Heimat is a Space in Time (2019) - full transcript

ACCORDING TO LEGEND,
HERE STOOD GRANDMOTHER'S HOUSE

Eighth homework essay
Wilhelm Heise, 14 years old

Berlin, March 9, 1912

War is a frightful, raging horror.
It strikes herd and shepherd alike.

With the tremendous cultural advances
over recent centuries,

the conviction has increasingly
gained traction across Christendom

that war is but human slaughter.

Completely contrary to the Commandments
of Christian love for our neighbours and enemies.

How much misery and destitution
has been wrought by a recklessly started war?

Out of wounded conceit those
hot-tempered brutes on the throne begin a war

like some Louis XIV
or the bloodthirsty Corsican,



and the people have to pay for it.

Burning homesteads,
smouldering rubble heaps,

bloody, contorted corpses,

screaming and groaning wounded,

families distraught over a dead father,
over their beloved sons.

Here lies the bloom of humanity,

trampled upon by
the raging victor's pounding footsteps.

Never shall a nation forget the defeats and wounds
inflicted upon it by the enemy.

Thereafter that hatred will yet again

brutally vent its spleen in a fresh,
bloody war.

But afterwards all cry out:
Woe to the vanquished!

And hideous is the havoc
wrought by war in the spiritual realm.

Everywhere
the people's level of education suffers,

whilst superstition
thrives in the soil of stupidity.



Those bloodthirsty brutes
on the throne

seek to guarantee the steely mechanics
and obedience of their armies

through ignorance and delusion.

Hence, they carefully shield their people from
the beacon of enlightenment and of knowledge,

so that no liberating ray of light
penetrates their subjects' dark night.

Their science
is instilled on their cannon barrels.

Hence, it is little wonder

that a Nation is so deeply engulfed
in ignorance and superstition.

With spiritual degeneration
comes the decline in ethics and morals.

In war, blood and thunder are virtues.

Man's bestial nature
celebrates its greatest triumphs.

He derives pleasure in his enemy's death.

Ghastly brutality and even
the vilest wickedness are permissible.

If one kills in peace time,

that is deemed as murder,
and is punished.

If one commits the same act in war,
but on a much vaster scale,

it will be greeted with approval,
and even rewarded.

In war, man turns into an animal.

Once he sees blood flow, he's doomed.

And he'll strive thereafter
to bathe in the blood of his enemies.

Sometimes, however,
it is impossible to avoid war.

Should an overpowering enemy
offend the German people,

then it spreads through every corner
of the Fatherland like spring awakening.

Woe betide those
who dare to stretch out their hands

with disdainful greed to rob the German Empire
of a patch of its dear, noble native soil.

Then, yes, German people awaken!

Then, even he who otherwise opposes war

will become a full-blooded, true patriot.

Early September 1922, Berlin

Wilhelm Heise to Edith Hirschhorn

Dearest Fraulein!

During my summer trip I had the pleasure

to get to know
your Viennese sisters Irma and Sidi,

as well as your brother Otto.

We spent a few days together
in Zell am Ziller

and also made a trip
lasting several days together.

I was then assigned the task

of passing on to you in person
regards from your siblings,

though they were
unsure of your address in Berlin.

Yesterday, Fraulein Sidi wrote me a letter
in which she informed me of your Berlin abode.

Should you care to spend a few hours

chatting about Tyrol
and our shared experiences there,

I would be honoured
to fulfil the task entrusted to me.

Given my ignorance of your diary,

I can't suggest a time.

But if given sufficient notice,
I could make myself available

to meet you one evening
near Potsdamer Platz at the Café Josty.

Please send me a message
should you have the time and the desire to meet.

I remain respectfully yours,
Dr Wilhelm Heise

Berlin 39, Samoastrasse 11

June 1945

Edith Heise, née Hirschhorn

Draft for a personal resumé

Alser Strasse.
Change for U6.

I was born in Vienna in 1899.

My father was a commercial clerk.

Mother had worked
as a seamstress in a factory.

Then spent a few years at home.

Both were Jews
and came to Vienna at a very young age.

I grew up as the middle child
in a family of five.

Things were in short supply in our household,
but I hardly noticed that,

for I grew up
in comfortable surroundings

and everyone was kind to me.

I must have been twelve years old

when I began noticing
many differences between people,

started asking
about the whys and the wherefores.

In our home, the evenings always saw
very lively discussions,

for we had a wide circle
of relatives and friends.

In particular, a younger brother
of my father,

a class-conscious worker,
a bookbinder at a left-wing publishers,

made a deep impression on me.

Thanks to him,
I was introduced to the ideas of Socialism.

This uncle, the others as well,
my father, and his elder sisters,

all died later during the Hitler years,
on being deported to Poland.

At that early age, however,

I went to the only humanistic grammar school
for girls with public status.

Learning, especially classical languages,
came easily to me.

Palffygasse.

Please be attentive,
others might have greater need of your seat.

In 1914/15, considered highly gifted,

I was sent to the Vienna School of Applied Arts,
where I studied with enthusiasm and perseverance:

Drawing, painting, sculpture,
and naturally a lot of theory.

That was the time of the First World War.

Wartime events might then have galvanised me
toward becoming politically engaged.

But my professional work
so thoroughly absorbed me

that I didn't think about anything else.

I always kept aloof.

Perhaps because I was so different
from my fellow students,

many from the Sudetenland
with Völkisch and ethno-nationalistic backgrounds

and otherwise lacklustre conservatives.

There were heated
and impassioned debates about Judaism.

Though we argued,
we worked together in a comradely fashion.

Elterleinplatz.
Change to 9, direction Gersthof.

Then came the 1918 Revolution,
which I supported.

Even so I remained aloof,
everything felt distant.

My work alone was permanent,
and dear to me.

Of course I hated the war.

I saw the most gruesome war cripples
begging in the Vienna streets,

saw some enjoying the good life in those
post-war times while the rest of us starved.

Now it strikes me as though
I was seeing things through a fog back then.

I came to Berlin in 1922.

First as artistic director in a company,

thereafter I spent two semesters
under Professor Giess

at the Public School of Applied Arts
on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse.

Rosensteingasse.
Change to 9.

In 1924, I married a communist,
Dr Wilhelm Heise,

he was a school inspector,
a teacher at that time...

The draft of the résumé breaks off here.

Berlin, December 1922

William to Edith, back in Vienna

Dear Edith!

I'm really sorry
that I let you go back to Vienna.

Yesterday I gave my lesson in Tegel.

I talked about"Die and Become!"
for an entire hour.

I feel this was my happiest hour

and I truly, truly regretted
that you weren't present.

Whether I'm thinking of you?

Mother says I'm so very foul-humoured
ever since the Viennese lady has gone away.

Darling, I'm actually not
in a happy state at present.

I've been reading so much Strindberg

and that weighs damned heavily,
if one is so inclined.

Strindberg, I mean the analyst
of human beings bar none.

He is evil.

And perhaps, in some way, I am too?

Otherwise, how can I re-live this so agonizingly?

Well darling, let's leave it at that.

When we next see each other,
everything will be just nice, yes?

I kiss you and love you, Wilhelm

Dear Lad!

When you get this letter the day after tomorrow,
it will be a full year since we met.

It was on September 8, on a Friday.
Do you still remember?

I'm a bit sad today.

And now I don't know
what else to write to you

other than there's a beautiful story
of you and me in the beautiful wide world.

Come!

I keep thinking of you over and over,
and I'm so happy and proud

that you're fond of me
and that I'm allowed to be good to you.

How I'd like to be at your side
every night!

Only sometimes it felt you've virtually
forgotten me in all this betrothal affair.

My folks are hale and hearty.

If they're now afraid
to let me go to Berlin?

They have, I think,
more awful ideas about it than is necessary.

But over time I've got
to bring them round to believing

that I absolutely must go
to you now.

Do your parents know
that I have no money?

That I am a Jew?

Dear sweet, big one!

I don't feel right about
being financially dependent on you.

But I'm saving
so that I can come to you soon.

Here's a recipe:

150 grams of grated almonds or nuts

150 grams of sugar

One lemon, juice and rind, grated

Two whole eggs

Three extra yolks
Three egg-whites whipped

One tablespoon flour

First, whisk eggs and sugar
for about half-an-hour,

and then gradually mix everything in,
with the whipped egg-whites right at the end.

Young lad, jot that down on a slip of paper
and give it to your mother.

And don't gripe about me!

A very tender, hushed kiss.
Edith

Dearest Dittle!

It's really not easy for me now,
I feel so lonesome and dissatisfied inside.

Just come,
then things will be different for sure.

Over recent days
I've been vividly imagining this:

I'm sitting on the balcony and reading.

Sometimes I look up.

You're sitting in the opposite corner
busy with something.

Sometimes you look up.

Sometimes we both look up at the same time,
look at each other and smile.

I'm writing from school
while the boys are writing their class essay.

Yesterday, the course began in Gleimstrasse.
Tomorrow the Tegel one begins again.

The Spandau course
goes through till December.

In Spandau,
I pocket 80 billion marks per hour.

That sounds like something,
but it's nothing.

Today, bread costs ten billion,
the tram 800 million,

a paperback 4 billion 800 million,

the morning paper 500 million,

a gold Reichsmark 15 billion,
a gold Pfennig 150 million marks.

And tomorrow it'll be yet another tale.

Got to run!
The bell's about to go

and some of the scoundrels
are already handing in their finished essays.

A jolly load of old tripe!
"My Earliest Boyhood Memories."

Vienna, October 1923

Dear Doctor!

Your kind letter has made
my dear wife and I very happy.

You will appreciate that our most ardent wish
has been that our beloved Dittl

meets a man capable of
completely understanding her nature.

We have already become very fond of you
thanks to our dearest Dittl's descriptions,

and your qualities offer us a guarantee
of a happy and content future for our child.

We sincerely hope that we may be able
to welcome you as our dear son-in-law.

Naturally, we will venture beyond formalities

and discuss everything with you in person
regarding Edith's departure.

You will then be our dear guest,

and we trust that the time you've set aside
for your holiday is not too short.

Until we meet, may you fare well,

with cordial salutations,
from your devoted Max Hirschhorn

Dear Doctor!

I, too, heartily welcome you
as my dear son-in-law

and assure you that I am
very much looking forward to your arrival.

Best regards, Anna Hirschhorn

I hereby acknowledge receipt of the
Lord Mayor's order (3-22-1673) of the 7th of June

with notification that the Reich Minister

intends to apply paragraph 6 of the
Civil Service Restoration Act against my person.

Concerning the request that I present
my view on the matter, let me state:

I presume... I have to assume
the fact of my mixed-race marriage...

I have to assume
the fact of my mixed-race marriage

has induced the Minister
to take this measure

...to take this step of early retirement...
...to decide that I must take early retirement.

By no means do I deny the tensions,
which my mixed marriage engenders...

I take them very seriously. I am fully aware
of the tensions that my mixed marriage engender.

Only they are a deeply personal,
most real problem.

The last thing I wish to do is to minimize them.
Yet they are certainly my most personal...

Yet I can assure you
that it is most definitely my problem.

In the hope...

Secondly,
aside from this negative assessment...

...I refer, inter alia, to the literary critical
works on Hauptmann and Strindberg

from the years 23 to 29, as proof of
my attitude and testimony to my actions...

I am now 40 years old,
in penury, from humble beginnings...

I am now 40 years old, and would have
to abandon an occupation through which...

...with two children,
aged ten and eleven...

With children, aged ten and eleven,
who are attending school

and are considered as gifted and promising.

Mandatory retirement...
Compulsory retirement...

Not only forced retirement,
but also as a heavy blow economically.

I therefore ask the Minister...

And I therefore beseech the Minister
to refrain from the envisaged...

I would request that the Minister
might grant me an audience

for a more in-depth
and lengthy presentation.

