Justin Chen
Prof. Schwab
4/29/02

Paper 3: Redemption through “Wahrheit” in Was bleibt and Sommerhaus, später

The seemingly abstract concept of truth bears a great deal of very concrete significance in both Christa Wolf’s Was bleibt and Judith Hermann’s Sommerhaus, später. This is particularly striking given the almost fantastical feel that characterizes both narratives—Was bleibt revolves largely around a paranoia plot that often lapses into surreal mental flights, while Sommerhaus, später concerns the narrator’s unusual and dysfunctional relationship with a homeless man. In such unreal circumstances, a search for whatever “truth” exists seems logical. But the quest to discover some sort of enduring meaning is not limited to a simple plot engine, providing simple motivation for the narrators of both tales to act. Rather, the discussion of truth becomes a theme of its own, provoking other questions about the difference between semantic and signified truth and the nature of communication. Ultimately, both texts suggest that some redemptive possibility for the clumsiness of human exchange exists, though they do so in slightly different ways.

One motif common to both texts that touches on the issue of truth is the idea of a conversation in which true meaning is lost behind a veneer of almost automatic exchanges. In Was bleibt, for instance, the narrator describes a conversation with her husband by saying, “So sprachen wir immer, am wahren Text vorbei. Ich musste an die zwei, drei Male denken, als der wahre Text mir doch entschlüpft war, weil ich keine Kraft hatte, ihn zurückzuhalten, und wie seine Augen, siene Stimme sich da verändert hatten” (Wolf, 24). The language of this passage is revealing—first of all, it refers to some sort of deeper “wahre Text” that lurks beneath the conversation’s surface but is never quite accessed by either the narrator or her husband. Furthermore, it appears that this truth is always attempting to emerge from the superficial exchanges—to break free from the ordinary discourse—and that the narrator herself must exert some force of will to prevent this from happening. One might rightfully wonder why such an effort is necessary, when the ostensible purpose of a conversation is to exchange “wahre Text”—that is, “real” thoughts and ideas.

An even stronger example of this disconnect between superficial dialogue and actual meaning occurs when the narrator describes the end of her telephone conversation with a male friend: “Da hörte ich mich auf einmal laut ins Telefon rufen: Du! Hör mal! Einmal werden wir alt sein, bedenkst du das!” (Wolf, 25). The narrator’s sentiments in this passage are real and heartfelt, not contrived like the rest of the conversation. Yet as she describes it, “Er hatte aufgelegt” (Wolf, 25)—that is, her friend missed her ultimate point. Both of these passages, then, suggest that much of human discourse is nothing more than “words, words, words,” and that semantic meaning may dissolve into meaninglessness in the face of over-rehearsed conversation.

Finally, there is one scene in which the narrator’s husband actually notices the superficiality of their conversation. Wolf writes, “Sonst? Nichts Besonderes. Ziemliche Ruhe. Wenig Leute… Also wirklich. Schlafen? Aber ja. Hervorragend. Also wirklich. Über mich muss man sich keine Gedanken machen” (Wolf, 82). The seeming nonchalance of the narrator does not escape her husband’s attention, for he asks, “Warum sagst du heute immerzu »also wirklich«” (Wolf, 82). The narrator appears not to have noticed her own slips, ironic given the attention she herself paid to meaningless or superficial communication in the previous two examples.

Similarly, Sommerhaus, später contains a number of instances of “missed conversations.” Even the opening scene involves a moment of strained communication—the narrator writes, “Er [Stein] rief mich irgendwann in den ersten Dezembertagen an und sagte: »Hallo«, und schwieg. Ich schwieg auch” (Hermann, 139). This passage already sets up the story as one characterized by tense exchanges and an inability to speak freely. A more direct example of a missed communication is the scene in which Stein comes to pick the narrator up to take her to his newly purchased house. As the narrator puts it, “Ich sagte: »Stein, das nervt. Hör auf zu klingeln«, ich wollte sagen: Stein, es ist saukalt draussen, ich habe keine Lust, mit dir rauszufahren, verschwinde” (Hermann, 140). Even in this seemingly pedistrian exchange, the same theme of important thoughts left uncommunicated is evident. As in Was bleibt, it is as yet unclear what obstruction stands in the way of meaningful dialogue. However, the disconnect between what is spoken and what is thought is clear.

Incidentally, the themes mentioned above are closely mirrored by the scene in Brecht’s Der kaukasische Kreidekreis in which Grusche and Simon stand on opposite sides of the riverbank and find themselves unable to communicate their stories to one another. As the singer/narrator explains, “Soviel Worte werden gesagt, soviel Worte werden verschwiegen… Hört was er dachte, nicht sagte:” (Brecht, 74). This passage once again references mankind’s ability to speak without any sort of real success—many words are exchanged, but few have any sort of lasting worth. In this sense, then, language represents a barrier of sorts against “true” communication, for it has the dangerous ability to exist on its own, as an independent but ultimately meaningless system that often masks true thoughts. As in both Was bleibt and Sommerhaus, später, the reason for the stifled conversation between Grusche and Simon is unclear—whether it is related to Brecht’s “Entfremdung” technique or simply the plot itself, the reader is left feeling frustrated that neither character can simply come out and explain what has happened to them in the intervening years at this crucial moment in the play. Similarly, one wonders why the narrator in Was bleibt cannot simply tell Stein that she does not want to see his new house with him, and instead chooses to manifest her displeasure by irritably telling him to stop ringing the doorbell.

