by Herta Müller
The tear lies in the cupboard. “Amalie didn’t fill it,” thinks Windisch. “Amalie’s never at home when it rains. She’s always in town.”
The pavement moves in the light. The geese sail along. They have white sails in their wings. Amalie’s snow-white sandals don’t walk through the village.
The cupboard door creaks. The bottle gurgles. Windisch holds a wet burning globe on his tongue. The globe rolls down his throat. A fire flickers in Windisch’s temples. The globe dissolves. It draws hot threads through Windisch’s forehead. It pushes crooked furrows like partings through his hair.
The militiaman’s cap circles round the edge of the mirror. His epaulettes flash. The buttons of his blue jacket grow larger in the centre of the mirror. Windisch’s face appears above the militiaman’s jacket.
First Windisch’s face appears large and confident above the jacket. Then Windisch’s face is small and dejected above the epaulettes. The militiaman laughs between the cheeks of Windisch’s large, confident face. With wet lips he says: “You won’t get far with your flour.”
Windisch raises his fists. The militiaman’s jacket shatters. Windisch’s large, confident face has a spot of blood. Windisch strikes the two small, despondent faces above the epaulettes dead.
Windisch’s wife silently sweeps up the broken mirror.
THE LOVE BITE
Amalie stands in the doorway. There are red spots on the slivers of glass. Windisch’s blood is redder than Amalie’s dress.
The last breath of Irish Spring hangs on Amalie’s calves. The love bite on Amalie’s neck is redder than her dress. Amalie pulls off her white sandals. “Come and eat,” says Windisch’s wife.
The soup is steaming. Amalie sits in its fog. She holds the spoon with her red fingertips. She looks at the soup. The steam moves her lips. She blows. Sighing, Windisch’s wife sits down in the grey cloud that rises from her plate.
The leaves on the trees rustle through the windows. “They’re blowing into the yard,” thinks Windisch. “There are enough leaves for ten trees blowing into the yard.”
Windisch looks past Amalie’s ear. It’s part of what he can see. Reddish and creased like an eyelid.
Windisch swallows a soft white noodle. It sticks in his throat. Windisch puts his spoon on the table and coughs. His eyes fill with water.
Windisch brings up the soup into his plate. His mouth tastes sour. It rises to his brow. The soup in Windisch’s plate is cloudy from the vomit.
Windisch can see a large courtyard in the soup. It’s a summer evening in the courtyard.
THE SPIDER
That Saturday Windisch had danced through the night with Barbara in front of the deep horn of the gramophone. They talked about the war as they waltzed.
A paraffin lamp flickered under the quince tree. It stood on a chair.
Barbara had a thin neck. Windisch danced with her thin neck. Barbara had a pale mouth. Windisch hung on her breath. He swayed. The swaying was a dance.
Under the quince tree, a spider had fallen into Barbara’s hair. Windisch didn’t see the spider. He leant against Barbara’s ear. He heard the song on the gramophone through her thick black plait. He felt her hard comb.
By the paraffin lamp, Barbara’s green clover leaves shone from both ears. Barbara whirled in a circle. The whirling was a dance.
Barbara felt the spider on her ear. She started. Barbara cried: “I’m dying.”
The skinner danced in the sand. He danced past. He laughed. He took the spider from Barbara’s ear. He threw it in the sand. He stamped on it with his shoe. The stamping was a dance.
Barbara had leant against the quince tree. Windisch held her head.
Barbara’s hand went to her ear. The green clover leaf no longer hung on her ear. Barbara didn’t look for it. Barbara didn’t dance any more. She wept. “I’m not weeping for the earring,” she said.
Later, many days later, Windisch had sat with Barbara on a bench in the village. Barbara had a thin neck. One green clover leaf shone. The other ear was dark in the night.
Windisch shyly asked about the second earring. Barbara looked at him. “Where would I have looked for it?” she said. “The spider took it away to the war. Spiders eat gold.”
After the war Barbara followed the spider. The snow in Russia took her away, when it melted the second time.