I do hope...
In the hope that the Minister...

I beseech the Minister to allow me
to remain in the sphere of activity,

for which I believe I was born.
I can ensure that I will give my best...

Vienna, October 1939

Max Hirschhorn to Wilhelm Heise in Berlin

My dear Wilhelm!

Though I so rejoiced at a letter
from you after such a long time,

I didn't derive much pleasure
from its content.

My dears, look into the future
with a cheerful heart,

all will be well again with God's help.

Let us stay in good health
and good humour.

Enclosed,
I'm sending you the family tree,

of which you'll probably
take a dim view.

They were highly respectable,
dignified people.

Of course,
with the exception of my humble self.

Your father, Max

Vienna, November 1939

Dearest Edith,

You're surely dying to know whether
we've already settled into the new apartment.

Well, my dear child, the nicest thing
is that we're all under one roof,

the evenings are much more pleasant
because we can talk over everything together.

Rudi is carefree,
Truderl sings, plays tricks,

and at nine bed-making begins.

Organizing the various sleeping arrangements
reminds me of when you were all at home,

except back then
I had three rooms at my disposal.

You'll be miffed
that we've left you in the dark for so long.

With all the best will in the world
we don't have the patience to write at length.

It's gradually getting uncomfortable
in our already uncomfortable Vienna,

but let's keep our chins up
and retain our good spirits as best we can.

Imagine, Pepperl has also been given
just a few days to clear out of her apartment.

How are you, my dear child?

Your father and grandpa, Max

Vienna, March 2, 1941

Dear Dittl,

We're sending you some odds and ends
and that oil painting of you.

I've got to confess, dear child, that I find it
so difficult to part with the picture.

It now belongs
to your husband and to your children.

Your aunt Pepi

March 12, 1941

My dear Four!
What should I tell you today?

I'm slowly parting from my home,

yesterday it was the dining service
and today it'll be the writing desk.

Tomorrow I'll shift things around a bit
to make it cosy again.

Greeting and kisses to you all.
Yours, Elsa

June 5

Edith in Vienna to Wilhelm

Dear, dear Laddie,

I'm told that Mummy kept calling out"Edith"
at the hospital early yesterday morning.

By the time I got to her side,
she could no longer speak.

She was still conscious though,

I even told her
all about you and the children;

I offered her
the still fresh Lilies-of-the-Valley.

She strove to open wide her eyes
that had so changed

and raising her arms she moved
as though she wanted to embrace me.

Oh, Laddie, she was so feeble.

Her high forehead
so splendid with her shining grey curls.

Her eyes deep in the sockets
and ever so slightly open.

The nose transformed, so fine, so pallid,

and her poor mouth so small and old,
half open, and her breathing laboured.

Laddie, I sat by her bed until almost midday,
took hold of her hand.

Toward dusk, I called out "Mummy"
and she turned her dear head toward me,

but she could no longer talk.

When Elsa and I had to leave,
she was still breathing calmly and deeply,

we drew some hope,
for it struck me as though she were asleep.

And the nurse said half an hour later she was
at rest, quietly crossing over to yonder shore.

My dearest mother!

Papi, may you and our dear lads remain healthy,
and I'll try to be good always.

Edith

Vienna, August 15, 1941

Max Hirschorn to Edith in Berlin

My dear Dittl!
I'm keeping quite well, thank God.

I'll probably have to give up smoking,

for it has been strictly forbidden
to sell tobacco to Jews for a few days now.

For the time being,
I've a few days' supply,

then I'll suck on an empty pipe.

Yesterday,
I went to the cemetery

and passed on greetings at the graveside
to our dear mum from all her children.

The grave mound is already finished
and I've arranged for grass on top of it.

We'll plant some flowers.

We also ordered a makeshift memorial tablet,
for we can't get headstones now.

Warmly kissing all four of you.
As always, your faithful father

September 18

Dittl, dear sister, are you, too,
having such difficulties buying meat?

Now I'm taking everything at once,
it's hardly enough for a meal anyway.

And have to line up
for four to five hours.

And there's just mutton for us,
or today, for example, merely sausage.

Father is terribly out of sorts
and unfortunately I can't help him at all.

Ghastly.

We've also got several outlets for coal
but we have to fetch the coal ourselves.

But we now have only one room to heat.
Perhaps we'll also get a mild winter.

What stupid, vain worries we have?
And so, the years fly by.

My dearest ones,
it's high time I was in bed.

So, I'm hitting the sack.
Besides, the light disturbs father.

Stay healthy, dear ones, all four of you,
and tenderly embraced by your Elsa.

October 6

I heartily congratulate you
on the birthday of our dearest Wolfi.

May he continue to thrive
and grow up into a splendid, hard working man,

and may you
long derive much pleasure from him.

Lest we get carried away,
a shipment to Poland is imminent.

Reports say the first affected
will be deportees and former convicts,

later those living in the outer districts.

Reports also say there will be
shipments from the old Reich as well.

We can't yet know the truth of the matter,

but these rumours
are very definitely doing the rounds.

For the time being
we shan't despair or upset ourselves,

shall wait and see what happens.

What did you hear about it in Berlin?

Your truly loving father and grandpa

I, too, extend my warmest congratulations
to the big boy.

May he give you cause for much pleasure.

My God, how time flies,
the lad will be 16!

Yes, we're getting old! And it's also seen to that
we're becoming so quicker than necessary.

Once again something
to tremble and fret about.

And now we know all about
what awaits us there and from reliable sources.

I can't even bear to think
that we might be affected by it.

And what's more, winter is just around the corner.
Children, what kind of a world is this!

For the time being I'm burying myself in work.

Much love to you all from your Elsa.

October 7

Today I've got to add a brief postscript
to the letter we sent yesterday.

Unfortunately, the Polish affair
is taking more concrete shape.

Yesterday, throughout the day
we heard from several people

who have already received the dreaded invitation
to the collection point for the initial transport.

Even a doctor across from us in the alleyway.

Word has it that 5,000 will go from Vienna.

And another 20,000 from the Reich.

We're only allowed
take 50 kg of luggage per person.

I've no idea
of the permissible amount of money.

We don't know how the names are drawn up,
who will be affected by it.

Therefore, dear Wilhelm, if you think
you could do anything to help us in any way,

then please take the necessary steps.

Sometimes the interval between notification
and departure is no more than four to five days.

Don't get cross, children,
that we torment you all with our worries.

I kiss you heartily.
Yours, Elsa

October 8

My Dearests!
I've to write you yet again today,

and unfortunately these horrid times invariably
force me to communicate something unpleasant.

Today poor uncle Philipp received notification

to present himself at the notorious collection
point for the transport to Poland on the 15th.

You can well imagine
what kind of day we've put behind us.

I can't even write properly.

Fear and dread everywhere.

Father is so het up
that he's unable to add a few words

and conveys his greetings via me.

You can't imagine the state Peperl is in.

Oh, children, what a life!

Thousand kisses, Elsa

October 12

My Dearests!

Once the postman has been round
and no sign of the dreaded card,

we've even got to pay 5 Pfennig for it,

a load is always taken off our minds.

A pile of summons have already been dispatched,
including to many of our acquaintances.

The entire alphabet has been covered.

But perhaps this time it will pass us by.

Philipp is readying himself
and is very distraught.

Peperl is staying here for the time being.
She hasn't received an injunction,

but is torn about
whether she should go with Philipp voluntarily.

We've talked her out of it,
for she's so terribly nervous

and instead of helping him
might even be a burden.

But I think her conscience
is tormenting her.

Why do we have to live
through these times?

Yours, Elsa

October 17
My Dearests!

Since early Wednesday dear Philipp
is at the collection point in Sperlschule,

and this transport, the second already,
is supposed to leave on Sunday.

Probably to Lodz,
where a huge shanty ghetto has been built.

Let's hope our turn doesn't come before spring,

I'd prefer to spend winter in Vienna.

Your faithful father

October 20

I rarely venture outdoors any more,
the weather is inclement

and then I can't get used
to the left hand "decoration".

It's quite alright
as long as I stay in the 2nd district,

but I get stared out of it once I enter
the western districts or the Inner City,

where there are so many strangers.

Dear Philipp made off on Sunday evening
and we couldn't even accompany him to the train.

Your truly loving father, Max

October 30

My Dearest Ones!

Just as I want to put pen to paper,
along comes your letter, Ditterl.

Due to the bad weather,
we aren't so often in the graveyard these days.

We're now only allowed to board
the trailer-car, that means, the rear platform,

and we can only sit when
all the others, that is the Aryans, have seats.

We can't use buses at all.

Life is becoming all the more beautiful.

Our coal ration card has been taken away,
there's no new one for us yet.

Well, the gas oven in the kitchen
also warms quite nicely.

Today we had very good fried potatoes.

Oh, children, everything would be all well
and we would be satisfied with our lot,

if only they left us alone!

Yours, Elsa

Do you often have night-time visits?

November 13

If only we had suitcases.
We're still short two large suitcases.

But courage, dearest sister,
now is the time to be a fatalist.

Perhaps there's no joy in staying here,
who can know...

Greetings and kisses to you, Elsa

December 15

Dear Dittl!
Who knows what the coming hours will bring!

I truly hope that father,
considering his age, will be able to remain here

and me to take care of him.

But that is far from certain.

That entirely depends on the squad leader who
is coming "to do away with" things. Lovely times!

Now they come, two SS men
and two Jewish marshals,

and give just two to three hours
to pack everything and Adieu.

Furniture and anything
people can't take with them

must remain in the flat.

We can neither sell
nor give anything away.

Oh Dittl, life is tough.
Affectionately yours, Elsa

December 20

My dearest Dittl!

Your last letter gave me great pleasure,
you wrote it with such warmth, so truly Dittl.

I fully understand you, but in these times
we can't act according to our feelings.

Still not a word from dear Philipp.

The cold persists.

We've been leaving the gas oven on all day long,
otherwise it's unbearable in the flat.

Perhaps we'll make it through
without coal.

Elsa has gone out shopping
and sends you all her warmest regards.

I don't want to delay
in sending off these lines,

so you'll just have to do without
a note from the fairer sex this time.

As always with profound love,
your faithful father

January 18, 1942

My Dearest Ones!

So, our luck ran out.

Without prior notification
we had to be packed in three hours

and are now
in the collection room before evacuation.

We don't yet know where we're being sent.

I'll have to smuggle this postcard out.
They're treating us like prisoners of war.

For the moment I'm here just with Elsa.
Pepperl isn't with us.

Sorry, if I wrap up like this,

I'm writing these lines standing between
mattresses in a classroom with three windows,

sleepless amidst 200 people.

I couldn't have imagined anything like this.

Stay healthy for my sake,
and don't let them get you down.

Your truly loving father

Much heartfelt love
to our dear parents and dear siblings.

Little sister! My dears!

Despite everything, we're very composed.
Father is so sweet.

If we can, we'll write again.

Thousand kisses.

God be at our side, Elsa

February 1

My dear, dear Edith!

It has never been so hard for me
to write you a letter!

It came out of the blue, for I think
they were short 40 people for this transport.

I'm going round, completely dumbfounded.
Pepi

February 5

A new decree comes into force on May 1st
that we won't be allowed to use the tram at all.

I still can't believe it.

It is already four weeks Sunday
since Max and our dear Elsa left the house.

Max's flat has been vacated,
there's just the furniture left,

the flat has been locked since Monday.
As God wills!

We've finally got some coal,

but it's cold and I prefer to walk around
than to freeze in the room.

But that's a heap of crap, if only I knew
how our loved ones are getting along?

My thoughts turn to Elsa,
Max and Philipp over and again

and I'm happy to at least be able
to share memories of our loved ones with Berlin.

When you have a moment someday, then
I'd be delighted to read your loving words again.

