The Secret Cellar | Ep. 23 | The Most German Man I Know
The Most German Man I Know
Letter from Adalbert Kehr to Konrad Josef
June 1889
Konrad, my lost friend,
The flood waters have receded somewhat and the path to the main settlement may once again be passable — at least for someone small and clever, whose feet have been adapted to this hellish undergrowth. His mother understood my request — the kindness of her touch assured me that she understood — and she is willing to send the boy. I fear I have not told the woman just how dangerous the boy’s errand will be. What will happen when he approaches the Förster homestead concerns me greatly — Elisabeth Nietzsche Förster does not take kindly to native boys with dirty feet rapping on her door — and so I have taught him to pronounce my name — to hold my letters forward, on upraised palms, and say “From Adalbert Kehr.” He really is a clever boy — when he speaks those words, it almost sounds like German — and I pray that Elisabeth does not shoot him with her shotgun.
Forgive me, Konrad. I just read what I have written, and I realize that to you it will seem the ramblings of a madman. You know nothing of my situation, not even the continent from which I write. When I think of explaining the last five years to you, a wave of shame washes over me. Forgive me, Konrad. Forgive me for not sharing with you the happier moments of these past years. Forgive me for not writing to you about my beautiful wife and my beautiful son when they were still alive. It shames me to think that I did not share the joys of fatherhood with you — you, whose letters full of the doting details of paternal obligation became my guide for a station in life to which I often thought myself unsuited. Oh yes I kept them — all the letters you sent me when I lived at Grüssau abbey — and I brought them here to Paraguay, and I would take them out and read them after my son was born. How kind you were to your daughters! How inspiring your patience was to me!
I have only myself to blame for my failures as a friend and correspondent — only my own cowardice. I do not blame my wife — I cannot blame my wife — after all, she told me to write you. But I must admit that my beautiful wife — and she was beautiful, Konrad, you must believe me — she was as beautiful as she was fervent in her dedication to our cause — the fact is — she thought you were a Jew.
Of course I told her that was nonsense. Why that’s impossible, I replied (my exact words!), when she vetoed your invitation to our wedding. My friend Konrad, I said, is the most German man I know. He is more Romantic than Goethe, more Teutonic than Wagner, more in love with the dream of a German nation than Herder himself. Then ask him, she said. Go ahead and write to your friend Konrad and ask him whether or not he is a Jew. And ask if that is his real name, his full name, she added with a smile. But of course, I did not write. I had not the courage, Konrad. I had not the courage to challenge her belief, her sad mistake born of never having met you face to face. If the allegation had come from any other lips, I would have called it a vile calumny. But it came from hers.
I must finish this letter now. The rain has stopped, and the boy is ready to begin his journey. I pray that he survives, and that this letter someday reaches you. If the boy returns, I will write you again, for there is something important I must tell you.
But for now, all I can do is beg your forgiveness,
Adalbert
Continue reading: The next episode is The Underground River, part of The Secret Cellar, on MyWayToCanossa.com.
Originally published at www.daveomeara.com on May 27, 2018.