THE LETTUCE LEAF
Amalie licks a-chicken bone. The lettuce crunches in her mouth. Windisch’s wife holds a chicken wing to her mouth. “He’s drunk all the schnaps,” she says. She sucks at the yellow skin. “Out of grief.”
Amalie pricks a lettuce leaf with the prong of her fork. She holds the leaf to her mouth. She speaks and the leaf trembles. “You won’t get far with your flour,” she says. Her lips hold the lettuce leaf tight like a caterpillar.
“Men have to drink because they suffer,” smiles Windisch’s wife. Amalie’s eye shadow is a blue fold over her eyelashes. “And suffer, because they drink,” she giggles. She looks through a lettuce leaf.
The love bite on her neck is darker. It’s turning blue, and it moves, when she swallows.
Windisch’s wife sucks the small, white bones. She swallows the short pieces of meat on the chicken’s neck. “Keep your eyes open, when you get married,” she says. “Drinking is a bad illness.” Amalie licks her red fingertips. “And unhealthy,” she says.
Windisch looks at the dark spider. “Whoring is healthier,” he says.
Windisch’s wife strikes the table with her hand.
GRASS SOUP
Windisch’s wife had been in Russia for five years. She had slept in a hut with iron beds. Lice cracked in the edges of the beds. She was shaved. Her face was grey. Her scalp was red-raw.
On top of the mountains there was yet another mountain range of clouds and drifting snow. Frost burned on the truck. Not everyone got off at the mine. Every morning some men and women remained sitting on the benches. They sat with open eyes. They let everyone go past. They were frozen. They were sitting on the other side.
The mine was black. The shovel was cold. The coal was heavy.
When the snow melted the first time, thin, pointed grass grew in the snow stone hollows. Katharine had sold her winter coat for ten slices of bread. Her stomach was a hedgehog. Every day Katharina picked a bunch of grass. The grass soup was warm and good. The hedgehog pulled in its spines for a few hours.
Then the second snow came. Katharina had a woollen blanket. During the day it was her coat. The hedgehog stabbed.
When it was dark, Katharina followed the light of the snow. She bent down. She crawled past the guard’s shadow. Katharina went into a man’s iron bed. He was a cook. He called her Käthe. He warmed her and gave her potatoes. They were hot and sweet. The hedgehog pulled in its spines for a few hours.
When the snow melted the second time, grass soup grew beneath their shoes. Katharina sold her woollen blanket for ten slices of bread. The hedgehog pulled in its spines for a few hours.
Then the third snow came. The sheepskin was Katharina’s coat.
When the cook died, the light of the snow shone in another hut. Katharina crawled past the shadow of another guard. She went into a man’s iron bed. He was a doctor. He called her Katyusha. He warmed her and gave her a white piece of paper. That was an illness. For three days Katharina did not need to go to the mine.
When the snow melted the third time, Katharina sold her sheepskin for a bowl of sugar. Katharina ate wet bread and sprinkled sugar on it. The hedgehog pulled in its spines for a few days.
Then the fourth snow came. The grey woollen socks were Katharina’s coat.
When the doctor died, the light of the snow shone over the storeyard. Katharina crawled past the sleeping dog. She went into a man’s iron bed. He was the grave digger. He buried the Russians in the village too. He called her Katja. He warmed her. He gave her meat from the funeral meals in the village.
When the snow melted the fourth time, Katharina sold her grey woollen socks for a bowl of maize flo
ur. The maize porridge was hot. It swelled up. The hedgehog pulled in its spines for a few days.
Then the fifth snow came. Katharina’s brown cloth dress was her coat.
When the grave digger died, Katharina had put on his coat. She crawled through the fence along the snow. She went to an old Russian woman in the village. The grave digger had buried her husband. The old Russian woman recognized Katharina’s coat. It was her husband’s coat. Katharina warmed herself in her house. She milked the goats. The Russian woman called her Devochka. She gave her milk.
When the snow melted the fifth time, yellow clusters of flowers bloomed in the yard.
A yellow dust floated in the grass soup. It was sweet.