Farewell, my beloved, warmest greetings
to you and to your loved ones.

My fingers are so numb,
I can't read my own writing!

Many kisses, Pepi

June 1

No news from our loved ones,
I truly regret that I didn't go with them.

Who knows where I'll end up,
alone amongst strangers.

You know how little I eat,

I just long for variety sometimes,
but war is war after all.

Yesterday we received notice
that we've got to move out again.

I've become so accustomed
to this flat since Elsa's departure.

It's so bright, the windows
look out onto a lovely garden.

You can still write to me
at the old address,

Frau Kunststadt, from a mixed-race marriage
who remains in the flat,

will pass on all the post
until I can pass on my new address.

She's a very nice woman
and we get along together

and she deeply regrets
that we've got to move.

Your aunt Pepi

June 16

Guess what happened:

I got a room in the same house
with an elderly lady

with very nice people
and was due to move in on Friday,

but postponed the move until Monday.

Lo and behold,
everyone in the flat departed on Saturday.

Seeing that flat is now padlocked, I got a room
with another tenant in the same house,

which I'm sharing with a lovely, elderly lady.

Two married couples
and an elderly lady also live here.

I've already slept two nights here.

I feel so strange and so long for you all!

Thousand kisses, Aunt Peperl

July 12

We've got to be patient
about dear father and Elsa.

Nobody gets any news,
we're just hoping and staring into space.

Dad is undoubtedly in an old folk's home
and Elsa somewhere busy.

Perhaps tomorrow there'll be news. But
unfortunately this "tomorrow" is very unrealistic.

I'm becoming noticeably leaner, I'm driven on
by yearning, and I wonder about my calmness.

I've turned to stone.

July 23

Dear Edith!
Thanks for everything.

Best regards to you all, farewell.

I'm travelling today.
Pepita

Don't look here, don't look there
Just look straight ahead

Whatever comes your way
Just you never mind

At times you don't even know
In from out

Don't take it to heart
Just you never mind

Lest all not go your way
Take it on the chin

Every thing has its reason
And its meaning

Don't look here, don't look there
Just look straight ahead

And whatever may come
Just you never mind

Lest all not go your way
Take it on the chin

Somehow every thing
Has its reason and its meaning

Don't look here, don't look there
Just look straight ahead

And whatever may come
Just you never mind

Everybody swing along!

Wolfgang Heise, Berlin, 1948

Draft for a personal résumé

I was born on October 8, 1925
in Berlin-Charlottenburg,

attended the Fifth Elementary School in Steglitz,
later the Körner Grammar School.

My father was a tenured teacher
at that time.

He was dismissed in 1937.

My mother is Jewish.

Given my father had been excluded
from the Reich's Chamber of Writers since 1933,

my mother, who is a sculptor,
also had no opportunity to work.

Any public exhibition of her work
was punishable.

After the school leaving examination I became
a commercial apprentice at a lamp factory.

In November 44, I was arrested during
a sting-operation by the Berlin Mitte Gestapo.

Together with my younger brother Hans,
I ended up in the Zerbst labour camp.

The camp broke up in panic
due to the advancing battlefront,

bringing to an end to this adverse state
of affairs under barely tolerable conditions.

Here, the draft for a personal résumé breaks off.

Fliegerhorst Labour Camp, Barrack 25

Hans

December 1944

Dear Parents!

Your dear letter came today:
we were so eagerly awaiting it.

We'll do everything right and proper,
none too hastily, and well thought-out.

Wolf and I will take care
we don't fall into harm's way.

Dear Parents,
what matters is that nothing happens to you

and we all get back together again
in good health.

So, chins up; we'll do so too
and then nothing can go wrong.

Fate may be
that we don't see each other for some time,

and should everything go awry,
we might even see each other on the far side.

Kindest regards to you, dear Parents.
Yours, Hans

February 1945

Wolf

I've just read Dad's letter.
I'm writing this in bed.

I'm confined to barracks with a mild flu.

The situation here changes by the hour.

We can only piece together
what's happening with difficulty.

We've been kept in the dark
regarding our future.

The camp keeps ticking
over in its usual rigid order,

though everyone, foremen, soldiers,
and workers know its days are numbered.

Today I heard that there were official
announcements about Berlin's defence on the radio.

Please write about
how you survived both massive air-raids.

Perhaps, that moment
we've been discussing is nigh.

Perhaps, it'll come differently than we expect.

Then, I hope at least that we each can recognize
and do the most sensible thing.

This future emerging from the present
is all so uncertain for us all.

We wait.

Here, everyone has to drop his mask.

Soon, even the smoothing
emollience of politeness will be gone,

things are getting ever tougher.

At least I managed to read a little,
despite the constant unrest and fever.

I've come to know discernment
as the capacity for disinterested pleasure,

and beauty as that
which generally pleases without a concept.

Still, as significant and interesting
as these problems may be,

they sometimes
seemed of little consequence.

And yet, there's such bewildering clarity
in the execution of the scholarly method.

Outside, the snow cover has melted,

heavy, grey clouds are low lying.

The fields are dark brown and green,
the forest deep green,

and in the distance dark blue.

The air is clear.

An acacia bush in front of the window
has spread its spiky, thorny branches.

Wolf.

March 8

Dear Mom, dear Dad!

At long last news from you
following the massive onslaught.

Yesterday and this morning we heard and
felt the carpet-bombing in the Magdeburg area.

We've moved out of our barracks

and for the time being are in the hall
next to the howling turbines of the fighter jets,

with 37 men to a barrack room.

The day before yesterday
the sun shone so warmly from a bright blue sky,

revealing a different blue than in winter,
a deeper, moister one.

Putting my shovel aside, I leant against the side
of the gravel pit I was about to empty,

and relished the warmth and peace
that seemed to permeate the countryside.

Unfortunately, it struck me as being reality.

Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror.

Horror conceals itself beneath beauty,
that unity of freedom and law,

that coming into being
of the absolutely necessary.

March 11

Today, Sunday we've a free afternoon.

I'm going to sleep and read,
darn my gloves and clean my boots.

No roll calls, I hope.

Yesterday I went to the cinema,
so I don't have to go today.

"The Woman of My Dreams."

Thanks to the sirens,
I didn't have to sit through the entire film.

There's curfew right now, we can't even
listen to the Wehrmacht communiqués.

I'm waiting.

We can't see the flow of history.

April 11

Dear Mom, dear Dad!

Yesterday, about 60 bombers attacked the airfield

and all but destroyed the runway.

It happened in a flash:

I saw billowing smoke signals, ran,
heard the howling, flung myself down,

the first carpet bomb attack unleashed.

Run, leap, run, fling myself down,
over and again.

After six minutes, a crater field yawned
where the runway once was.

The hangars remain intact.

Hans, too, came through it unscathed.

We've heard that tanks are rolling on Zerbst.

Time to keep cool heads.

Affectionately, Wolf

Rosemarie Barke, diary

January 4, 1945

Clausnitz, where I went skiing
with three classmates over New Year's Eve.

I made friends
with a young chap from the village.

Beautiful hands,
long, curved eyelashes over calm, amber eyes.

We went up and down the mountain at dusk,
over fields for hours on end.

We barely spoke, there were high winds.

Above us, a magical light
from a surreally beautiful, starry sky.

And finally he kissed me,
though I pressed my teeth and lips together.

He tried to lose his temper,
but suddenly froze,

his eyes assuming a tense expression
like a cornered animal.

"Take a look around you," he said.

We both stood very still and listened.

At first I thought it was
a heavenly phenomenon, a dull rumble.

"Bombs," he said, calmly.

And then we stood there
and held onto each other tightly like children.

On the north-western horizon
the sky turned blood-red.

Columns of smoke rose into the sky.

The anti-aircraft guns' muzzle
flashes like sheet lighting.

Tracer ammunition on and off,
then surging flames again.

"Come," I said in the end, and we walked silently,
our frozen hands in our trouser-pockets.

Horst finally asked me if I loved him a little
and I replied, "I don't know."

I feel sorry for him.

It went no further than harmless kisses
that left me cold.

February 1945

What a spine-chilling illumination as we
came up from the cellar: Dresden burning.

Muffled detonations of explosions,

followed by huge fire columns
rising into the night sky, hour after hour.

For two days, the cortege of those made
homeless passing our house never petered out,

on foot or in hay-carts,
some bandaged, others coughing,

with watery, swollen, and inflamed eyes.

People with nothing to their names
but the scorched rags on their backs,

others with small cases,
boxes, and rucksacks,

to a man with soot-blackened faces,
many with gaping burns with greenish edges.

Some with wrapped feet,
others in stockings, in felt shoes,

those with singed hair, eyebrows,
and eyelashes, with bloody hands,

limping, old and young on hay carts.

Naively, I got on a bike and headed off,
intending to search for relatives.

I put on protective goggles
in Wintergartenstrasse,

for my eyes were smarting
from the fine soot dust.

Almost every mansion
on the Karcherallee destroyed.

Solid furniture, Persian rugs,

oil paintings, and down-quilts
lay scattered around the filthy street.

A fine drizzle accentuated
the desolation around me.

Coming from Stübelallee
toward the central railway station,

I often had to dismount and carry the bike.

Telegraph poles, tramlines,
and debris of every sort blocked the way.

The stench of burning was growing stronger.

The railway viaduct
on Goethestrasse had collapsed.

I squeezed
through the debris carrying the bike.

Everything within me froze in repulsion,
as I stood there in front of the first cadaver.

A young girl of about eleven.

Her right arm nothing more than a charred stump.
Her face had remained intact,

as though it had been coated in lime powder.

Her eyes were shut
and her mouth half-open in a childlike smile.

I remounted the bike.

Lindenauplatz looked like it had been strewn
with corpses, curiously arranged in a circle.

A dead horse lay amidst the rubble.
They all looked so strangely stiff and doll-like.

The fumes were becoming unbearable.

Suddenly, a facade
in front of me crashed to ground.

Through the crackling flames,

a harrowingly strained cry of "help, help"
could be clearly heard, over and over again.

From all around me
half-strangled voices groaned and gasped:

"Help, help!"

I was devoid of all feeling.

Impassively, my eyes panned
across hundreds of corpses on that morning.

Half-dazed I passed
the burned-out Hygiene Museum,

climbing over smouldering rubble
on Albrechtstrasse,

where coal was still burning in the cellars,
clawing my way through debris and corpses.

Two soldiers sat leaning
against the fence of the Ehrlich Church.

One had put his arm round the other's shoulder:

They seemed asleep. They were dead.

Our school was still burning.

Hearing a muffled drone overhead,
I looked up and saw contrails.

I leapt onto the bike.

Not a hundred meters away the air pressure
flung me into the rubbish on the curb,

where I lay motionless.

Ear-splitting detonations,
cascading stones, burning trees.

I lay there, my body's every nerve,
every fiber clinging on to life.

And it erupted all over again.

A young man lay three meters away from me.

I crawled over beside him,
we clenched our hands together.

The second wave.

Passed.

Bike, 50 meters, down.

I then lay pressed against the man
next to a woman with three small children.

The woman was praying unintelligibly,
and I, too, prayed and utterly loathed myself.

May 1945

I'm sitting in the wooden barracks
of a foreigner's camp.

As a Frenchwoman.

Yesterday we thought
the Russians would be here today.

Nobody asked for papers
at the entrance any more.

Hitler and Mussolini dead, Berlin fallen.

Thousands of soldiers surrendered.

The unconditional surrender
was signed last night at 2:41.

And yet canons are still thundering.

I can't eat with excitement
and I'm smoking one cigarette after the next.

I've simply got to wonder at my fatalism.

I've come to the realization
that I'm not intelligent.

I'm shaking so much,
I can't write any longer.

If the camp leader
came round on a control, I'd be in for it.

I'll lie down on the straw mattress.

The Russians are here!
On horseback.

