An Offering for the Dead by Hans Erich Nossack Page B

front of the mirror.
    I dare not claim that we were in love. Rather, I would guess that the two of us had gotten underway with different goals. We could easily have passed one another by; but we happened to see each other, and we believed that we were the ones we were looking for.
    I spoke to her the words that I had previously heard: "It will cause a great deal of grief. " Those were not good words on my lips or at that moment. If I truly wanted to avoid grief, all I had to do was leave without first saying that. But in this way, I probably wanted to shed all responsibility, and that was cowardly.
    She eyed me skeptically from the mirror. I did not dare emerge from the darkness, because I was afraid she would notice the absence of my mirror image. Since I was standing in the darkness, there was at first only darkness in her eyes. But they stared right in the direction of my voice. Whether her gaze approached me slowly, or I entered it — being curious about whose image was in it, mine or someone else's — then the dreadful thing happened, and I had to defenselessly watch what happened to me. As punishment for my indecisiveness, I became the witness of my destiny.
    I saw myself groping through the dripping fog. I was fleeing the inescapable. I had no idea where I was heading. I kept changing directions. I ran around in a circle. What I saw was not the same man who had so overweeningly bragged that that afternoon, a high-placed visitor in his room had reached a decision about him. Perhaps the forebear had already recognized this and had therefore asked: Why is he trembling?
    Now I too saw that I was trembling. I was trembling so badly that it was communicated to the fog around me and to the ground on which I seemed to be standing. It was an awful sight. Nowhere was there anything to lean on. No tree, no wall. All familiar things had dissolved. The world was a clayey ocean. At times, I saw only my head when I stumbled into a trough of the waves, and at times, only my legs, when I came to a hill and my upper body vanished in the haze. That was why I heard myself panting from the strain, and whenever I pulled my feet out of the clay, they made a smacking noise.
    Often I halted and listened. I must have noticed what I thought. If only I had paid attention earlier to the small, shy caresses, and not rejected them gruffly. For example, when we sit at the table, facing one another, as we have been doing every day for years now. One brings spoon after spoon to one's lips without thinking of the food. One thinks of the struggle that lies behind one and that is only half completed; and while chewing and swallowing, one already furiously continues to wage the struggle tomorrow. Suddenly, one's hand is grazed lightly. One looks up, astonished, as if the enemy were already here, one sees a smile, the touch lingers on the hand for an instant, but one already angrily shakes it off. And so one day, one stands altogether outside. When the lindens are in leaf, one probably sees it and yearns to be present. But one can no longer find the first word. One grieves, and the lindens also grieve because someone is standing on the side.
    Once, a war took place outside. The nations tried to destroy one another. That was a long time ago. The dead can scarcely remember. They tell each other we are better off forgetting all about it, and we will forget it; otherwise someone will feel like trying again and will declare that he has to avenge us. But that is only a pretext, because he is dissatisfied with himself; for we do not need revenge, we need peace. At that time, the storm was raging around the house. The windows rattled, the ceiling shattered, and the tottering walls might collapse at any second, burying everything. But I cried: "Thank goodness! Thank goodness!" and I puffed myself up in defiance. Then someone said to me: How sorry I feel for you. And the ground rocked under my feet.
    But now it is too late. There is no more moon, whose dishonest