One afternoon green trucks drove into the storeyard. They crushed the grass. Katharina sat on a stone in front of the hut. She saw the dirty tracks of the tyres. She saw the strange guards.
The women climbed up onto the green trucks. The tyre tracks didn’t lead to the mine. The green trucks stopped in front of the little station.
Katharina climbed onto the train. She wept with happiness.
Katharina’s hands were sticky with grass soup, when she learned that the train was going home.
THE SEAGULL
Windisch’s wife switches on the television. The singer leans against a railing by the sea. The hem of her skirt flutters. The tips of the singer’s slip hang above her knee.
A seagull flies over the water. It flies close to the edge of the screen. Its wing tip thrusts into the room.
“I’ve never been to the seaside,” says Windisch’s wife. “If the sea wasn’t so far away, seagulls would come to the village.” The seagull plunges down to the water. It swallows a fish.
The singer smiles. She has the face of a seagull. She opens and closes her eyes as often as her mouth. She sings a song about the girls from Romania. Her hair wants to be water. Small waves ripple at her temples.
“The girls from Romania,” sings the singer, “are gentle as the flowers in the meadows in the month of May.” Her hands point to the sea. Sandy bushes quiver by the shore.
A man is swimming in the water. He swims after his hands. Far out into the water. He is alone, and the sky ends. His head moves on the surface. The waves are dark. The seagull is white.
The singer’s face is soft. The wind shows the lace hem of her slip.
Windisch’s wife stands in front of the screen. She points at the singer’s knee with her fingertip. “The lace is nice,” she says, “it’s definitely not from Romania.”
Amalie stands in front of the screen. “The lace dress of the dancer on the crystal vase is exactly like that.”
Windisch’s wife puts some plain cakes on the table. The tin bowl is under the table. The cat licks the soupy vomit from it.
The singer smiles. She closes her mouth. Behind her song the sea beats on the shore. “Your father should give you money for the crystal vase,” says Windisch’s wife.
“No,” says Amalie. “I’ve saved some money. I’ll pay for it myself.”
THE YOUNG OWL
The young owl has been sitting in the valley for a week. People see it every evening when they come back from town. Grey dusk lies over the rails. Strange, black maize waves around the train. The young owl sits among the faded thistles as if in snow.
People get out at the station. They don’t speak. The train hasn’t whistled for a week. They hold their bags close to them. They are on their way home. When they meet other people on the way home, they say: “That is the last stopping place. Tomorrow the young owl will be there to catch up on the dying.”
The priest sends the altar-boy up into the church tower. The bell peals. When the altar-boy is back down on the ground again, he is pale. “I don’t pull the bell. The bell pulls, me,” he says. “If I hadn’t held onto the beam, I would have flown up into the sky.”
The pealing of the bell confused the young owl. It flew back into the country. It flew south. Along the Danube. It flew along the sound of the water, to where the soldiers are.
In the south the plain is treeless and hot. It’s burning. The young owl sets its eyes alight among the red hips. With its wings above the barbed wire it wishes itself a death.
The soldiers lie in the grey morning. Thickets separate them. They are on manoeuvres. They are at war with their hands, their eyes, their foreheads.
The officer shouts an order.
A soldier sees the young owl in the thicket. He lays his rifle in the grass. He stands up. The bullet flies. It strikes.
The dead man is the tailor’s son. The dead man is Dietmar.
The priest says: “The young owl sat by the Danube and thought of our village.”
Windisch looks at his bicycle. He has brought the news of the bullet from the village to the farm. “It’s just like in the war again,” he says.
Windisch’s wife raises her eyebrows. “It’s nothing to do with the owl,” she says. “It was an accident.” She pulls a yellow leaf from the apple tree. She looks Windisch up and down, from his head to his shoes. Looks a long time at the breast pocket of the jacket, under which his heart beats.
Windisch feels the fire in his mouth. “Your understanding is tiny,” he shouts. “It doesn’t even stretch from your forehead down to your mouth.” Windisch’s wife cries and crushes the yellow leaf.
Windisch feels the pressure of the grain of sand in his forehead. “She’s crying for herself,” he thinks. “Not for the dead man. Women only ever cry for themselves.”
