A LL THIS happened ten years ago. In the first few years after Hanna’s death, I was tormented1 by the old questions of whether I had denied and betrayed her, whether I owed her something, whether I was guilty for having loved her. Sometimes I asked myself if I was responsible for her death. And sometimes I was in a rage at her and at what she had done to me. Until finally the rage faded and the questions ceased to matter. Whatever I had done or not done, whatever she had done or not to me—it was the path my life had taken.
Soon after her death, I decided3 to write the story of me and Hanna. Since then I’ve done it many times in my head, each time a little differently, each time with new images, and new strands4 of action and thought. Thus there are many different stories in addition to the one I have written. The guarantee that the written one is the right one lies in the fact that I wrote it and not the other versions. The written version wanted to be written, the many others did not.
At first I wanted to write our story in order to be free of it. But the memories wouldn’t come back for that. Then I realized our story was slipping away from me and I wanted to recapture it by writing, but that didn’t coax5 up the memories either. For the last few years I’ve left our story alone. I’ve made peace with it. And it came back, detail by detail and in such a fully6 rounded fashion, with its own direction and its own sense of completion, that it no longer makes me sad. What a sad story, I thought for so long. Not that I now think it was happy. But I think it is true, and thus the question of whether it is sad or happy has no meaning whatever.
At any rate, that’s what I think when I just happen to think about it. But if something hurts me, the hurts I suffered back then come back to me, and when I feel guilty, the feelings of guilt2 return; if I yearn7 for something today, or feel homesick, I feel the yearnings and homesickness from back then. The tectonic layers of our lives rest so tightly one on top of the other that we always come up against earlier events in later ones, not as matter that has been fully formed and pushed aside, but absolutely present and alive. I understand this. Nevertheless, I sometimes find it hard to bear. Maybe I did write our story to be free of it, even if I never can be.
As soon as I returned from New York, I donated Hanna’s money in her name to the Jewish League Against Illiteracy8. I received a short, computer-generated letter in which the Jewish League thanked Ms. Hanna Schmitz for her donation. With the letter in my pocket, I drove to the cemetery9, to Hanna’s grave. It was the first and only time I stood there.
转眼间,这一切都成了十年前的事情了。在汉娜死后最初的几年里,那些老问题一直在折磨困扰着我,诸如,我是否拒绝和背叛了她,我是否仍欠她什么,我是否有罪——因为我曾经爱过她,我是否必须要宣布与她脱离关系或者把她摆脱掉。有时候我扪心自问,我是否要对她的死负责,有时候我对她十分气愤,气愤她对我的伤害,直到那气愤变得软弱无力为止,那些问题变得不重要为止。我做过什么和没做过什么,她对我有过什么伤害——这些恰恰成了我的生活。
汉娜死后不久,我就下决心要把我和汉娜的故事写出来。从那时以来,我已经在脑子里把我们的故事写过多次了,每次总有点不一样,总是有新的形象、新的情节和新的构思。这样一来,除了我写出来的版本外还有许多其他版本。有保障的是写出来的版本是正确的版本,原因在于它是我写出来的,而其他版本我没有写出来。已经写出来的版本是它自己想被写出来,其他许多版本不想被写出来。
起初,我想把我们的故事写出来的目的是为了摆脱她,但是,我的记忆不是为这个目的而存在的。随后我注意到,我们的故事是怎样地从我的记忆中悄悄地消失。于是,我想通过写作把我的记忆寻找回来。但是,就是写作也没有把记忆诱发出来。几年来,我一直没有云触扪及我们的故事,我们相安无事。这样一来,它反而回来了,一个细节接着一个细节,以一种完整的、一致的和正确的方式回来了,使我对此不再伤心。一个多么让人伤心的故事:我过去常这样想。这并不是说我现在认为它是幸福的。但是,我认为它是属实的。在这个前提下,它是伤心的还是幸福的问题就不重要了。
当我想起它时,无论如何我总是想这些。当我觉得受到了伤害时,过去受到伤害的感觉就又重现出来;当我觉得我对某事应负责任时,就会想起当时的那种负罪感;如果我如今渴望得到什么,或怀念家乡,那么我就会感觉出当时的那种渴望和怀乡情。我们的生活一环套一环,后一环总是离不开前一环,已经过去的没有结束,而是活现在现实中。这些我懂。尽管如此,我有时对此还是感到难以承受。也许我把我们的故事写出来的目的还是为了摆脱它,尽管我无法达到这个目的。
从纽约一回来,我就把汉娜的钱以她的名义汇给了"犹太反盲联盟"。我收到了一封用电脑写的短信,在信中,"犹太反盲联盟"对汉娜·史密芝女士的捐赠表示了感谢。兜里揣着那封信,我开车去了汉娜的墓地。那是我第一次,也是唯一的一次站在她的墓前。
1 tormented | |
饱受折磨的 | |
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2 guilt | |
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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3 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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4 strands | |
n.(线、绳、金属线、毛发等的)股( strand的名词复数 );缕;海洋、湖或河的)岸;(观点、计划、故事等的)部份v.使滞留,使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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5 coax | |
v.哄诱,劝诱,用诱哄得到,诱取 | |
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6 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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7 yearn | |
v.想念;怀念;渴望 | |
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8 illiteracy | |
n.文盲 | |
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9 cemetery | |
n.坟墓,墓地,坟场 | |
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