The Arcades Project - Operi

chief, he said: "Oh that. The morning dew, you know. The pads inside the ii'ames, see?
111ey stain when they get damp."
My heart stopped beating in my throat and slipped back down to where it belonged.
From here on, the ascent was steeper. Also, we began to be repeatedly in doubt about
which direction to take. To my surprise Benjamin was quite able to understand our little
map, and to help me keep our orientation and stick to the right road.
The word "road" became more and more sy:mbolic. There were stretches of a path, but
more often it became a hardly discernible trail among boulders-and then the steep
vineyard which I will never forget.
But first I have to explain what made this route so safe.
Following the initial descent, the path ran parallel to the widely known "official" road
along the crest of dIe mountain chain, which was quite passable. "Our" road-the Route
LiJter and an old, old smugglers' path-ran below and somewhat tucked inside the
overhang of the crest, out of the sight of the French border guards patrolling above. At a
few points the two roads approached each other closely, and there we had to keep silent.
Benjamin walked slowly and with an even measure. At regular intervals-I believe it
was ten minutes-he stopped and rested for about one minute. Then he went on, at the
same steady pace. He had calculated and worked this out during the night, he told me:
"With this timing I will be able to make it to the end. I rest at regular intervals-I must
rest bifore I become exhausted. Never spend yourself:1
What a strange man. A crystal-clear mind ; unbending inner strength; yet, a wooly­
headed bungler.
The nature of his strength, Walter Benjamin once wrote, is "patience, conquerable by
nothing." 2 Reading tlns years later, I saw him again walking slowly, evenly along the
mountain path, and the contraructions within him lost some of their absurdity.
Mrs. Gurland's son, Jose-he was about fifteen years old-and I took turns carrying the
black bag; it was awfully heavy. But, I recall, we all showed good spirits. There was some
easy, casual conversation, turning mostly around the needs of the moment. But mainly,
we were quiet, watching the road.
To day, when Walter Benjamin is considered one of the century's leading scholars and
critics-today I am sometimes asked: VVhat did he say about the manuscript? Did he
discuss the contents? Did it develop a novel philosophical concept?
Good God, I had my hands full steering my little group uphill; philosophy would have
to wait till the downward side of the mountain was reached. vVhat mattered now was to
save a few people from the Nazis; and here I was with this-dtis-/wmig/Ler Kauz, ce dri5le
de rype-this curious eccentric. Old Benjamin: under no circumstances would he part with
his ballast, that black bag; we would have to drag the monster across the mountains.
Now back to the steep vineyard. There was no path. We climbed between the vines talks,
heavy with the ahnost ripe, dark and sweet Banyuls grapes . I remember it as an almost
vertical incline; but such memories sometimes distort the geometry. Here, for the first and
only time, Benjamin faltered. More precisely, he tried, failed, and then gave fonnal notice
that this climb was beyond his capability. Jose and I took him between us; with his arms
on our shoulders, we dragged him and the bag up the hill. He breathed heavily, yet he
made no complaint, not even a sigh. He only kept squinting in the direction of the black
bag.