THE SUMMER KITCHEN
The night watchman is sleeping on the bench in front of the mill. His black hat makes his sleep velvety and heavy. His forehead is a pale streak. “The earth frog is in his head again,” thinks Windisch. He sees time standing still on his cheeks.
The night watchman is talking in his dream. His legs twitch. The dog barks. The night watchman wakes up. Startled, he takes off the hat. His forehead is wet. “She’ll kill me,” he says, His voice is deep. It goes back into his dream.
“My wife was lying naked and curled up on the pastry board,” says the night watchman. “Her body was no larger than the body of a child. Yellow juice was dripping from the pastry board. The floor was wet. There were old women sitting round the table. They were dressed in black. Their plaits were unkempt. They hadn’t combed their hair for a long time. Skinny Wilma was as small as my wife. She was holding a black glove in her hand. Her feet didn’t reach the floor. She was looking out of the window. Then the glove fell out of her hand. Skinny Wilma looked under the chair. The glove wasn’t under the chair. The floor was bare. The floor was so far below her feet that she had to cry. She screwed up her wrinkled face and said: it’s a disgrace to leave the dead lying there in the summer kitchen. I said I didn’t even know that we had a summer kitchen. My wife raised her head from the pastry board and smiled. Skinny Wilma looked at her. Don’t mind me, she said to my wife. And then to me: she’s dripping and she smells.”
The night watchman’s mouth is open. Tears run down his cheeks.
Windisch grips him by the shoulder. “You’re driving yourself crazy,” he says. The keys jingle in his jacket pocket.
Windisch pushes the door of the mill with his foot.
The night watchman looks into his black hat. Windisch pushes his bicycle past the bench. “I’m going to get the passport,” he says.
THE GUARD OF HONOUR
The militiaman is standing in the tailor’s yard. He’s giving schnaps to the officers. He’s giving schnaps to the soldiers who carried the coffin into the house. Windisch sees the stars on their epaulettes.
The night watchman leans his face towards Windisch. “The militiaman is happy,” he says, “because he’s got company.”
The mayor is standing under the yellow plum tree. He’s sweating. He’s looking at a sheet of paper. Windisch says: “He can’t read the writing, because the teacher wrote the funeral speech.” “He wants two sacks of flour tomorrow evening,” says the night watchman. He smells of schnaps.
/> The priest comes into the yard. His black coat trails along the ground. The officers quickly shut their mouths. The militiaman puts the bottle of schnaps behind the tree.
The coffin is made of metal. It shines in the yard like a gigantic tobacco tin. The guard of honour carries the coffin out of the yard, their boots faithfully keeping time with the march.
On the truck is a red cloth.
The black hats of the men bob quickly by. The black headscarves of the women pass more slowly behind them. Loosely tied to the black knots of their rosaries. The coachman walks. He talks loudly.
The guard of honour on the truck is tossed from side to side. The soldiers hold on tightly to their rifles because of the pot holes. They are too high above the ground, too high above the coffin.
Widow Kroner’s grave is still black and high. “The earth hasn’t settled, because it hasn’t rained,” says Skinny Wilma. The bunches of hydrangea have crumbled away.
The postwoman comes and stands beside Windisch. “How nice it would be,” she says, “if young people came to the funeral too. It’s been like this for years,” she says. “When someone in the village dies, none of the young people turn up.” A tear falls onto her hand. “Amalie has to come for an interview on Sunday morning.”
The prayer leader sings in the priest’s ear. The incense distorts her mouth.
She is so transfixed and holy in her singing that the whites of her eyes grow large, sluggishly covering the pupils.
The postwoman sobs. She grips Windisch by the elbow. “And two sacks of flour,” she says.
The bell strikes till its clapper is sore. The volleys of the military salute rise above the graves. Heavy clods of earth fall onto the tin coffin.
The prayer leader remains standing at the war memorial. With the corners of her eyes she searches out a place to stand. She looks at Windisch. She coughs. Windisch hears the phlegm breaking in her throat, now emptied of song.