Here and there,
a few minor skirmishes on the streets.

I've a temperature.

It's too much, all too much.

All at once we heard a buzzing din
and a loud bang in the immediate vicinity.

Pompeo rushed with me
into the camp's dugout.

Pompeo.

Pompeo.

Pompeo.

Pompeo.

Pompeo.

After five short days, we were separated.

There had been lootings and rapes,

shootings as well,

and a good many people
had taken their lives.

The most important and very practical
question was: what to do with the corpses?

There was no vehicle
to carry them to the graveyard,

a hay-cart had to be unloaded again
and given to the Russians.

A barrel of curd
that one day appeared on the street

was scrupulously handed out
with great cheer.

June 1947

The same sight in waiting rooms
and on railway platforms across Germany,

no matter which Ally's zone.

People, terrified, ragged,
indifferent, coarse and hungry.

Oh so hungry.

The crippling fear of not escaping
from the mousetrap-Germany.

March 1948, Udo in West Germany
to East Germany

Dear Rosie!

I so want to moan with lust for life.
It's due to the weather.

Metal-blue sky, on a pitch-black night
during a storm out West.

It smells of the Rhine. Water. Sails. Stars.

I will worship mountains and embrace trees.

Every so often we've got to let go
in this humdrum existence.

Debts, appointments; let them wait.

At night I'm fighting with you again,
wriggling and twisting you.

I'm looking forward
to when the exams are over.

What a beautiful world,
and here I am, reading family law.

Don't keep me waiting
and write to me.

I hope you're as happy as I am.

I kiss your lips.
Yours, Udo

Rosie's diary

Only now do I realize how desperately lonely
I was during my escapades.

Feelings of tenderness
that abruptly turned to hatred.

Now I'm dumbstruck at this transformation
that has shaken me to the core,

Udo.

I'm sick from yearning for him,

for his hands,

his tanned forehead,
his nape covered in black hair,

for his tender, greyish-brown mottled eyes,

for this beloved, familiar body,

for this boy from head to toe,
who could be my lover, friend, and comrade.

April 19, 1948

Last evening
I got to know Pyotry Velargowic in the tram,

and with a dreadful stomach ache.

He invited me for a brandy
and after some hesitation I agreed.

He led me through the darkness, down alleyways
and round corners to a dingy drinking hole,

which turned out to be full of smugglers.

Within an hour
he made me a marriage proposal.

He is Yugoslav and engaged in some dubious
activity with the Yugoslav Trade Delegation.

We drank to close friendships,
discussed the German situation,

and ran up a bill of about 200 Marks for
real coffee and a quantity of fabulous liqueurs.

He's nice and has a disarming charm.

I promptly talked of Udo,
making the situation emphatically clear to him,

albeit unsuccessfully.

At the mention of "Yugoslav Trade Delegation",
I thought I shouldn't miss out on the opportunity.

He could be of enormous benefit to us
in the event of war.

It's worth seeking
an innocuous basis for our relationship.

April 22

I'm barely eating and am terribly nervous.

On Tuesday Pyotr picked me up from college,

we drank a bottle of Riesling at my place
and ate well,

not without serious misgivings on my part.

But actually,
Pyotr is right when he says,

"If you not taking what I plenty,
you are not Communist."

April 24

I'm at my wits' end.

Pyotr threatened to shoot us both
after a wrenching scene last night.

Udo's letter to boot.

He's coming at Pentecost.

Mainz (West Germany)
June 1951

Udo to Rosie

Dear Rosemarie!

Sweet, your letter.
The first I've liked from you in some time.

No, you didn't write standoffishly!
And you can safely ditch that political stuff.

For I can read that in the Socialist daily.

But just listen: I'm as interested in politics
as in listening to opera.

I've thought all the problems through.

There's no 'ideal form of government'.
Democracy is a lot of bollocks, dictatorship vile.

People are uneducated and uninformed.
That's all there is to it.

They're also not selfish enough.

They spoil the nicest weather
with all their claptrap about improving our lot.

I no longer read the newspaper.

My goal is the world state.

It's the only possible social system.

Everything else is so insignificant
that it's hardly worth getting excited over.

Time will tell who is more mature politically,
you or I.

You're now at the stage
I was back in 1942.

Before things turned sour.
There's no helping you, like me back then.

So, feel free to indoctrinate
the brainless.

Within a few days, the proles will sell out
your ideals for a load of booze or something!

I'm studying law, for four years
I've been learning how to be meticulous.

And, we're getting screwed over right and proper.

One more thing: kinship is ghastly.

So petty-minded and spiteful.
Dieter is great.

Sometimes I've been sad, Mutzel.
It's pathetic, you know?

Hardly. Otherwise you wouldn't have sacrificed
all my optimism in you for some poxy principles.

I won't come for the World Fair Games.
Otherwise I'd have to give up my position.

There's no longer any freedom.

Neither freedom of expression,
nor any other form thereof.

With your lot, it never existed in any form.
Here, a modicum at least.

Now I'm holding a picture of you
to help against forgetfulness.

It's from 1946.

So lovely.

Your eyes are trusting.

When you sent it you wrote
that you were still a virgin when it was taken.

Why did you write that?

To me, you're still such a good-natured,
pure child as back then.

There are few girls as honest
and self-sacrificing as you.

You must be a wonderful woman.
You can't, however, have the freedom you desire.

I am reactionary:
the woman belongs to me.

Equality is illogical,
unnatural, and nonsensical.

Besides, the man isn't free at all:

he loves and desires her.

My God, how happy I was with you!

I'm in bed. Hardly a suitable place to write,
for my cravings won't leave me alone.

Do come in summer!
I'll pick you up from the border.

We could have such a fine time.
On the Rhine, paddle boat etc., tent.

Dieter, Mandi,
none of your Youth Movement.

Doing nothing,
apart from four to five hours study daily.

A bite to eat, then crawl into the tent.

Paddle afterwards. Campfire.

Your head in my lap,
my fingers through your hair.

How mean of you not to send me tender letters.
You're not getting any either.

Why should I confess everything
and lay bare my poor heart,

while you take comfort in knowing that,
yet make sure to give nothing away.

And it's lazy of you. When I'm at your place,
you don't make me sit in the next room.

That torments me.
And, it's dishonest.

You have these thoughts, too.

In half-waking dreams
you're kissing me, thank you!

But heck, am I not allowed in on it?

Blood is rushing to my head,
so I'd better stop.

Yours, Udo

July 1951

Dear Rosemarie!

I was on the verge of tears, for I've just read
your letter and set eyes on the picture.

Pentecost 1951.

I think everything has broken-down.

Love perturbs me greatly.
Every now and then I feel I'm ablaze.

How am I supposed to get to Berlin?
Passport. Travel money. Time.

Are you sad?

Dear lass, I'm off to Criminal Law.

The house is ready in 25 days.

Mainz, late August 1951

Ever since they've taken
to wearing jumpers in Parliament,

they just sit around
twiddling their thumbs.

No, it's not worth talking about.
Ça va pas.

Have you ever met somebody
who hasn't objected

if you tell him
he's just like everyone else?

Hardly!

Perhaps,
that's how things stand with us too.

We fill lines and pages with words,
work something out and think that's swell

and that the others also find it so,

and then fancy ourselves
as something special.

Even if we don't say it aloud,
or when nobody is in the room.

Seen from a higher level,
it might well look easier.

Cast: Rosie, bar-counter politician,
president to-be of the League of World Women.

Udo: your average lawyer with tremendous plans
in his shabby jacket pockets.

Dieter: eternally befuddled
studiosus rerum naturalium,

living on hand-outs, partly parental,
partly from his bride's possessions.

Prone to a potbelly.

Mandi: denizen of the Mainz underworld,
for she was bombed-out.

Shorthand typist
with mediocre mental aptitudes.

Very easy-going,
but for all that superficial,

of an amiably venal nature that would get on
any sensible person's nerves in the ninth month.

All acted out by us.
A mediocre bunch.

Somehow, I'm more inclined to greater things.
I want to shoot 8mm movies. That'd be something.

So what about a love affair
behind cabin doors.

You know, when we travel together,
we always fall in love again.

I'll slip in through the porthole and slip out
again in the morning and sharks are down there.

And sea cows. That'll be swell.

When I make it rich we'll rent a cottage
in the woods and I'll paint you there.

You'll read aloud
and I'll paint until I can't take it any longer.

Then I'll screw you
and afterwards we'll start all over again.

I'll then think
just how beautiful it is with this woman,

but if she weren't there, I might well
fancy seducing a sweet little 14-year-old,

and you might think about a little half-Jew,

and basically we're big jackasses.

I can have things with you nobody else can offer.
I might be disappointed again, or maybe not.

Anyway, in 30 years, all of this will be over.

Though the Pyrenees will still be standing.
And this craving. Sometimes it makes me sick.

Blue sky and drifting clouds, grass.
White ruins.

Well, Rosie, good night.

We'll make use of the time, yes?

Just how will we do it?

November 1951

Furthermore,
the Paris negotiations are done with.

Your lot will write this and that.

But they truly are a giant step forward.

Yet again our State
is a formidable factor.

I could even employ
that stupid term "Great Power."

France is weaker,
its colonies are toppling.

The USA wants to hold on to us at all costs.
They are afraid of the Russians.

If Ivan doesn't attack,
there will be no war.

Here, they don't want it.
Nor do the Yanks.

I'm convinced that peace will hold.

Things are going awry in Egypt,
but the Tommies will triumph.

And Mossadeq is having to fight
his corner to hold on.

The opposition is strong
and the USA is waving dollar loans.

But politics will need
to have a rethink too.

The American and Western policies
are snail-paced, but very safe.

If you ask me, the race has been won.
There will be no war.

The demise of the Soviet Bloc has begun,
but it remains powerful and has many offshoots.

It will die slowly.
Or, transform itself.

I assume that over time a brown sauce
will emerge instead of a black and white one.

How absurd that the USA doesn't accept
China on the UN Security Council.

Mao has a mind of his own.

He is only a Soviet satellite
as a matter of necessity.

Old China was bad. The new one is better.
And it's getting bad, too.

In the long run all this
cardboard-head-carrying-coercion is nothing.

Here and there someone looks to the other side
and is astonished that it works without activists.

Works better.

I don't like compulsion.
Curse the church, but the Parties as well.

Why did Alef give you flowers?

To the devil with you.

No, to me.

After all, you're pretty cute.

I want to rub my nose against yours.
And bite off your canine teeth.

Oops. No more space on this page.

The West hasn't changed it policies one iota.

World War II was a waste of time.
It's still the same old story.

Armament. Re-armament.
Victory and then you're stone dead.

In seven years, we destroy the world,
in seven more we build a new one.

It's jolly splendid.

The chief demolishers get military medals,
the chief rebuilders are activists.

In the end, both sides will be left gobsmacked,
wondering whether school's really out for them.

By the way, I'm in smashing form.

From time to time
I enquire how the government's getting on,

whether the Yanks are still in Korea,
go paddling, and study law.

At weekends I go dancing. Just like today.

We're going to Bingen by car.
My little Frenchwoman and me.

But I think I still love you.

Since your last letter,
I've several times caught my subconscious

getting accustomed to you once again.

But that takes some time, Muzl.

As long as you've broken that,
you can patch it up again. You twit.

Should we meet again,
look for a room with soundproofed walls.

I love you.

We'll marry next year.

Write at once.
Udo

We're now living in our houses.

They're not big,
are next to each other, but are rather pretty.

I have three rooms and kitchen.
2 x 2 per floor. Bathroom with water closet.

70 Marks per month.

Repayment included in the rent.

Ownership in three years,
12,000 Marks mortgage.

Garden 150 square meters.

Upstairs, large room 5 by 3.60
and a smaller one 3.50 by 2.80.

