Gilgi (23 page)

Martin sits up in the bed.—“Of course, little one—you should do what you think right. How stupid we were yesterday! I gave you a lot of trouble for no reason, didn’t I? I’ll get dressed quickly, and if you like I’ll come with you …”

“Don’t bother, Martin, I’d rather go right away—every
minute might count now. And don’t wait for me, I’ll go straight from Friesenstrasse to the labor office. And be here punctually for lunch—I’ll make something really nice. Bye, darling—don’t fall asleep again—and don’t forget the dentist!” When she gets as far as the door, Gilgi runs back again, kisses Martin hastily on the neck and the throat and the eyes—“no, don’t hold on to me, darling—bless you—see you at lunchtime …!”

Friesenstrasse. Outside the building where Hans and Hertha live, people are standing around, evidently excited about something—talking, gesticulating—Gilgi pays no attention to them, opens the street door—a clump of women in the stairwell—a rattle of chatter … Gilgi stops, extracts a blue envelope with the seven hundred-mark notes from her handbag, takes hold of the rings—are they all still there? Oh, how happy they’ll be, the people upstairs! Two steps at a time, all the way up—how your heart’s beating, it’s cutting off your breath. But why am I sad? Such an aching sadness in every bone … I should have come here last night, then I wouldn’t need to feel so oppressed—ach, nonsense, that’s just exaggerated conscientiousness—now is still early enough …

The door of the attic room is half-open. A man she doesn’t know comes out of it—Gilgi almost collides with him. The man has a cap in his hand—the man looks at Gilgi—the man opens his mouth—words crawl out of black gaps between his teeth … “Are you here to see the people in there? They’re dead. They were taken away a half-hour ago. Dead. All four of them. Gas. The man wrote a letter—beforehand — — — he’d had enough. I’ll have had enough soon too. Good morning.” The man puts his cap on. His heavy tread on the staircase dies away slowly …

Gilgi’s grip tightens on the envelope and the rings … but you’re not allowed to have such dreams—that’s revolting—such dreams … She knocks on the half-open door—a kind of bony sound … tack, tack, tack … everything’s quiet up here. Someone said that I have to knock here for a thousand hours—tack, tack, tack—I’ve got red shoes on and my blue dress—how did I come to wear red shoes with my blue dress? Because I’ve never done that before—I have to knock for a thousand hours … why is there such a terrible lot of writing on streetcar tickets—I’d like to know what all that writing on streetcar tickets means … tack, tack, tack—have I knocked for a thousand hours now? The door-handle is dull and has dark spots—someone should see about cleaning the handle with … yes, what’s that stuff called that you clean handles with? What’s it called again … I know the name … now the dirty handle is calling out to my hand—I have to touch it … Gilgi goes into the room, closes the door behind her. The window has been torn open, the beds are in gray disorder. A disgusting, sweetish smell is crawling across the floor—up to your nose … I’ve got red shoes on—and there’s a terrible lot of writing on streetcar tickets … I know that I’ve got red shoes on … I know more than that … I know that they’re dead—Hans and Hertha and the little children—Hans—Hertha—but do dead people still have names? I’m not insane, I’m quite alert and clear and cold and not sad at all—I’m not anything anymore. Gilgi steps over to the open window, leans out a long way … sees the street far below … you must decide — — — and you mustn’t run away … I know everything—everything—they’re dead—what’s that?—they’re dead because I didn’t come yesterday—I’ll have to think that right through to the end—I won’t be spared that—I
must keep thinking about it—keep thinking—keep thinking—keep thinking—think very carefully—don’t leave anything out … they died here, while Martin and I … hyacinths in black vases … Gilgi leans further out of the window … the pavement down there, that finishes everything—that’s something—to know that everything can be finished—very nice to know that—very, very nice. You should picture that to yourself in detail: you fall downwards—through the air—a soft noise—an extinguishing pain, a very strong pain—a spread-out mush of flesh and blood and bone—everything flows out of you—all of the blood and the brain and the unbearable thing. That’s not disgusting at all—that’s very nice—such red blood on the dirty, gray pavement—and everything finished … You must decide—I’m not insane, and I won’t faint, either—I have every part of my free will—nothing is influencing me—from outside. Lean out a little further—then I’ll fall—then … I’m not at all afraid … my head is so heavy—it’s pulling me—down—there—my feet are so heavy—won’t lift from the floor—I’ve got red shoes on, red shoes—they’re nailed to the floor … Gilgi falls backwards, bumps her temple on a chair—blood trickles across her face—damp and warm. She remains lying there, not making a sound—her eyes wide open—for seconds, minutes. Then stands up. Hard and determined. Goes to the little mirror over the wash-stand—dips a handkerchief in the water-jug and wipes the blood slowly from her cheek and temple—the face in the mirror is gray and hollow. Gilgi looks into the estranged mirror-face for a long time. Presses her lips together in a narrow, hard line. Start again from the beginning, Gilgi! Four people are dead. The guilt that is mine … I’ll see how I come to terms with it. The guilt that isn’t
mine—I’ll reject that, I won’t talk myself into it, I won’t carry that burden. The truth is difficult enough for me. And I know what I have to do—the most difficult thing. But I’m alive, and Martin’s alive, and the child’s alive … I want to live—and I’m happy that I’m living. Gilgi’s firm little steps die away on the staircase. Past the chattering women—along the street … It’s nine o’clock, and Martin will have left the apartment. As it should be.

