Free An Offering for the Dead by Hans Erich Nossack Page B

have been doomed, since there was no road back to other lives once this road was taken. And resistance was useless.
    However, I have no appropriate designation for this last visitor. Earlier, he must have had a very special name, which made it unnecessary to add any essential epithet. I never dared to address him first, even mentally, with either a request or a complaint, much less with refractory words. It was a question of respect. Knowing that he existed sufficed.
     
    So how shall I designate him now? The judge? He was cer tainly a strict and unique judge. He stood upright in nothingness like the law itself. As it was later revealed: once, in a highly critical moment, he had pronounced a verdict that set a universal standard and perhaps saved the world. However, the designation "judge" is too narrow for him. "Judge" conjures up a defendant and the insurmountable barrier separating the two. But the man I am speaking of was probably very far away; yet it was not impossible going to him and reaching him, though it may sound presumptuous to say so. For the difficult position of judge that was assigned to him had not killed his humanity, but merely concealed it. As for me, I always called him the "forebear," and this designation is probably the one that best suits his character. Only one should not think of this label as something senile (in fact, my father was older and, above all, looked older); it should merely clarify his rank and the degree of respect that we felt towards him.
    Everyone turned in his direction when he entered the room. My father, despite his years, nimbly leaped up from the couch and strode towards him. The fat man likewise tried to get to his feet, but, sighing, gave it up and only held his torso solemnly erect until the forebear had settled down. Naturally, my father had reserved the place of honor for him, on the couch, but he refused it and sat down on the most uncomfortable chair, which was at the table. Moreover, the plaited straw of this chair was tattered. My father had to reoccupy his place on the couch. This was quite unpleasant for him, for he did not dare lean back, he simply sat half on the edge. I myself remained standing the whole time, as was proper. My brother also remained standing; he leaned against the wall next to the couch.
    They kept silent for quite a while. The fat man had leaned back in his armchair again, letting out an occasional wheeze.
     
    I was already wondering if they expected me to break the silence. But how could I dare? The forebear, incidentally, had never visited me before; what would have prompted him to do so anyway? However, I had already seen him from afar and I knew that it was he, and that he had to make the decision about me.
    At last, my father took the floor: "We have gotten together here in order to ask you to allow him to go to his mother," he said to the forebear, softly and gently.
    Previously, I had never once thought about my mother or even remotely dreamt that she was the issue. But no sooner had my father mentioned her than I felt as if I had never desired anything else.
    The forebear's face remained motionless. No one could tell whether he had even heard the request. His features were chiseled in stone. His forehead and his cheekbones stuck out sharply. His temples were hollow, and his cheeks sucked in as if from a wasting grief. His mouth was like a line, his lips pressed tightly together; his words were well guarded.
    The fat man nervously ran his hand through his sparse hair and cleared his throat. But instead of him, my teacher virtually buttonholed the forebear in an unexpectedly sharp tone.
    "I am prepared to act as her defense attorney. I wanted to do so long ago, but I was told it was too early. Very well, it is not my place to judge it. But now it is time to release her from the prison of a murderous name. The verdict may once have been justified — who would dare to doubt it. Her deed aroused such great repulsion and made everyone so