Unless we get married,
I'll be in trouble with the housing office.

In two years we'll get a car:
a second-hand Volkswagen for 2,000 Marks.

Engagement trip to Venice,
or to Spain in spring, if I pass my exams.

Can you get a passport over there?
If you come along, we won't freeze.

Yesterday, was in Hemingway's
"For Whom the Bell Tolls."

Ingrid Bergmann plays Marie.
Outstanding.

The ending is dissonant.
It's good that way.

Besides, it feels true-to-life:

to be killed for someone
you love is comforting.

Don't you feel as if you're seeking
to place your heart on ice?

The frozen heart.

Life begins with love and dies with it.

If only you'd read a line of Seneca intelligently.
I'll have to explain a thing or two to you.

Please leave other men alone!

I got a card from Paris today.
A girl there costs 300 to 500 francs.

There are Asian girls as well.

I liked the mulattos best.

Japanese women are adorable
with their little bell-like voices.

That's why I like you too,
for your love tastes of guilty pleasures.

That's what some others think of me.
Perhaps it's even true.

Oh, bugger it!

Mum is quite fond of you.

Sometimes she gingerly asks,
but I don't give any answers, you pompous git!

I'm not writing you another letter
until you say "yes".

But I'm sending you a thousand dreams

in which I tear your hair out
and have your flesh between my teeth.

I'm looking forward to lying on your breast
and talking of transparent materials.

Feeling your lips and tongue. I don't want
to miss out on any voluptuous torments,

but your eyes glow too timidly
and your breast and back are restless.

Luckily, we can't accuse each other
of being fish-blooded.

Yet, it's also pleasant
as the great silence comes on.

When we're tired and seek each other out,
for we're afraid of the void.

That's how it is.
Ça va.

An entire lifetime.

Feel your heart.
Can you hear how it throbs?

Your heart doesn't belong to you.
You're tearing it asunder.

Don't just follow your head,
nothing underneath.

But I've been waiting for so long, it hurts.

Time flies.
Happiness is a weathervane and thrifty.

Let me embrace you.
Yours, Udo

By the way: I've always held
our legal system in high esteem.

It hasn't caved in under political pressure.
Be quiet, you don't know it.

But now here in the West
they're attacking the independent, free judge

who has passed rulings against the State.

Freedom is also coming under fire here.

Nor does Konrad Adenauer
want a unified Germany.

It would spell the end
for Kaiser Konrad the First.

I've already torn up two letters.

Unless you finally come to your senses and
help me to think of you and to believe in you,

I'll no longer be able
to write to you in half a year.

I was at loggerheads with Dieter over you.

Are you afraid or bothered,

or don't you want to give up your profession,
or what do you want?

You've got to imagine you're standing
opposite me while you answer.

Letters are a substitute for the conversation

we can't have
due to the border between our States.

It's truly beyond me how you can still work
with such a shower of idiots.

You can't be that daft.

You once asked me
what I'd do if I was called up.

What will you do?

The military here isn't sizable,
12 divisions, 250,000 men.

On top of some 100,000 border guards.

Here in the West everyone knows damn well
that the armed forces are a great evil.

But they're the lesser evil.

The greater one is your regime.

You yourself stated that they might want
to free us by force if necessary.

As long as they refrain from doing so,
you've no need to fear the Wehrmacht.

Besides,
you lot have a comparable military unit.

Sometimes at night
I think of you for hours on end.

Shall we meet or will I go to France?

Guess it'll have to be France,
for you've done nothing to stop me

and my patience has run dry.

1948 until 52, that's an eternity.

Like flowers in bloom, it can all rapidly come
tumbling down once the major obstacle is removed,

namely, my willingness to wait.

May 1952

I sat my final exam

and got good grades.

I'm heading outdoors
to stretch my limbs again.

Are you a tad pleased,
my little Communista?

Your second-last letter drew a line
under our life together thus far.

Feel free to scout around
for another man.

I'm letting you go.

I kiss your tanned neck.

Yours, Udo

November 1952
Rosie's diary

I'm still living with Ernst and have a feeling
that it doesn't bode well for me.

Never before have I felt that I've harmed my soul
in similar relationships to this one,

or I've become more vulnerable in this regard.

It'll be good when I move out.

Ernst has played havoc
with my self-confidence.

I'm coming to terms with the fact that
I'm "being taken for a ride" on the margins.

Ernst may well laugh at such thoughts and
quip that I'm complicating everything yet again.

He'd also probably deny taking "me for a ride"
by alluding to our friendship,

which only exists in his imagination,
in all sincerity for sure.

But for me it's nothing other
than the carnal reaction to his physical type.

His very presence triggers in me
the most contradictory doubts about my feelings.

When he sleeps, he's always first out,
I inquisitively look at his calm face,

his relaxed hand on my shoulder,

and wonder whether I want to kiss
or to strangle him at that moment.

I haven't a clue about his inner workings.

For him, women are first and foremost women, too;

for they're beautiful to touch
and the source of immediate pleasures,

are understandable
and manageable after a few nights.

It's too much trouble to determine what
they have on the inside. So why even bother?

Besides, they like to complicate things, leading
to discussions, and these are time-consuming.

It's best to kiss them, so they stop their
nonsense and become as normal as one wishes.

I've got to leave him, soon!

Udo wrote.

He thinks we ought to have married
at least two years ago.

Then what?
I'd be just as miserable, just differently.

And perhaps
there'd be a little Udo trotting around.

My circumstances haven't changed a whit.

"For Whom the Bell Tolls", Hemingway.

In its fullest sense,
it's more dangerous than a reactionary book.

Such insidious poison
and no wonder it hasn't gone into print here.

"And Quietly Flows the Don" has passages
with a similar sense of resignation,

but behind them is the comforting knowledge
that the Russian Revolution ultimately triumphed,

while in Spain
it culminated with Franco's victory.

Hemingway's novel is ghastly and grandiose.
I read it in one sitting. It's utterly pernicious.

Every single line implicitly contains the
corrosive indication of the futility of it all.

It's nothing but the irrefutable insight
into the impossibility of disentangling the events

that make up our existence,

events that shape us
while we pretend to create them.

Why the hell am I sometimes surprised
by my generation,

by the fact it's patently obvious that
most would have nothing against another war!

It'd make life easy for us all,

it would simplify matters
in the most obvious way.

December 1952

He insisted on accompanying me.

We barely spoke,
and not a word over the last metres.

So, I said goodbye on the doorstep,
and in response he kissed me

and stood there in silence.

I explained briefly and without further ado
that I couldn't take him back to my place,

for I wasn't living alone.

I accompanied him back to the station.

When he asked if I'd come with him,
I instantly said yes,

although he went on to
say that the last train had left.

We walked and walked,
the road seemed never-ending.

It was after two when we got there.

Wolfgang led me to his room, and while I looked
around, I heard him talking with his mother.

I realised that I'd have to greet her
in the morning and how awkward that would be.

While all this was going through my mind,
my eyes skimmed over countless book-spines

that covered
all four walls of the room to the ceiling.

Books were also piled up on the desk,

and two cats were wandering around
among scripts and magazines.

He came, and we drank tea,
smoked and remained silent.

We then lay down in the dark
and he just kept saying my name, over and again.

When I clumsily reminded him
of certain precautions,

he asked in an urgent tone
if I was determined not to have a child.

I asked him the same
and he replied yes with vehemence

leaving me so startled, astonished
and confused that I had no reply.

We slept for about an hour.

After I washed,
the moment had come to face his mother.

Edith's kindness made it easy for me
to be calm and unselfconscious.

Wolfgang wandered about,
looking for things, leafing books.

He then put on wonderful recordings
of opera and Schubertlieder.

He sat there engrossed, stirring his tea,
and ignoring his mother's warnings to hurry.

In the end, it was too late,
and he was still looking for his things.

I was in the institute at half-past nine.

The day felt endless.

In the evening yet another lecture
and the Party's training program awaited me.

When I got home, Ernst was already in bed,
very tired much to my relief.

Since that Sunday, Wolfgang has been
in my thoughts every single hour.

As for him?
He says nothing, not a word about it.

He asked me the evening I wrote this down,
if I'd move in with him.

I'll have to share him with his work,
perhaps even with other women one day.

He'll sometimes be so distant
to the point of incomprehension.

September 1963

Gerd Semmer, Düsseldorf
To Rosemarie Heise

Neue Deutsche Literatur
Berlin W8, Friedrichstrasse 169

Dear Frau Heise,

Enclosed are the two poems
I promised you. I've just completed them.

I do hope you like them.

Where possible,
please retain the use of lowercase letters.

I've just finished reading a proper novel:
"Divided Heaven".

Please give my regards to Christa
when you bump into her.

I happily think back to that hot day
in your house, when I was so awfully worn-out.

What particularly struck me was how warily and
calmly your two lads were clobbering each other.

They'll be good fighters
and we'll have need of those too.

Cordially yours, Gerd Semmer

In Memoriam Wolfgang Heise

1995, Christa Wolf

Once, at the beginning of the sixties,

Wolfgang and I happened to be spending
several weeks at the same sanatorium

in south-east Berlin.

It was a sanctuary of sorts
for a certain species of Berlin intellectual,

for those who had at first internal,
then increasingly external confrontations

with measures or institutions
of the State or of the Party,

to which most of them belonged,

plunging them into conflicts and crises

that often manifested themselves
through psychosomatic complaints.

The doctors listened to their litanies,

prescribed vegetarian food,
Kneipp's water therapy, and above all long walks.

In my case, cardiac issues.

Was it Wolfgang's stomach?

Or perhaps the heart already,
which failed him in the end?

Neither of us could sleep.

So, we teamed up for long walks,

breathing the fragrant air
of the pine forests around the Märkish village,

relishing the autumnal landscape
and talking, talking.

We made an initial assessment of the desolate
years following the revelations about Stalin.

Somewhat obsessively, we pitted doctrine
against praxis, citing ever-newer examples.

I still recall passing through a pine grove,

and the oblique slant of the autumnal sunbeams

when Wolfgang said
we need to be clear about one thing:

this State, like any State,
is an instrument of domination,

and its ideology, like all ideology:
false consciousness.

We stood still.
I clearly recall asking: "What should we do?"

We were silent for some time
until finally he replied: "Remain decent."

That wasn't a mission statement,
but I've often thought about it.

We both had to deal with conflicts arising
from that stance in our respective spheres.

These often brought him, I believe,
to the brink of what he could stomach

and go along with.

Whenever I met Wolfgang
he struck me as strained,

the lines on his face deeper and sagging,

his features etched with an expression
of almost solidified seriousness.

We didn't see each other
so often during those years.

He was living outside Berlin
and working at the university.

Yet I always felt close to him.

We'd ring each other every now and then.

He was very reserved
and never talked about himself.

One rarely heard anything
about his childhood or youth.

End of December 1963

Wolf Biermann

Dear Wolfgang Heise!

To ring in 1964, I hope that you
needn't be too shocked by my exam results.

Warm greetings to your wife
and to your two boys,

who, as I gathered back then, were
very pleased with the wealth of ideas in my songs.

Back then, at least.
Yours, Biermann

Don't wait for better times

Don't wait with your hat
Like the fool on the riverbank

Who day after day waits

For the forever-flowing waters
To run dry

Memorandum for a dossier concerning a discussion
between Dr Heise, Humboldt University

and Comrade Schwiegerhausen, State Secretariat
for Higher and Technical Education

on February 11, 1964 at 11.30 a.m.

At the beginning of the discussion,
Comrade Heise communicated

that he had received a certificate of appointment,

instructing him to take over
operations of the Vice Rector for Social Sciences.

Comrade Heise indicated
that he expects a decision from us

concerning the commencement of his duties
on Monday, February 17.

