An Offering for the Dead by Hans Erich Nossack

profoundly aware of the danger to which the world would be exposed if this woman were still to be given a free hand, that strict laws were necessary to find the beginning of a new road and prevent any relapse. For we were probably by no means certain of our strength and success; otherwise the judgment would not have had to be so harsh. But this verdict was one-sided, like all verdicts. The road that it indicated has been taken, and the result is such that one is now tempted to approve of her deed."
    The fat man thoughtfully swayed his head, and my father whispered soothingly: "Not that! Not that!"
    Annoyed at the interruption, my teacher continued: "If not that, then nevertheless, none of us now has the right to pass such a judgment as was pronounced back then. This woman was excluded from the life in which she wanted, in her way, to assure herself a share. People did not wish to become guilty like her; they wanted to master their destinies. The attempt was to their credit, but it failed, and we now realize that it was doomed, since people went about it with only half their hearts. Destiny was not mastered, it was fearfully locked out. And man, not destiny, was the prisoner of his fear. The unconsumed grew outside the pale of the laws, inside of which people vegetated dishonestly, without warmth or beauty. But the Void attracts Being, and the world of appearances is on the verge of collapse."
    The fat man nodded, and my father repeated the words: "Without warmth or beauty."
    My teacher concluded with these words: "Sons must again be born of mothers, not of slave women. We, guilty of the failed attempt, do not have the right to forgive this woman. For we ourselves are in need of forgiveness. It is our duty to rescind the verdict that was issued under different circumstances. Let us stop evading destiny."
    The forebear still sat there, inert. Only a very feeble twitching of his neck muscles revealed life and participation. It was as if words were attempting to rise from him and were being repressed. His eyes could not be seen, they lay deep in their sockets, concealed under the gray shrubbery of the brows. He seemed to be rigidly staring into space, perusing a text that remained invisible to us.
    Now the others likewise spoke about my mother. The fat man, for example, talked fondly about her for a long time, not without accompanying his words with generous sweeps of his hands, as if trying to disperse all qualms. He also laughed in his friendly way; but I believe that, at bottom, he was deeply touched and could barely hold back his tears. His cheerfulness arched across a great sorrow; that was why we felt so comfortable with him, as if listening to some splendid music. The sound of his voice melted even the stone features of the forebear's face, and the creases grew softer, like mountain valleys in spring light. But I may simply have imagined that. "Why bother talking and deliberating so much," said the fat man. "We have done enough arguing, with ourselves and with the world. It would be nice to relax for once." He nearly choked and had to cough. His face turned crimson from the strain. Or was he only pretending he had to cough? I did not dare slap him on the back.
    Everyone waited until his coughing fit was over and he breathlessly apologized with a gesture. Then I heard my father say in his shyly suppliant voice: "She is not a bad person, the poor thing. She will be delighted."
    Now the forebear finally turned his face towards me. It is not really possible to talk about it and probably not permitted. I noticed that my brother was so agitated that he switched from one foot to the other. In so doing, he banged his head or his shoulder on a small picture hanging on the wall. It seemed to me as if, all that time, it had been rocking to and fro on its nail with a shuffling noise. I cannot say how long it took. I was nothing but the transparent thought of something greater.
    "Why is he trembling?" those eyes inquired, imprisoning me