun, a hand scattering crumbs or scraps (it could easily be the crushed shells of peanuts) onto the street below. Black with a couple of white spots, its stiffened tail sticking up, the cat snakes its way between them, embracing this human domain made all the more secure by this housemate. Alas, these women, perhaps they are vexed by unfulfilled wishes, perhaps worries eat at them, but probably it’s not so bad. They have the leisure to act so, for it is not just the cat that is wrapped in contentment; the women purr with satisfaction as well. I know very well they have reason to, because with shopping bags chock-full they head home from Simmonds’s. Do the women remember? Certainly! They are comfortable in their own skin, the whisperings of the radio granting them confidence and a shine to their cheeks. Their mouths open, the lips flap away, roundabout talk that, even when not entirely taken in, is still understood. Like the children, thesewomen have nothing pressing before them; they simply are, and that’s the way it is.
    Why must I rise above my own memories as they rise below me? And my own, what does that mean? Where is it that I stand? How free the view, the world open, but soon you bump up against the horizon’s border, and once again you see that there is another border much farther off. No, there’s no such border, it’s only an idea, but not one that can be grasped; only the law identifies you, demands that you stop. But where the laws of heaven and earth do not hold sway you brush up against a command, a command that overshadows you, announcing that you may not, you may not do something. That’s true for you as well, Johanna. It’s true for all of you, though it rarely catches up with you, and therefore you rarely realize it.
    Now both ladies are gone; they both left at the right time so that they didn’t have to see it, having been warned, a task having called them away, they leaving behind the street where now they could not have helped seeing the gray height of the wall that does not disturb them in the cushioned horror of their living room. They are in their own home, one made familiar by the cat that has already jumped down from the windowsill, busying themselves before their glass cabinet with the colorfully kitschy porcelain. Soon they will eat, though they won’t taste any danger on their tongues as they stick to their customary routine, they being blessed and able to unwind, they having been given what defines them. Meanwhile, it’s different for me. If indeed I’m alive, it’s due only to my reflection. Light and shadow