Comrade Doctor Schwiegerhausen
stated that in his opinion,

Comrade Heise's misgivings about implementing
Party policy at the Humboldt University

furnished ample grounds to believe that he wasn't
properly filling his role as Vice Rector.

In reply, Comrade Heise stated that a removal
could be solely executed by official means,

for he had not been appointed
at his own suggestion,

and the Secretary of State
must set out the grounds for dismissal

to the Senate of Humboldt University,
and to the Rector.

Humboldt University Berlin
The Rector

Berlin W8, Unter den Linden 6

March 23, 1964

To Professor Dr Wolfgang Heise,
Institute for Philosophy

Dear Colleague,

Following the appointment of Professor Dr Arnold
as Vice-Rector for Social Sciences,

I, in agreement with the State Secretary
for Higher and Technical Education,

herewith relieve you of your duties
from the position

of Vice-Rector for Social Sciences at Humboldt
University with effect from March 16, 1964.

I wish you every success
with the continuation of your academic work.

With collegial greetings,

Professor, Dr habil Sanke

Two years later, March 1966

Socialist Unity Party of Germany

Draft resolution

It has emerged that Comrade Heise,
member of our group,

positioned himself against forthright struggle
and the harshest condemnation

of Havemann, Tzschoppe, and Biermann.

Two years ago, Comrade Heise did not feel it right
that Havemann be expelled from the Party.

Inadvertently, our officials did not
thoroughly discuss this matter with him.

While Comrade Heise did submit a statement
against Havemann to the General Assembly,

the underlying principles and causes
of his erratic attitude

were not satisfactorily clarified.

Our group was informed of details
of Comrade Heise's attitude

at the General Assembly on March 2.

In particular that he had refused
to sign a letter to UNITA,

which requested the correction of an article

describing Havemann's role
in the German Democratic Republic,

and in which the work
of the philosophical institutions of our State

was rendered completely
distorted and disformed.

Comrade Heise
does not want to admit the detrimental effect

his behaviour has on the Party's objectives
and on the struggle for ideological purity.

In practice, his rejection of this joint action

and of an open political condemnation
of Havemann, Biermann, and Tzschoppe

is tantamount to support for these people.

We can only see Comrade Heise's attitude
as nothing but an attitude of petty misgivings

and intellectualistic dogmatism,

which disregards democratic centralism
and the unity of the Party.

To what extent this attitude is based upon
Comrade Heise's mistaken and dissenting views

on fundamental issues
of our Party's national politics,

on the path to victory
by socialism under our conditions,

and the ensuing tactical necessities,

will have to be clarified

by Comrade Heise
stating his position to our group.

We intend to do everything to ensure that
Comrade Heise re-integrates himself into the group

and adopts an unambiguous attitude
in line with the Party's current policy.

We emphasize that the conclusion
to which the discussion will lead will depend,

above all, on Comrade Heise himself.

Rosie to Wolf in Ahrenshoop

My little Wolf, Sweetheart,

I couldn't prevent them
from going to you, believe me.

I was awfully upset,

but I just can't judge
what's right in this case.

Please understand that.

I didn't want to give them your address.

Don't let all that get to you.

My dear, none of it matters.

I'm so distraught that I can't be at your side.

Please don't take it tragically,
don't be ever so dreadfully German,

be Viennese about it
and just give them the finger.

All three mean well. They, too, are
under pressure and are frightened. Frightened.

I'll call you tonight, after ten.
Will that be alright?

I'll try.
Yours, Little Rosie

We were 12 or 13 at the time,
boys and girls,

and broke open
the door of the abandoned cinema.

The parquet was long since removed,
the theatre empty.

Hormone-fuelled adolescents, we crept
through the dark, seeking each other out.

For us, forbidden fruit.

We sensed each other's presence

by listening or following cigarette tips
glowing in hands and mouths.

Not a sound apart from
our breathing and fumbling footsteps.

We stretched out our arms
into the darkness so as to touch each other.

For hours on end...

I came in contact with another body.

Awkwardly, we tried to kiss.

We recognized each other in the act.

It was my brother. Andreas.

In sheer disgust,
we shoved each other away.

April 1966

My Sweet Wolf,

I can now admit that I'd secretly
hoped that your decision would be so.

You can't feel as bad,
and if you do, it won't be for much longer,

as if you'd have acted otherwise.

I'm ever so happy about it,

for I believe myself
thoroughly grounded and unromantic.

I'm also so relieved that
no family-related considerations influenced you.

That would have gnawed at me terribly.

There's no reliable prognosis
as to what will come of all this.

What storms, scandals,
and outrages haven't eventually petered out.

Still, come what may,

I feel thoroughly ready to stare steely
into life's tight-lipped countenance,

as long as you are by my side,
in whatever way possible.

Two things are now critical.

Firstly, for you to build up
strength for the upcoming procedures,

and I can help you with that.

Secondly, you must consider an objective,
justifiable, and clearly fixable standpoint,

in which there are no weaknesses,

with which you can make
new detailed decisions in any situation

without hesitation or strain on your nerves.

After A, you can only say B,

and not let yourself be persuaded
that you might just have wanted to say "ouch".

At best I'll be able to help you
in a vague moral sense with that.

But my depression, a mere foreshadow
of these current problems, is behind me now

and I'm almost glad that
the ominous silence has also lifted,

and that things are finally in motion.

I'm enclosing a card which your
eldest boy sent from holiday camp.

I was so reassured that he seems to have
a mind of his own, albeit rarely visible,

and a relationship with his father.

Besides, he must be slowly
getting sick and tired of me.

Please drop him a small card. Show him
you're grateful and proud, it's important.

My dear, warmest regards, I embrace you.
As always, yours, Little Rosie

September 6, 1966

Wolfgang to the Rector of Humboldt University,
Professor Dr habil Sanke. On the Premises

Magnificence,

I hereby request
to be discharged from the functions of Dean.

Regrettably, my state of health
leaves me with no other option.

My ability to work
has not yet been fully re-established.

The fragmentation of powers
necessarily associated with the Dean's duties

might well re-induce the conditions
underlying the sickness.

I extremely regret this decision.

It was reached following in-depth
consultations with the physicians

in light of developments over recent months.

With Socialist greetings, Heise

December 14, 1970

Andreas, homework

Presentation of my Development

I'm 16 years old.

I dream of turning 18,
just as, at 12, I dreamt of turning 14.

My 16th birthday didn't change anything for me.

Well, I'm allowed to smoke and buy beer.

Yet, when I insisted that my headmaster
address me as Mr. Heise, he roared me out of it.

That's just how it is when you're 16.

I have the makings of everything in me.
Everything.

However, that could also mean nothing.

The word "develop" probably implies that
something emerges from a shell and takes shape,

something, which was previously there,
but only gradually becomes visible.

In my case, will something be visible? What?

My arrival in this world brought joy to many,

especially to my mother of course.

But she had a rough time,
for my birth was a forceps delivery.

Years later, whenever I'd get angry,
and I got angry very often,

a red spot appeared on my forehead.

Why did often I have tantrums?

The year after my brother was born.

Something began,
which I regret to this day,

but yet can't explain.

I took a dislike to him.

There was no reason for that,
but I couldn't help it.

He didn't do anything to me.
If anything, he once saved my life.

Even now, if I deliberately suppress this dislike,
it still surfaces sometimes.

Red is the corps colour
I so proudly bear

And red is the dress
I so love you to wear

Our company marches through the hamlet

The trail that leads to you,
that I'll never forget

Yes, that I'll never forget

Headbands waving from the fields
One of them for me

In my thoughts I kiss you
Soon at your side I'll be

Our company marches through the hamlet

The trail that leads to you,
that I'll never forget

Yes, that I'll never forget

Are you looking forward to this night
To a dance with me?

You in your red dress
The most beautiful will be

Our company marches through the hamlet

The trail that leads to you,
that I'll never forget

Yes, that I'll never forget

First Motorised Riflemen Division,
Oranienburg

Andreas writes home

April 1974

2 a.m.

Drove to Klietz, guarding barricade post.

My radio operator's name is Florath.

Cordon off streets with red flags in the firing
sector for howitzers and low-flying aircraft.

4:30: Report standby

Time to start a hellfire.
We were instantly warm.

I plonked myself down by the fire and conked.

How the hell was I to know
that Florath would also conk out right away.

8:00 to 9:30 then block the road. National Road.

Vehicle Columns.

Also a caravan from the West.
Jerks from West Berlin's Socialist Unity Party,

who wanted to get to Schollener
Lake Nature Reserve. Ornithologists.

Sergeant Major does control round
telling us to forget about lunch.

He's already half-pissed on Boonecamp Bitters.

Then a Trabant pulls up and out steps
Schulze, my buddy from the nearest checkpoint.

Snappy powwow:
Do we wanna, don't we wanna? We wanna!

So, red flag out. Another Trabant.
Hitch a ride to Schollehne.

To the local boozer.

PLEASE TAKE A NUMBER

Guzzled down a bunch of beers
at lightning speed,

bought a crate,
stopped another car, and vamoose.

Got to Florath's checkpoint,
hid crate with leftover beer.

Heard that Sergeant Major had already been
and missed me. Couldn't give a toss.

7:00 p.m.: Block road for half-an-hour.

Then lay down by cosy little fire and just
opened my mouth to knock another one back.

11.00 p.m.: Commando signal:
pack up, we're coming to get you.

Threw all the junk into a pile
and waited for the truck.

Truck here. Sergeant Major ranting.
Then, off to Oranienburg.

Monday now deemed Sunday.
So, a lie in.

That's my brief report today.

Don't look here, don't look there
Just look straight ahead

Whatever comes your way
Just you never mind

At times you don't even know in from out

Don't take it to heart
Just you never mind

Lest all not go your way
Take it on the chin

Every thing has its reason
And its meaning

Don't look here, don't look there
Just look straight ahead

And whatever may come
Just you never mind

Lest all not go your way
Take it on the chin

Somehow every thing
Has its reason and its meaning

Don't look here, don't look there...

Blue is the corps colour
I so proudly bear

And blue is the dress
I so like to you wear

Our company, yes company,
marches through the hamlet

The trail that leads to you
That I'll never forget

The trail that leads to you
That I'll never forget

Airforce Technical Battalion 9,
to First Motorized Division

Andreas, you must be on-edge.

The sand hereabouts is yellower
and a propeller looks fancy on my cap.

The houses here are dry wood
and multi-functional,

but the forest can't be cleared,
for it's grown over concrete.

I came across a pit with horse bones,

oily bomb craters, and the remains
of Werner von Braun's villa.

Science fiction.

Read Borges and you'll know
what it's like in Peenemünde.

On the other hand, we have rats.

I'm now free to stand sentry.

For half a year, at least.

Often several days at a go.

The food can be stomached, no more.

And not for long.

It often ran right through me
or got stuck somewhere, was unpleasant.

After being told
I carry the sub-machine gun like a forester,

I'm keeping an eye out
for the woodland animals,

while walking the runway
in the rain in the strongest winds.

I'm broke to boot,
and got no more cigarettes

and think about
who I'm going to bum off this evening.

Actually, it's all for the best.

Thomas

Thomas to Rosie and Wolf

Given we have two chiefs in this barracks,
as many as roe-deer, the orders keep coming.

Each playing at it as mightily as he can.

We have the pleasure
of being constantly on the trot.

Suspension training over pools of oil,
bomb craters and other unpleasant things.

I'm forever thirsty and trying to get fruit.

Political training again today,
at which the aged captain explained

that the prerequisite
of Socialism is Christianity.

Propaganda films non-stop.

Our marching song, too.

In our pent-up frustration
it becomes mere screams.

And there are grades for bed-making,
hailed as a true Socialist contest.

The swearing-in ceremony is tomorrow.

Obviously, the marching
and the rest won't pass muster.

A few have been discharged as unfit.

Somebody with a wooden leg
and another with only one lung.