Gilgi’s suitcase is under the wardrobe in the bedroom. She pulls it out. Puts in her clothes, her underwear. She works very quickly and surely. Surely? The tiniest question mark, the very slightest thought beyond what’s in front of her makes her hands tremble, incapable of moving, of picking up, of holding. Stay hard, stay hard—do the most difficult thing, do the right thing—right thing? Right how?… Ah, don’t think … She runs her hand lightly over the colorful evening dresses in the wardrobe—you can all stay hanging there, I don’t need you—by the time I wear an evening dress again, you’ll be long out of fashion. Don’t stand motionless—keep doing something, keep doing something—she shuts the suitcase. What now … a few lines for Martin … I’m hurting myself so much, I’ll kill myself entirely—the air will have to help me and the paper and everything around me—too difficult alone … too difficult—no—yes, I will write … firm, hard letters—white paper, black loops, white paper … red shoes, red … and the air will have to help me.

“… precisely because I love you. Don’t be afraid—not for me. It all has to be like this, you must trust me—Martin—something has happened, I can’t laugh anymore,
not for a long time. The way I am now, I’d only be a burden to you and make you sad along with me … then maybe you wouldn’t love me anymore … there’s nothing I fear more than that. Don’t forget me—please.”

She signs with a long, swerving line like a sob. She puts the note in the center of the dining table—hyacinths—white hyacinths in black vases. My sweet life—I’ll carry you in my blood forever. The golden fire … Kneels down in front of the divan, little Gilgi, lays her head onto the cushions—the red-gold silk—the color of the love of your life—you, and again only you … I have no tears for others—tears evaporate unshed for love of you … I am your creation—I worship you—your red-gold color—I will have no gray in it—not for you, not for me … the suitcase will be heavy …

Gilgi stands up. Her eyes hollow and unseeing, her mouth twisted, her skin ashen … and you walk, walk—you don’t cry, you’re not dying—you walk—with your suitcase—you catch the streetcar … Frozen world. Why do you hurt yourself—so much? You’re a bleeding scrap of flesh, disguised by skin … oh, my head—who is stabbing the needles in—dear God, do you think my head is a pincushion …

“Pit,” Gilgi says as she enters his room—“Pit, you’re here! Thank God! You have to help me, so that I get on the Berlin train tonight …”

They sit quietly beside each other, the two children. Pit holds Gilgi’s limp little hand for a very long time, very calmly—giving her what it is he has to give—a little human closeness. That’s not much. That’s a great deal. And the walls surround two small, insignificant people with indifferent understanding. A drop of sorrow in the
room—a teardrop of nothing shed behind the eyes—a drop of long-suffering breathing—a drop of sweet, young superfluousness. And so much outside! Nazi guys beating up Communists—Communists beating up Nazis—they’re both right—because they both believe they’re right. A terrible lot of newspapers writing—right and left—and right and left don’t get to the core of things. And the world bends over laughing—go ahead and paint your political colors on my face—a single, tiny raindrop will wash them off … you can try that with me—oh well—so much purposeful-purposeless racket—and a little cloud opens its mouth and spits in your stupid non-faces—just incidentally. There’s a great deal going on in the world, and nothing happening—precisely because so much is going on—sophistry which is bellowed down to the earth and bounces back—try not to choke yourselves … a great deal going on outside … And the sun falls in love with the earth again—kisses all kinds of bright, green, flowery toys out of her … its own game makes its love warmer and hotter—and there’ll be a little notice in this evening’s edition of the
Advertiser
—reporting and regretting impersonally … four people dead of gas … The notice isn’t on the front page, and isn’t very long—because that kind of thing goes on all the time and isn’t really anyone’s business particularly … And in a halting monotone Gilgi tells her friend what will be in the newspaper this evening, tells him a bit more than that … She wants to look at Pit, but her gaze flows emptily and vaguely down him—it’s quite unable to fix on anything tangible …

