Klein reevaluates his life in light of his testimony that the only thing he loved was the burning down of tradition. Lest we not forget, this testimony came through a conversation with another schlemiel, Gross. This moment, it seems, is Klein’s breathturn (it is his Atemwende). What he recounts, in light of this, is that he is “here” and – like a schlemiel – he sees and doesn’t see things around him.
As opposed to what Felstiner claims in Celan: Poet, Survivor, Jew, we can see that, regardless of his ‘serious’ testimony, he still sees himself as a windbag, that is, as a schlemiel. He shares this with his fellow Jewish schlemiel, Gross. Who is also, still, a windbag :
And I know, I know cousin, I know I’ve met you here, and we talked, a lot…you Gross and me Klein, you, the windbag, and me, the windbag…me here and you here – (22)
In other words, what remains after the burning down of the tradition, is one schlemiel in conversation with another. But there is more. Although he has lost his tradition and although his love is focused on the memory of its burning down, Klein realizes that he wants to be loved by those he did not love!
Klein prays that now, after saying this, he is “accompanied by the love of those I didn’t love, me on the way to myself, up here”(22). By saying this Klein admits that, as a schlemiel, he may be blind to many things he sees but what he hopes, most of all, is that now, somehow, he has done something that has earned the love of those he didn’t love; the love of the dead. They are, so to speak, his tradition.
This is an impossible hope and this is what makes him a schlemiel – albeit of a different sort. He didn’t love them. But he hopes that somehow they, who are no longer alive, will love him.
Klein finishes by saying that he is on the way to himself; yet, from this we can see that he is not (and will not be) able to complete in his journey. How, after all, can they be with him? This can have only one sense for him; namely, the sense of redeeming the dead by way of remembrance. Celan, in this sense, is following Walter Benjamin’s lead who writes in his “Theses on the Philosophy of History” that the historian can fan the “spark of hope” by remembering the dead and saving them from those who “win” in history. But although the historian may save them, so to speak, they cannot love him. That is categorically impossible and is, so to speak, wishful thinking (an “as if” – its “as if” the dead will love him not that they will).
Regardless of whether or not it is possible, Klein realizes that his journey to himself must include the love of those he didn’t love. And this teaches us that, for Celan, his drama, the drama of the schlemiel, is about suffering, love, and conversation with the other. To be sure, the schlemiel may be charming to the reader but what makes his charm so fascinating is the fact that, as a result of his absent-mindedness, he is not loved and his love is oftentimes misunderstood.
As in many schlemiel stories from Eastern Europe, the main character is mistreated and misunderstood by others. For all their laughter at the schlemiel, we can see that they do not love him. With a schlemiel like Gimpel, we can see that he, a schlemiel, does love them; he trusts them, regardless of how much they lie to him and trick him.
Nonetheless, as Ruth Wisse points out, it seems that even Gimpel knows that they are lying to him. Nonetheless, Gimpel keeps on foolishly trying to find trust and love. Like Klein and all the people he didn’t love, Gimpel is half asleep and half-dreaming. The Messianic moment is annunciated in the fact that, even though he knows this, Gimpel still comes back to them. And this is the lament we see with Klein. He is small; that is, he is (like Gimpel and most traditional schlemiels) a simpleton. But this humility comes out in a different way. It comes out in the fact that, even though he is here, alive, and talking to Gross, he is still small insofar as he feels he didn’t love them when he probably did. He, too, is a half-dreamer and is half-asleep since he thinks that they will now love him and come with him or that he didn’t truly love them. These are half-truths. The effect of his half-blindness and his half-dreaming is that he literally can’t look at himself as Gross (big) because he is Klein (small).
(An irony that arises from this fact is that Paul Celan told Theodor Adorno, for whom he wrote this piece, in part, that he saw Adorno as Gross; but Adorno said that he was not Jewish and that the Gross Celan was looking for was Gershom Scholem. This would imply that Scholem was not the schlemiel; but, as we saw above, Celan ends the piece by saying that both Klein and Gross are still “windbags.” That said, Klein still thinks of himself as Klein while we’re not sure what Gross thinks. His response to Klein’s words is not recorded in “Conversation in the Mountains.”)
Nonetheless, Klein foolishly believes that his words will now win the love of those he did not love. And this is where he is a schlemiel. He hopes that they – the dead (who appear, as it were, in a dream-like vision of lying with him half-asleep/half-dreaming) – can hear him. Like Nobody who asks “Can-you-hear-Me,” Klein asks the same question. Gross can hear him. But they cannot.
In the end, he is still a “windbag” – but this windbag, this schlemiel, has a big heart. And his journey is not simply forwards it is also backwards, toward the dead. And in this journey, he will always be “on-the-way” to himself…and the other. His dream of love and trust is the dream of every traditional schlemiel. And it is out of a conversation with another schlemiel that he becomes aware of it. It is through this conversation that he has a breathturn which turns him toward Nobody, others, and another windbag named Gross. It also turns him toward us.
Klein is a schlemiel only insofar as his heart can turn, through all of this noise, to finding or securing love. And even if this love may be impossible to earn, it is the very thing that give Klein his humanity. His blindness (or rather half-blindness) in pursuit of this love should give us pause. For even if he is half blind, he can still hear Nobody say and can hear himself ask Gross the same question – a question that can lead to a rejoinder or solitude.
Do you hear me?
And, in a messianic fashion, Klein has “come” to ask this question and receive an answer which is, in effect, just another question:
Why and what for?
These questions, though troubling, are in search of an answer. But the take-away from all this is that the schlemiel doesn’t want an answer so much as someone to speak to. Underlying it all is the risk that the schlemiel takes when he or she speaks to the other. This is the risk of being or not being loved, heard, and understood. Every comedienne or comedian who takes on an audience knows this. And, in this piece, the schlemiel’s charm is based on his vulnerability upon being exposed to this risk. And what we, as readers, realize is that though he desires the love of those he didn’t love, and though he feels his conversation with Gross may have earned it, his feelings are, like those he “lay with,” half-dream and half-reality. Like any schlemiel, his love is caught up in dreams.
And this is what Klein came to tell Gross and us. We, strangely enough, share this conversation. Like Klein and Gross, we, too, have come to speak; we have come with the shadow and our hour; we have been hit. And we must speak. But what we say, regardless of whether we want to admit it, is half-dream/half-reality. And though we may not have loved them, those other half-dreamers, we hope they will love us if we speak the truth. And perhaps this is the most foolish hope of all. But Celan suggests that we entertain it as we converse with fellow-schlemiels.
Perhaps we will be loved. Perhaps we will not. We just hope they will accompany us as we walk down that road – the same road Kafka walked with a bunch of nobodies. Perhaps, on the road, someone will ask us “Why did you come?” And we will say, like Klein, “because I had to talk, maybe, to myself or to you, talk with my mouth and tongue, not just with my stick.”