We've organized some brew and will
indulge ourselves with bread rolls and brew.

Dear Family of Comrades,

With a deep breath I began this Sunday,
naturally blessed with blue skies,

on which I, a first-time voter,

proceeded to the voting booth before breakfast
after an unforgettable morning roll call.

Curious to know the candidates' names,
we stood in front of the opening door.

A small orchestra banged out
one hit after another.

Smiling majors and lieutenants
with "please" and "thanks."

Hearts glowed with pleasure over malt coffee
at the breakfast table afterwards.

Leisurely stroll
without any marching back to the barracks.

Sports festival there.
There was even ice cream.

Then followed the popular "smiles with miles,"
with another 24 to follow.

But the class enemy struck.

A rat bite in the nape of the neck.

Our political officer
knew the right plan of attack:

We no longer place our boots
in front of the bunk but rather next to it,

so we can slip into our boots quicker whenever
a rat is spotted by guards armed with spades.

We then drive the rat into a corner.

The same officer is well trained all-round

and delivered some comrades a talk
on how to polish shoes.

Not to ruin the shoe-polish's paste-like texture.

During nuclear strikes one cowers like
an elongated bundle under plastic bags and waits.

Pig's liver day in day out.
They even served it with noodles, disgusting.

Villagers!

To bring this hatred and suffering to an end,

we need to reconstruct our land.

A new society without landowners and capitalists!

In order to clothe, nourish,

and educate our poor children

we all need to join forces to fight for the Revolution!

The Korean Revolutionary Army is fighting for our native land,

so that our people can live happily in freedom.
damit unser Volk glücklich in Freiheit leben kann!

Andreas to Rosemarie

Oranienburg,
First Motorized Rifle Division

December 3, 1974

Despite tranquilizers,
pretty angst-ridden lines.

At a time we need warmth and can't get any,

we're happy if it's available all the same,
even if comes from a bottle.

That's why this signatory
won't be in the mire for much longer.

It was worse in the urban jungle,
searching, straying, hoping

and never finding the one with whom you not only
share a bed, but also the flu and lousy times.

There's Anatol, you and Jutta,

and now you're thinking, where's father?

But that's another matter altogether.

We, Father and I,
find the dialogue between us that's possible,

but I feel his presence
with an almost physical intensity. Always.

He's present, and I can't tell him
that I'm fond of him as he is,

even when he erupts at lunch.

Perhaps his world, despite the various
points of contact, is too remote from mine.

Nevertheless, we're always a bit embarrassed
when we're alone together.

I'm reading like a madman.
Andreas

Neighbourhood Surveillance Report
December 1976

Heise, Wolfgang, is known in the neighbourhood
as a member of the Socialist Unity Party.

Social activities or initiatives are lacking.

In connection with preparations for elections
in 1976, he was commissioned,

to deliver election notices
along with another comrade.

He then assigned this task to his wife,
who suddenly fell ill,

resulting in the work having
to be taken over by the other comrade.

A red flag is permanently visible
on the balcony of his house.

According his son, it is meant to demonstrate
his solidarity with the working class.

His children were raised by H.
in a progressive fashion.

Both of them did their honorary service
in the National People's Army.

In this context, there have been disputes
with the Heise family in the past.

The children emerged
as ringleaders of juvenile gangs.

The parents refused to take action.

It's conspicuous that the family
frequently receives visitors who arrive by car.

This usually takes place in the evening hours,

and in some cases light has been observed
in the house up until 5 a.m.

In terms of appearance, there have also been
persons with a southern complexion,

possibly Turks or Arabs.

The Heise family doesn't own a car.

Both of them come and go by taxi.

Despite her age, Frau Heise
dresses very youthfully and elegantly.

Sources:

Comrade K. née. G., wife of an employee
of the Ministry for State Security

Object Gosen, Division F.

This family lives opposite the Heise family
and has already been deployed operationally.

Comrade W.,
Chairman of the Neighbourhood Party Committee,

lives behind the H. home.

Comrade W., retired Colonel and
holder of the Patriotic Order of Merit Gold Medal.

Comrade E., civilian employee
at the Ministry for State Security,

Division F,
head of the residential facility.

Comrade L., her husband, an invalid pensioner
from the Ministry for State Security.

Comrade F., civilian employee
at the Ministry for State Security,

Hessenwinkel Party School.
Located approx. 300m from the H. home.

June 1966

Rosie to Heiner Müller

Dear Heiner,

Despite our mere nodding acquaintance,
I was delighted that you were willing

to give me Borges' "Labyrinths".
Many thanks!

I had wanted to write to you anyway,
but I lacked the courage,

for I was unsure whether
you even remembered me,

or whether right now
you might only greet everything,

even the best-intentioned phrases,
with impatience and polite weariness.

Which I could well appreciate.

I never visited
or fell into conversation with Inge.

I saw her on only two or three occasions.

Once when you were booted out
of the German Writers' Association.

It might strike you as odd

if I say that she left
a profound, precise, and lasting impression.

I could see that here was
a human being for whom living was difficult

and whom the constant headwinds left gasping,
no matter what way she turned.

I can well understand her ultimate act,

as I count myself among that minority

for whom attempting such an act
of freedom just once during this lifetime

doesn't unleash awkward embarrassment
or even revulsion.

I do indeed grieve,

should that decision be the result of distress
that otherwise seems interminable,

and not the result
of an effective use of absolute free will.

"Human beings are to be pitied."
From "A Dream Play" by Strindberg.

"Labyrinths" fascinates me particularly
after reading the latest novel by Aragon,

"La Mise à mort".

Aragon apparently was also inspired
by Borges' form of mirror motif.

Incidentally, an entire chapter
of this truly astonishing novel

contains the enactment of the Oedipus motif

and of the Oedipus fable
in various present day social settings,

which constantly reflects
on whether it is even possible

to set such a theme in a contemporary setting
without resorting to sensationalism or surrealism.

Dear Heiner,

we are deeply interested in your adaptation of
Oedipus, and we read "Philoctetes" with interest.

We would like to discuss both with you.

You are more than welcome to visit us,

should you ever feel like having
such a conversation.

Wolfgang would like to get to know you.

Here in any case is our number: 64 90 27

You're sure to find us home until mid-July,

also during the day.

Cordially,
Rosie and Wolfgang Heise

So, the final position
as formulated in "Fatzer",

is actually:
"From now on and for some time yet

there will no longer be victors in this world,
but only the vanquished."

This wording dates from 1932,

and the "fear centre," if you like,

was the fear of the irresolvable clinch
of revolution and counterrevolution.

Brecht had thereby anticipated a position

that is relevant to this day in a general sense:

In the age of nuclear weapons,
there can be no more victors.

That's one aspect, but the other is

that this victory-defeat dialectic
is obviously something

that each of us must live through individually

in his living and work environment.

Perhaps...
You quoted a poem from "Fatzer" earlier on.

Have you recorded that?
- He's acting all formal here.

Sorry...
- We can edit that afterwards...

So you quoted the "Fatzer" poem.

Brecht expressed that more intensely,

and more objectively
in a poem, "Come, Fatzer".

It should be in here somewhere, if I'm not...

This is... Yes...

"One who is beaten
does not escape wisdom.

Hold on tight and sink!
Be afraid!

Go on, sink!
At the bottom, the lesson awaits you.

You who were asked too many questions

Receive now
the inestimable teaching of the masses:

Take up your new post."

Naturally, teaching by the masses
doesn't merely entail

taking their opinions into consideration,

but rather their actual behaviour.

And that we ourselves may become

part of the masses in the process.

Yes, that as well.

What straight away comes to mind
is one only has to beat someone long enough

and he won't get round to thinking.

Nobody likes jackboots stomping in their faces,

and that isn't just Brecht's individual opinion.

And yet, there's a harrowing experience

that people can survive repeated violence,
but be utterly changed by it.

And I think, the limits of manipulation

need to be constantly redefined
in every conflict situation.

And in that context I also found it fascinating

that"The Days of the Commune"
and "The Life of Galileo"

are structured like a tragedy, both pieces.

Both depict the tragedy of modern socialism,

namely, the separation of knowledge and power.

I think this line of argument
is quite open to debate.

But only if we take into account
the knowledge of power

and the powerlessness
of knowledge in the process.

And the very fact we find it so difficult
to come to terms with

proves just how valid that argument is.

Can we take a short break?

In any case we still have
to consider how we'll then proceed.

It'll be a little all over the place...
- That doesn't matter.

These digressions
are quite useful, I think.

Please don't start just yet,
I'm unsure how my train of thought will evolve.

Then it might be a good moment
to start recording,

because the search for the thread
can yield something.

Start recording again.

Well, you're directing matters anyway.

When I consider
Brecht's dramas post-"Fatzer"

the author himself

is never the primary subject matter
of the dramatic presentation.

When I consider Müller's dramas,

not only is the author
always personally involved,

but he directly becomes the subject matter.

The question is then,

how intensified objectivity can be grasped
through an intensification of subjectivity.

So that the relationship between
subjectivity and objectivity changes.

There's also a banal aspect:

since Brecht, people have become
more suspicious of indoctrination.

For reasons we aren't
personally responsible for.

So if we want to communicate something

using the same dramaturgy as Brecht's,

then we'd better be ready for people to say:
Your talk is cheap.

And the message doesn't get across.

So for people to listen,
you have to speak about yourself.

And about your own relationship
to the subject matter.

Another point in this episode,

Virginia reads the 15th epigraph:
"Man is too brittle",

Whereupon Galileo retorts:
"Not brittle enough."

That's a very important point.
- Definitely.

We witness that every day.

The shock and astonishment

at how much people put up with.

That is what
perpetuates such dire situations,

the fact that "man is not brittle enough,"
that man stomachs too much.

What is also very surprising,

that Galileo,

and here, I think,
he's very much a mouthpiece for Brecht,

he doesn't respond to the 37th epigraph:

"God has created man like a shadow.
Who can judge him once the sun has set?"

Galileo remains silent.

And here is, I believe,

Brecht's experience
with living conditions under a dictatorship,

namely in Germany.

Where it's no longer that easy

to condemn people on a moral basis.

No judgement is past here.

And you keep recording us relentlessly!

Thomas, notebook 1987

Unrecorded scene at Heiner's

His son's visit

He's come seeking help,
after his schoolteacher's demand

that he, like everyone in his class,
sign a letter of intent

to become a reserve officer
in the East German Army.

Like a visit from another world.

Heiner feels his son's misgivings,
and his own,

toward his detached answer
after a lengthy pause:

"Sign and wait and see."

Then, the speechless farewell. The shame.

And then we head for the Zoo,
an hour of silence in the crocodile house.

To Wolf

Leipzig, December 1980

Dearest Wolf!

Pay heed!

I'm writing this letter late at night,
hot-headed and with a slightly aching body.

So, don't expect anything sensible,
correctly spelt.

I'm writing to you, for I'm thinking of you,

must overcome myself to seek out words that
mediate between tenderness and detachment,

which will get to you and touch you and
allow us to forget the gaping gulf between us,

but also to let your heart know of my hurt at your
long silence and forgetfulness and indifference,

or at least to bring it home to you.

In moments of weakness,
and I'm still susceptible to them,

the thought of you and of Rosie
was like a heartache,

but I've also come to understand
and experienced

that whenever passion's flames
start to flicker and fail,

the scabs become thicker and harder,
and separate one person from the other,

even though, or because,
that other was the most beloved.

Today, I'm perhaps writing to you
like an old woman

still roused a little by her past feelings,
triumphs and failures,

or rather in the awareness of the full,
yet always prudent yearning for love or for life

that makes me soar, suffer, and live,

and that also lets me reach out
and take your hand again.

Wolfgang, here things turn negative

and you risk being dragged into the dust
of murky promises or dumb platitudes.

I would love to see you and for you to see me.