“What kind of people are we, then, Pit? Do you think I could be sad now—do you think I could shed a tear—because that’s happened … yes, I know it has, but somehow
I don’t know it has—it doesn’t get through to me—only that I bear some guilt for it, Pit—the guilt—but—I don’t understand it all …”

Dumbly she closes in upon herself—a gray little heap of misery. Pit feels quite weird. Is she still alive? If only she’d cry and groan! But she’s not fit for anything anymore … And while moments ago he was genuinely moved by the terrible story of despair in the back-street attic—now he’s seized by obstinate, senseless rage—he’s never hated living people as much as he hates those poor dead ones. They’ve destroyed the girl I knew, the living girl …

“Listen—Gilgi!” He’s standing in front of her, stiff strands of his rust-red hair are falling over his white face — — — the girl—who means so much to me … “Listen, Gilgi—don’t talk that garbage about guilt—when someone does something like that, he’s at the end of his tether—and how were you involved in it? By going there this morning instead of last night! Don’t make yourself ridiculous, don’t give yourself a martyr complex, you silly goose. Do you think death and life depend on you—are you so disgustingly full of your own importance? I’m telling you, they’d completely lost their capacity to live, they were subject to every chance—and a thousand rings couldn’t have helped them in the end … The guilt belongs in lots of other places, not to you … And if you start thinking like this now—well, then pretty soon nothing will happen on earth without you feeling guilty about it …” You’d like to shake and to hit the little, dead, gray heap of misery, so that life flows into it again, so that it becomes the little person it once was again, figure upright, shoulders thrown back, bursting with energy …

Gilgi barely moves—hears Pit talking quite a long, long
way off … thoughts wander … “Pit, you’ll make sure that, whatever happens, I get on the Berlin train tonight?”

“Of course. I’ll make sure.” Pit will do anything. It’ll be good for her to go away—only—“Why do you want to go to Berlin, of all places?”

Yes, why! Gilgi looks at Pit—as if he’d know why! Why does she want to go away, actually? Martin! But in a half-hour I can be with him … “Why, Pit? Yes … I know Pit, I know.” She pulls him down next to her. Her eyes are more purposeful, her hands more alive—she sees her way quite clearly … “Pit, I’m having a child. I want to have it. Because it’s a great joy to have a child by the one man I really love. It’s a great responsibility, too—which is good. I’ll have to gather and use all, all of the strength that’s in me—I’ll have to …”

Pit doesn’t quite understand—“Yes, but the man?”

“Yes, you see, Pit, even if I weren’t having the child—I’d have to leave him—for my sake and for his sake. I can’t work, Pit—if I’m with him. I’ve already tried, and I’ve seen and lived what happens then. I just love him too much—and in every way, and I only have to look at him for everything else to become meaningless to me, utterly, utterly meaningless. It doesn’t matter how much I strive to change things—nothing works. And you see, Pit, I have to work and keep my life in order … he doesn’t have enough money to support me—and anyway I wouldn’t want him to, if he did have enough. And he spends so much when he’s with me—and suddenly his small capital is gone, and then we’re both standing there not knowing what to do next. And he’s not at all used to working for money. He doesn’t understand it. And you know, someone can probably change of their own accord—but wanting to change
someone else just means making life difficult for yourself and for them. I think he really loves me now, and maybe he’d adapt—to please me. But quite apart from the external difficulty—the rest of it’s terribly hard too. Yes, if he did it later quite without being asked and quite slowly and gradually and above all quite, quite voluntarily—then—yes, then … But now! Because of the child—suddenly and from compulsion! And I’d get more and more nervous and more and more anxious and weaker, weaker, weaker, and I’d come to depend entirely on him … oh, Pit, my beautiful love shouldn’t turn into a kind of Strindberg play …”

“And you’re going to … all alone with the child … Oh, you’re so brave!”