The Passport

by Herta Müller

  Skinny Wilma goes out by the churchyard gate. Bunches of hydrangea lie broken in Widow Kroner’s grave. The joiner stands at his mother’s grave and weeps.

  Windisch’s wife is standing on the marguerite. “Let’s go,” she says. Windisch walks beside her under the black umbrella. The umbrella is a large black hat. Windisch’s wife is carrying the hat on a stick.

  The gravedigger stands barefoot and alone in the churchyard. He’s cleaning his rubber boots with the shovel.

  THE KING IS SLEEPING

  Before the war the village band had stood at the station in their dark red uniforms. The station gable was hung with garlands of tiger-lilies, China asters and acacia foliage. People were wearing their Sunday clothes. The children wore white knee socks. They held heavy bouquets of flowers in front of their faces.

  When the train steamed into the station, the band played a march. People clapped. The children threw their flowers in the air.

  The train moved slowly. A young man stretched his long arm out of the window. He spread his fingers and called: “Silence. His Majesty the King is sleeping.”

  When the train had left the station, a herd of white goats came from the meadow. They went along the tracks and ate the bouquets of flowers.

  The musicians had gone home with their interrupted march. The men and women had gone home with their interrupted waving. The children had gone home with empty hands.

  A little girl who was to have recited a poem for the King when the march had finished, when the clapping had finished, sat in the waiting room and cried, until the goats had eaten all the bunches of flowers.

  A BIG HOUSE

  The cleaning woman wipes the dust from the banisters. She has a black mark on her cheek and a violet eye. She’s crying: “He hit me again,” she says.

  The clothes hooks shine empty around the walls of the hallway. They are a thorny garland. The slippers, small and worn down, stand in a perfect row beneath the hooks.

  Each child has brought a transfer to the nursery from home. Amalie stuck the little pictures under the hooks.

  Every morning each child looks for its car, its dog, its doll, its flower, its ball.

  Udo comes through the door. He’s looking for his flag. It is black, red and gold. A German flag. Udo hangs his coat on the hook, above the flag. He takes off his shoes. He puts on his red slippers. He places his shoes under his coat.

  Udo’s mother works in the chocolate factory. Every Tuesday she brings Amalie sugar, butter, cocoa and chocolate. “Udo will only be coming to the nursery for another three weeks,” she said to Amalie yesterday. “We’ve been told about our passport.”

  The dentist pushes her daughter through the half-open door. A white beret hangs on the girl’s hair like a snow flake. The girl looks for her dog among the hooks. The dentist gives Amalie a bunch of carnations and a small box. “Anca has a cold,” she says. “Please give her the tablets at ten o’clock.”

  The cleaning woman shakes the duster out of the window. The acacia is yellow. The old man sweeps the pavement in front of his house as he does every morning. The leaves of the acacia are blown by the wind.

  The children are wearing their Falcons’ uniforms. Yellow blouses and dark blue trousers and pleated skirts. “It’s Wednesday,” Amalie thinks, “Falcons’ day.”

  Building bricks click. Cranes buzz. Indians march in columns in front of little hands. Udo is building a factory. Dolls are drinking milk from little girls’ fingers.

  Anca’s forehead is hot.

  The anthem can be heard through the classroom ceiling. The big group is singing on the floor above.

  The building blocks are lying on top of one another. The cranes are silent. The column of Indians stands at the edge of the table. The factory has no roof. The doll with the long silk dress is lying on the chair. She’s sleeping. She has a rosy face.

  The children stand in a semi-circle in front of the teacher’s desk in order of size. They press the palms of their hands against their thighs. They raise their chins. Their eyes grow large and wet. They sing loudly.

  The boys and girls are little soldiers. The anthem has seven verses.

  Amalie hangs the map of Romania on the wall.

  “All children live in blocks of flats or in houses,” says Amalie. “Every house has rooms. All the houses together make one big house. This big house is our country. Our fatherland.”