There are several more instances in Sommerhaus, später of moments of missed communication. For instance, when the narrator is actually at Stein’s new house, she sees children’s writing on the wall, and she reads part of it aloud: “»Geh zu ihn, und lass deinen Drachen steigen«” (Hermann, 150). As she then describes it, “Stein drehte sich plötzlich irr zu mir herum und sagte: »Was?«, ich sagte: »Nichts.«” (Hermann, 150). Thus, a confrontation is narrowly missed, probably to the ultimate detriment of the two characters who never really exchange their real thoughts at the right time. This line of thought of course begs the question of whether any sort of “real thoughts” can actually be intuited from such a dialogue—perhaps the narrator was simply reading what was written on the wall with no other purpose in mind. Alternatively, one could formulate some sort of interpretation of the phrase she chose to read out loud as a manifestation of her jealousy of Stein’s relationships with other women, with the “Drachen” representing a phallic symbol. Either way, the interesting point seems to be that this scene again represents a moment of missed communication, and that whatever the narrator’s reasons for reading the children’s writing—whether or not there is some underlying significance—the characters do not end up discussing it.

The other example of this theme of disconnectedness in Was bleibt occurs after the narrator has seen the house and feels like she should offer a comment, suggesting, “ Ich würde den Efeu von der Veranda wegmachen, in Sommer. Sonst können wir nichts sehen, wenn wir hier sitzen wollen und Wein trinken” (Hermann, 151). In return, Hermann writes, “Stein sagte: »Mach ich«—but the narrator reveals, “ Ich war mir sicher, dass er überhaupt nicht zugehört hatte” (Hermann, 151). Again, this scene reveals an inability or unwillingness to communicate. Why shouldn’t Stein listen to the narrator? The best answer is probably that this scene takes place after a crucial passage (discussed below) in which another missed communication represents a turning point in the novel. Nevertheless, the repetition of awkward or strained dialogue here and elsewhere is striking in establishing a definite theme: the difference between what is spoken and what is thought but remains internal.

In the case of Was bleibt, the inner discourse is willfully suppressed by the narrator, while in the other two, the disconnect appears to be accidental. But how does this discussion relate to the notion of “truth”? One possible link is that all these examples seem to challenge the reader to consider how much of the “wahre Text” is ignored or overlooked in everyday conversations—that is, to consider whether we, too, are unconsciously but perpetually attempting to obscure our most meaningful thoughts.

Nor is the discussion of truth limited to these examples of disconnected dialogues. In fact, the abstract concept of something “real” or “true” is invoked in both texts outside the context of conversation. In Was bleibt, for instance, the narrator says, “Und wenn in grosser Leuchtschrift die Wörter WACHSTUM WOHLSTAND STABILITÄT an der Wand erschienen wären—nichts hätte mehr geholfen, denn nun standen die wirklichen Fragen im Raum, die, von denen wir leben und durch deren Entzug wir sterben können “(Wolf, 95, my emphasis). The “wirkliche Frage”—that is, “auf welche Weise aus dieser Gegenwart für uns und unsere Kinder eine lebbare Zukunft herauswachsen solle” (Wolf, 95)—is thrust into the discussion by a young woman of unknown identity in the back row, and the narrator devotes a great deal of attention to describing how the use of the word “Zukunft” changes the entire tenor of the discussion.

The phrase “wirklichen Fragen” is significant because it immediately implies that the conversation taking place before the unknown woman’s interruption is not real. The narrator even pokes fun at the empty slogans—“Wachstum, Wohlstand, Stabilität”—printed on the tag that Kollegin K. so proudly wears. In the young woman’s direct, honest question, then, is the first glimpse of some sort of “real” underlying message. The narrator even states that “die junge Frau…hätte sich nie das Herz gefasst, öffentlich zu sprechen, wenn sie nicht extra gekommen ware, um die für sie unaufschiebbare Frage zu stellen” (Wolf, 95). Just as the narrator is forced to expend some palpable effort of applied will to suppress her true thoughts (“wahre Text”) near the novel’s opening, then, the woman in this scene appears to feel some sort of similar desire to allow her true thoughts to reveal themselves. Her efforts provide hope and a sense of “reality” that were not present beforehand.

A corresponding passage in Sommerhaus, später occurs when the narrator and Stein are in the car on their way to visiting the new house. When Stein reveals that he paid 80,000 Marks for the building, the narrator asks, “Woher hast du 80 000 Mark?, at which point “er warf mir einen kurzen Blick zu und antwortete: »Du stellst die falschen Fragen.«” (Hermann, 145). This scene is also reminiscent of some of the disconnected conversations discussed above—Stein essentially accuses the narrator of completely missing the point, just as the two keep misunderstanding each other or communicating poorly throughout. Furthermore, the phrase “falschen Fragen” naturally demands its counterpart, the “richtigen,” or the “wahren,” or (as in Was bleibt) the “wirklichen Fragen.” What should the narrator have asked?

