Days later I said goodbye to the university authorities. Perhaps generously, but sincerely, they again spoke of my father; of his silences, of what perplexed him, of his doubts, probably huge and painful. Of an assuredness (because the certainty wasn’t in him) he projected with a hand extended towards dialogue, the need to converse with others, to change ideas: he never thought he had the truth. And when the other happened, on the contrary, the belief he had, he never thought it was his, properly, but instead of others or another, as he was only a disciple that, by applying himself as such, could teach. He never knew that his passion (authentic, pure) for Heidegger had made of him one of the most impeccable and true expositors. He never knew that his lectures in France were appreciatively commented. And that many confessed learning there, for the first time, seriously, a text like Being and Time.
That esteem, now, extended to his son, who, happy and, why not, proud, received it. They asked me to return. That university was the place for me and even my home. That I, don’t forget, they said convinced, almost passionately “you were born here, Professor Müller”. Someone surprisingly said:
The smells, the winds and even the smell of the water and wood of Freiburg, were the first certitudes given you by nature and life.
He was professor of literature, already old, with a cane, bags under his eyes, opaque eyes, very sad life, not doubt a companion of my father. We gave each other a long hug.
I took a train to Berlin.
I looked, through the entire trip, through the window.
Country houses. Peasants. Little towns. Workers. Bankers. Women, white and blonde, or robust, with very black hair and clear eyes. Factories.