  Amalie points at the map. “This is our Fatherland,” she says. With her fingertip she searches for the black dots on the map. “These are the towns of our Fatherland,” says Amalie. “The towns are the rooms of this big house, our country. Our fathers and mothers live in our houses. They are our parents. Every child has its parents. Just as the father in the house in which we live is our father, so Comrade Nicolae Ceausescu is the father of our country. And just as the mother in the house in which we live is our mother, so Comrade Elena Ceausescu is the mother of our country. Comrade Nicolae Ceausescu is the father of all the children. And Comrade Elena Ceausescu is the mother of all the children. All the children love comrade Nicolae and comrade Elena, because they are their parents.”

  The cleaning woman leaves an empty wastepaper basket by the door. “Our fatherland is called the Socialist Republic of Romania,” says Amalie. “Comrade Nicolae Ceausescu is the General Secretary of our country, the Socialist Republic of Romania.”

  A boy stands up. “My father has a globe at home,” he says. He shapes a globe with his hands. A hand knocks against a vase. The carnations are lying in the water. His Falcons’ shirt is wet.

  Shards of glass are lying on the little table in front of him. He’s crying. Amalie pushes the little table away from him. She must not shout. Claudiu’s father is the manager of the butcher’s shop at the corner.

  Anca lays her face on the table. “When can we go home?” she asks in Romanian. German is cumbersome and passes her by. Udo is building a roof. “My father is the general secretary of our house,” he says.

  Amalie looks at the yellow leaves of the acacia. The old man leans out of the open window as he does every day. “Dietmar is buying cinema tickets,” thinks Amalie.

  The Indians march across the floor. Anca swallows the pills.

  Amalie leans against the window frame. “Does anyone know a poem?” she asks.

  “I know a land with an arc of mountains,/ On whose peaks early glows the morning,/ In whose woods as through the ocean waves/ The spring wind roars till all is blooming.”

  Claudiu speaks German well. Claudiu raises his chin. Claudiu speaks German with the voice of a shrunken grown man.

  TEN LEI

  The little gypsy girl from the next village is wringing out her grass-green apron. Water runs from her hand. Her plait hangs down onto her shoulder from the middle of her head. A red ribbon is plaited into her hair. It sticks out at the end like a tongue. The little gypsy girl stands barefoot with muddy toes in front of the tractor drivers.

  The tractor drivers are wearing small, wet hats. Their black hands are on the table. “Show me,” says one. “I’ll give you ten lei.” He puts ten lei on the table. The tractor drivers laugh. Their eyes gleam. Their faces are red. Their glances finger the long flowery skirt. The gypsy girl lifts her skirt. The tractor driver empties his glass. The gypsy girl takes the bank note from the table. She twists the plait around her finger and laughs.

  Windisch can smell the schnaps and the sweat from the next table. “They wear their sheepskins all summer long,” says the joiner. Froth from his beer clings to his thumbs. He dips his forefinger into the glass. “The dirty pig beside us is blowing ash into my beer,” he says. He looks at the Romanian standing behind him. The Romanian has a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. It’s wet from his saliva. He laughs. “No more German,” he says. Then in Romanian: “This is Romania.”

  The joiner has a greedy look. He raises his glass and empties it. “You’ll soon be rid of us,” he shouts. He signals to the landlord, who is standing at the tractor driver’s table. “Another
beer,” he calls.

  The joiner wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Have you been to the gardener yet?” he asks. “No,” says Windisch. “Do you know where he lives?” asks the joiner. Windisch nods: “On the edge of town.” “In Fratelia, in Enescu Street,” says the joiner.

  The little gypsy girl pulls at the red tongue of her plait. She laughs and turns in a circle. Windisch sees her calves. “How much?” he asks. “Fifteen thousand each,” says the joiner. He takes the glass of beer from the landlord’s hand. “A single-storey building. The greenhouses are on the left. If the red car is in the courtyard, it’s open. There’ll be someone cutting wood in the yard. He’ll take you into the house,” says the joiner. “Don’t ring. If you do, the woodcutter will disappear. He won’t open up anymore.”