There is actually a similar scene a short while later in the story in which the roles are reversed. The narrator writes: “Auf einmal—ohne, dass ich das wirklich gewollt hätte—verstand ich Stein, seine Begeisterung, seine Vorfreude, seine Fiebrigkeit,” and she says to him, “Es ist schön, dass wir da zusammen hinfahren, Stein” (Hermann, 147). Suddenly, it appears that the narrator has found a way around whatever barrier might exist between her and Stein, and the moment seems to possess some element of that elusive “truth.” But her efforts appear to come too little, too late, for he replies without looking back at her, “Jedenfalls kann man von der Veranda aus die Sonne hinterm Kirchturm untergehen sehen” (Hermann, 147), and then changes the subject.

The topic of correct vs. incorrect questions, statements, and behavior is especially important in this particular narrative, of course, because of the story’s peculiar ending. Stein continues to send the narrator short updates by means of a series of postcards, always with the same picture on the front, until the final letter that contains an article reporting the destruction of his house. There is a strong sense of miscommunication again here—the narrator decides not to visit Stein until he tells her to come, but he never does, instead choosing to continue writing his postcards as if it were expected that she would go to him. And the one piece of news that ought to have moved the narrator to action—the newspaper article describing the destruction of Stein’s beloved “Landhaus, Herrenhaus, Gutshaus” (139) and Stein’s seeming disappearance—appears to have no direct effect on her. In fact, the story ends with her placing the letter to the side and thinking, “Später” (156).

Further, the last scene before Stein’s disappearance involves a strange inaction as well—Toddi, a mutual friend, falls into the frozen pond while ice skating, but both the narrator and Stein simply stand there smoking and laughing until Toddi is rescued and another friend, Henriette, comments, “Seid ihr bescheuert, oder was” (Hermann, 154). Like the many moments of missed communication discussed above, perhaps these scenes are simply more examples of people missing one another at crucial times. These thoughts again beg the question of whether some sort of “real” narrative underlies all these misalignments, or whether people are just too clumsy with one another for any real synthesis of thought to occur.

Perhaps such issues can be resolved by one of the few scenes in the story in which Stein is completely earnest and candid with the narrator. He says, “Was soll ich dir denn sagen. Das hier ist eine Möglichkeit, eine von vielen. Du kannst sie wahrnehmen, oder du kannst es bleiben lassen. Ich kann sie wahrnehmen, oder abbrechen und woanders hingehen. Wir können sie zusammen wahrnehmen oder so tun, als hätten wir uns nie gekannt” (Hermann, 152). Here is a direct appeal to the “truth”—Stein asks the narrator to make a decision about what she believes. Suddenly, practical issues like money are not so important—it is the faith in something tangible that is crucial. Unfortunately, the narrator brings the conversation back to money again, asking incredulously, “Du hast 80 000 Mark bezahlt, um mir eine Möglichkeit zu zeigen, eine von vielen?” (Hermann, 152), to which Stein has no answer. The moment has passed, and when the narrator tries to strike up another conversation, Stein answers her coolly, “Danke, dass du mitgekommen bist” (Hermann, 153).

In a narrative about people missing one another, both in terms of intention and communication, this most intense and disappointing of exchanges spells a definite turning point, and it is Stein’s incongruous appeal to the “truth” that makes this particular scene so climactic. It seems that finally, the author offers the reader some sort of redemptive concept that can unite the characters in belief and understanding. While this does not ever actually happen within the story, the possibility nevertheless exists for a brief, flickering moment, before being buried again in a series of lamentably misaligned human interactions.

No such unification occurs in Was bleibt, either, though Wolf’s narrator seems to be much more explicit about describing the existence of such a possibility. She says, “Eines Tages, dachte ich, werde ich sprechen können, ganz leicht und frei. Es ist noch zu früh, aber ist es nicht immer zu früh” (Wolf, 108). The new language of the narrator is an overwhelmingly optimistic image that prophesizes the overthrow of the bulky, obfuscating language that acts as a barrier to true communication throughout the novel. The new language will be light and unburdened, and it will serve to unify people, just as he narrator herself want to include those around her. Unfortunately, it is still too early for this language to exist.

Thus, while the notion of “truth” is not exactly parallel in the two narratives, it does serve as an interesting motif that continues to reappear. Both Wolf and Hermann appear concerned with the concept of superficial conversations as barriers to meaningful semantic exchange, and both seem to offer the reader a vision of a possible solution that involves realer, truer discourse. Perhaps like Heine’s “ein neues Lied, ein besseres Lied,” Wolf’s “new language” and Hermann’s “wahrnehmen” are both indications that we too can “hier auf Erden schon / Das Himmelreich errichten”—or at least partially overcome the barriers that currently stand in our way.