  The men and women standing in the corner of the inn are drinking out of a bottle. A man wearing a crushed, black velveteen hat is holding a child in his arm. Windisch sees the small, naked soles of the child’s feet. The child reaches for the bottle. It opens its mouth. The man pushes the neck of the bottle to its mouth. The child closes its eyes and drinks. “Boozer,” says the man. He pulls back the bottle and laughs. The woman beside him is eating a crust of bread. She chews and drinks. White breadcrumbs float in the bottle.

  “They stink of the sty,” says the joiner. A long brown hair hangs from his finger.

  “They’re from the dairy,” says Windisch.

  The women sing. The child totters up to them and tugs at their skirts.

  “Today’s pay day,” says Windisch. “They drink for three days. Then they’ve got nothing left.”

  “The milkmaid with the blue headscarf lives behind the mill,” says Windisch.

  The little gypsy girl lifts her skirt. The gravedigger is standing beside his shovel. He reaches into his pocket. Gives her ten lei.

  The milkmaid with the blue headscarf sings and vomits against the wall.

  THE SHOT

  The conductress’s sleeves are rolled up. She’s eating an apple. The second-hand on her watch twitches. It’s five past. The tram squeals.

  A child pushes Amalie over an old woman’s suitcase. Amalie hurries.

  Dietmar is standing at the entrance to the park. His mouth is hot on Amalie’s cheek. “We’ve got time,” he says. “The tickets are for seven. Five o’clock is sold out.”

  The bench is cold. Small men carry wicker baskets full of dead leaves across the grass.

  Dietmar’s tongue is hot. It burns Amalie’s ear. Amalie shuts her eyes. Dietmar’s breath is bigger in her head than the trees. His hand is cold under her blouse.

  Dietmar closes his mouth. “I’ve got my call-up papers for the army,” he says. “My father’s brought my suitcase.”

  Amalie pushes his mouth away from her ear. She presses her hand over his mouth. “Come into town,” she says, “I’m cold.”

  Amalie leans against Dietmar. She feels his steps. She nestles under his jacket as though she were part of him.

  There’s a cat in the shop window. It’s sleeping. Dietmar knocks on the pane. “I still have to buy some woollen socks,” he says. Amalie eats a roll. Dietmar blows a cloud of smoke into Amalie’s face. “Come on,” says Amalie, “I’ll show you my crystal vase.”

  The dancer lifts her arm above her head. The white lace dress is stiff behind the window pane.

  Dietmar opens a wooden door at the side of the shop. Behind the door is a dark passageway. The darkness smells of rotten onions. Three rubbish bins stand like big tins in a row against the wall.

  Dietmar pushes Amalie onto the bin. The lid rattles. Amalie feels Dietmar’s thrusting member in her stomach. She holds on tightly to his shoulders. A child is talking in the inner courtyard.

  Dietmar buttons his trousers. Music is coming out of the small window at the back of the yard.

  Amalie sees Dietmar’s shoes moving forward in the queue. A hand tears the tickets in half. The usherette is wearing a black headscarf and a black dress. She switches off her torch. Corn cobs trickle out of the long neck of the harvester behind the tractor. The short is over.

  Dietmar’s head rests on Amalie’s shoulder. Red letters appear on the screen: “Pirates of the Twentieth Century.” Amalie puts her hand on Dietmar’s knee. “Another Russian film,” she whispers. Dietmar lifts his head. “At least it’s in colour,” he says in her ear.

  The green water ripples. Green forests line the shore. The deck of the ship is wide. A beautiful woman is holding on to the ship’s railing. Her hair blows like leaves.

  Dietmar crushes Amalie’s finger in his hand. He looks at the screen. The beautiful woman speaks.

  “We won’t see each other again,” he says. “I’ve got to join the army, and you’re emigrating.” Amalie sees Dietmar’s cheek. She moves. She speaks. “I’ve heard Rudi’s waiting for you,” says Dietmar.

  On the screen, a hand opens. It reaches into a jacket pocket. On the screen are a thumb and an index finger. Between them is a revolver.

  Dietmar is talking. Behind his voice, Amalie hears the shot

  WATER HAS NO PEACE

  “The owl is injured,” says the night watchman. A cloud-burst on the day of a funeral is too much even for an owl. If it doesn’t see the moon tonight, it won’t ever fly again. If it dies, the water will stink.”

  “The owls have no peace, and the water has no peace,” says Windisch. “If it dies, another owl will come to the village. A stupid young owl that doesn’t know anything. It will sit on anyone’s roof.”

  The night watchman looks up at the moon. “Then young people will die again,” he says. Windisch sees that the air just in front of him belongs to the night watchman. His voice manages a tired sentence. “Then it will be like the war again,” he says.

  “The frogs are croaking in the mill,” says the night watchman.

  They make the dog crazy.

  THE BLIND COCK

  Windisch’s wife sits on the edge of the bed. “There were two men here today,” she says. “They counted the hens and noted it down. They caught eight hens and took them away. They put them in wire cages. The trailer on their tractor was full of hens.” Windisch’s wife sighs. “I signed,” she says. “And for four hundred kilos of maize and a hundred kilos of potatoes. They’ll take those later, they said. I gave them the fifty eggs right away. They went into the garden in rubber boots. They saw the clover in front of the barn. Next year we’ll have to grow sugar-beet there, they said.”

  Windisch lifts the lid from the pot. “And next door?” he asks. “They didn’t go there,” says Windisch’s wife. She gets into bed and covers herself up. “They said that our neighbours have eight small children, and we have one, and she’s earning money.”

  There is blood and liver in the pot. “I had to kill the big white cock,” says Windisch’s wife. “The two men were running about in the yard. The cock took fright. He flapped up against the fence and struck his head against it. When they had left he was blind.”

  Onion rings float on eyes of fat in the pot. “And you said we’ll keep the big white cock so we’ll get big white hens next year,” says Windisch. “And you said anything white is too sensitive. And you were right,” says Windisch’s wife.

  The cupboard creaks.

  “When I was riding to the mill, I got off at the war memorial,” says Windisch in the dark. “I wanted to go into the church and pray. The church was locked. I thought, that’s a bad sign. Saint Anthony is on the other side of the door. His thick book is brown. It’s like a passport.”

  In the warm, dark air of the room, Windisch dreams that the sky opens up. The clouds fly away out of the village. A white cock flies through the empty sky. It strikes its head against a bare poplar standing in the meadow. It can’t see. It’s blind. Windisch stands at the edge of a sunflower field. He calls out: “The bird is blind.” The echo of his voice returns as his wife’s voice. Windisch goes deep into the sunflower field and shouts: “I’m not looking for you, because I know you aren’t here.” />
  THE RED CAR

  The wooden hut is a black square. Smoke creeps out of a tin pipe. It creeps into the damp earth. The door of the hut is open. A man in blue overalls is sitting on a wooden bench inside the hut. A tin bowl is lying on the table. It’s steaming. The man’s eyes follow Windisch.

  The manhole cover has been pushed aside. A man is standing in the drain. Windisch sees his head with its yellow helmet above ground. Windisch walks past the man’s chin. The man’s eyes follow Windisch.

  Windisch puts his hands in his coat pockets. He feels the wad of money in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  The greenhouses are on the left side of the courtyard. The panes are misted up. The mist swallows the branches. Roses burn red in the vapour. The red car stands in the middle of the yard. There are logs beside the car. Chopped wood is piled up against the wall of the house. The axe lies beside the car.

  Windisch walks slowly. He crushes the tram ticket in his coat pocket. He feels the wet asphalt through his shoes.

  Windisch looks round. The woodcutter is not in the courtyard. The head with the yellow helmet looks at Windisch.

  The fence ends. Windisch hears voices in the next house. A garden gnome is dragging a hydrangea shrub. It’s wearing a red cap. A snow-white dog is running round in a circle and barking. Windisch looks down the street. The rails run on into emptiness. Grass grows between the rails. The blades of grass are black from oil, small and bent from the creaking tram and the screaming rails.

  Windisch turns round. The yellow helmet ducks into the drain. The man in the blue overalls leans a brush against the side of the shed. The garden gnome is wearing a green apron. The hydrangea shrub trembles. The snow-white dog stands silently by the fence. The snow-white dog follows Windisch with its eyes.