In ways, this letter also lets me
flip out of my current life,

whose problems and complexity
I can mostly cope with, and to leap into myself.

In Leipzig, I could hardly allow myself
the pleasure of self-reflection,

I don't have the luxury of an inner life and
respond to those now part of my life in such a way

that their love, rejection, and suffering
screen me completely,

leaving nothing of me to be seen or felt.

But in myself, I feel a great helplessness

and a fear tying knots around my heart.

That fear should've kept me from having children,
but perhaps you can't understand that.

What's more it doesn't interest you.
Do you still have a shred of interest in me?

You can scarcely rise to an answer

and I don't mean that in the skin-deep sense,
which you obviously can't own up to.

I'm not asking you, as I would on the phone,
about work or what you're reading,

but rather about how you're feeling,
how the things you see and hear affect you.

I'd so like to talk with you.
But you, too, know, that's not easy.

I hug and salute you
and don't answer this letter.

Have it as a keepsake.

Rosie's diary
July 1988

Thomas was here, with Manfred.

Why am I so sad after his visits?

Is it the impossibility
of reattaching the umbilical cord?

Perhaps because he's emphasizing
the rupture when he's here with Manfred,

who sits quietly and languidly at his side,

letting his Caravaggio-like eyes
roam while Thomas speaks.

On Sunday a spontaneous trip to West Berlin,

where the Heiner Müller workshop
came to a close and a conclusion.

Discussion in the House of Literature.

Actually wanted go to the theatre
to see "Volokamsk Highway",

but couldn't say"no" when Heiner, as though
a matter of course, sweeps me into the car

and off to the café
where he is due to read from the play.

I feel straight away that he's
utterly exhausted and has been drinking.

Given the long intervals
between our encounters in recent years,

I see in quick-motion age altering his physique.

The squat,
the peculiar as well as balancing step,

a movement of the shoulders
trying to avoid potentially-sharp pain;

his stiffened back seems
to be shrinking into his erstwhile longer neck.

I'm thoroughly overcome by fear and love.
Grief, helplessness in the double sense,

for he can't be helped;
and who indeed can?

He's taken to wearing a suit
and, worse still, he talks of money.

For one minute we hold each other
by the hand, silently, in the car,

the best minute of this day,

at the end of which I drive home
gloomy and restless.

He is world-famous and nothing, nothing will
gratify that hunger for recognition, for love,

built up
during his squalidly depressing childhood.

And I also see
the fear breathing down his neck.

The self-destructive way he treats himself
has something infernally obsessed about it.

He's like someone fascinated to observe
a drowning man, who is none other than himself.

It was close to midnight.

The channel led to a large open garage

that I only recognized as such
once I stepped into this white concrete room.

To the left and right of me the others were
standing side by side, their faces to the wall.

I can still hear the barking: "Faster, faster!"
and "Form a middle row!"

I no longer recall the moment
I stepped into the garage, nor its door.

The sides of the channel
we had passed through one by one,

suddenly and unexpectedly
turned into whitewashed concrete.

I can still see myself briskly marching

through a channel of policemen,
holding rubber truncheons, ready to lash out.

We marched about 30 metres to a ramp.

Dawn was breaking.

I ran over the ramp and from there
came into the corridor of a building.

On the left an open toilet door.

While I was trying to pee,
two policemen stood at my back,

holding their rubber truncheons just like
those policemen who'd formed the cordons.

I didn't manage to pee.

I then ran back across the hall and ramp,
through the channel to my garage.

I recall the image of those quavering bodies
around me, gently swaying.

Sometimes one would fall asleep, then jar awake
once his body began to fully lose balance.

Around 10 a.m. we were led out
of the garage in groups of two into a building.

We were searched one at a time
and one after the other.

Three chirpy women noted down the contents
of our pockets in lists, which had to be signed.

I recall the curiously exuberant working
atmosphere in this smoke-filled room.

Of interest was any reason to detain me longer,

and any ringleaders I would name,
which I didn't.

Not of interest was the violence by the thugs
I saw rushing on the crowd retreating

between armed personnel carriers with
protective shields and double lines of police.

Not of interest was that I witnessed

how the men and women
they indiscriminately snatched from that crowd

were dragged across the main street
and beaten up,

and how they were wrenched behind police lines,
behind which they vanished.

Stop saying "we", said
one of the interrogators; just say"I"!

I was let go at around 4.30 p.m.

I took the underground to Alexanderplatz

and then the train to the theatre for the evening
rehearsal of "Germania Death in Berlin".

I still recall the phrase:
"You knew that this would happen."

January 17, 1991

Christa Wolf to Rosie

Dear Rosemarie,

Well, as of yesterday the problems
of our erstwhile country have taken a back seat

to a war.

Yes, they are insane, but when the majority
of humanity clings to this madness or looks on,

it becomes normality, apparently.

You ask if I've managed to retain
my"strong core"? I don't know.

This unremitting campaign over
the last year has indeed taken its toll on me,

some sort of basic trust has gone,
or whatever vestiges of it,

and I can now no longer imagine publishing
for such an alleged readership.

At present I'm not writing.
I'm paralysed.

I can no longer rise to the kind of self-exposure
that used to inform my writing.

What now lies ahead?

A Pax Americana in any case.

This will be the new world order,

and its rulers will configure things in such a way

that our beloved planet
will perish along with them.

There you have my optimism in a nutshell.

Within three months of us belonging to
the "other camp", they are dragging us into a war.

America is raising its hind paw,
urine marking its patch.

Oh Mensch, I could go on
writing like this a while longer.

I embrace you.
Your Christa

February 1993

Rosie to Christa Wolf
in Santa Monica, California

Dear Christa,
I've been meaning to write to you for some time,

long before the media once again
elected you as the object of their desire,

after you stood by Heiner.

I read with joy that you hadn't abandoned Heiner
to face the anticipated fury alone,

and with anxiety,
for I saw coming what came about.

Still, as Shakespeare readily recognized reality
largely surpasses fiction when things go haywire.

Personally, I was profoundly affected
by your disclosures,

for what I experienced at the beginning of 1961,
hence before the Berlin Wall,

as your successor
at Neue Deutsche Literatur

corresponded to a T
with your experience of that apparatus.

Everything proceeded exactly
as you describe it,

and even my conduct
in no way differed from yours.

A youngish man
turned up at the editorial office,

of painstakingly inconspicuous appearance
in a non-descript suit,

pulled out his badge and
posed that question you're familiar with.

I vacillated for a fraction of a second,

for anything faintly conspiratorial
is repugnant to me.

I was supposed to address
the man as "Werner",

but I avoided any form of address.

The information that he wanted
concerned my colleagues on the editorial staff,

including one with whom
I had a brief, ardent affair.

I had to assume that this was known
to him and could be exploited lest I refuse.

I was hoping to be adept in my counterattack,
and thus was willing and signed.

Incidentally, under my own name. I know full well
there never was any question of a code name.

That's the very point, dear Christa,
that horrified me about your interview,

for it was utterly incomprehensible to me how
one can forget or even suppress such matters.

I was convinced that everything
stemming from our sense of identity

is absolutely not forgettable,
however much we would like to do so.

When I asked Wolfgang
how to extricate myself, he answered calmly:

"Just say you no longer want part of it,

you'll see, they'll accept that,
you've just got to be resolute."

He was right, at least for the time being,

for as of 1965
we were the ones under observation.

But your interview, it was probably
the first you gave, I didn't see any others,

I found too defensive.

Everything hinges, as is largely the case
with others as well, on two false premises:

equating the Nazis with the Communist
"executioners" you associated yourself with,

and complete ignorance of the reality
of the Cold War before the mid-sixties.

After all, we deemed the Stasi
appropriate and necessary,

yet we came to see firstly
what gradually became of our State,

and secondly of the Stasi,

and we didn't believe this insight initially,
didn't want to believe it.

The other false premise is
to place both on an equal footing.

The matter is all the more complicated,
for the dead are just that, dead,

irrespective of whether they were killed as
supposed enemies of some lofty human ideal,

or due to a criminal,
inhumane doctrine at the outset.

US AGAINST THEM

The reason I swiftly picked up on contradictions
that you only became aware of at a later stage

is probably due to my antifascist upbringing.

My self-confidence, however,
was too low to seriously trust these insights,

and above all, to work through
the conflicts they confronted me with,

and the outcome was
an ever more perfect schizophrenia.

Christa, I'm all over the place.

I'll wrap it up here, otherwise there'll be
another 20 pages or more.

Still, I wonder if it might make sense
one day to unravel this ball of thread,

or if it'd merely be needless self-torture.

But I'd so love to talk to you someday,

perhaps also because the differences
in your and my viewpoints back then

might just help me
recognize certain things more clearly.

With a warm embrace for old time's sake,
Rosemarie

Frankfurter Rundschau

"The Shores of the Barbarians"
by Heiner Müller

A Yugoslav tells me:

At the weekends men from Belgrade
go shooting in Bosnia.

I tell that to a German of Jewish descent.

He says: a Croat told that story.

He's right: the narrator sees himself as Croat
ever since the Serbian War.

I first saw Godard's film "Weekend"
two decades ago,

along with five other spectators,

four of them Americans under 30,
in an otherwise empty cinema in Paris.

The Yugoslav War attracts more spectators.

Rostock was a media festival.

A documentary film about skinheads in Halle

opens with a sequence in which a teenager
in a bomber jacket and combat boots

bakes a cake, professionally
and affectionately, following a recipe book

in front of the camera and for the film crew.

He once dreamt of becoming
a baker and pastry chef,

yet his chances of an apprenticeship
lie off in the next century.

After baking the cake, he heads in uniform
into the prefabricated wasteland Halle-Neustadt

and transforms himself,
in the collective of the jobless, into a monster.

Back in the apartment his mother is in tears,

a former teacher with bygone beliefs
in the "Socialist Community GDR,"

now a salary slave for a retail outlet
somewhere west of the Elbe

with a five-hour drive to get to work and back
so that her son "stays off the streets."

The film's director is Thomas Heise,

a son of probably
the sole East German philosopher

who doesn't deserve to go under
in the current theatre of forgetting.

Three years ago
I attended a conference in Paris

on Brecht and Carl Schmitt
based on the example of "The Measures".

There, I ran into Günter Maschke who, following
his experience and disappointment in Cuba,

had shifted from Left to Right.

This was hardly a radical move,

if anything a doctrinal back somersault into
Gottfried Benn's convenient slave-owner wisdom

that exploitation is a human phenomenon.

We have Maschke to thank
for publishing the writings of Donoso Cortés,

a Spanish diplomat in Berlin in 1848

who not only was an eye-witness
to the failed German attempt

by dint of a bourgeois Revolution
to keep pace with developments across Europe,

which in turn triggered a national compromise
between the bourgeoisie and the Junker caste,

that is the German military machine,

but who also discovered
German history's law of motion,

namely, delayed causality.

Maschke told me nothing would ever come
of the East German Revolution,

for no corpses had floated down
the Elbe, from Dresden to Hamburg.

It took me some time to understand

why Brecht considered the Peasant Wars
as the greatest misfortune in German history.

They erupted at an inopportune juncture. They
defanged the Reformation in true Protestant style.

Even the non-violent
East German "Revolution" of 1989,

piloted and hampered
by the Protestant Church and State Security,

was a German disaster.

We're now in a quagmire:
the unmentionableness of the Stasi debates,

an attempt to oppress
the colonized by suggesting collective guilt.

The storm on retail stores stocking Western goods
ended up in kowtow before the wares.

From Leipzig, the city of heroes,
to the terrors of Rostock.

The scars cry out for wounds.

The oppressed potential for violence,

no revolution or emancipation
without violence against the oppressors,

vents itself in attacks against those weaker:

asylum seekers
and poverty-stricken foreigners,

the poor against the poorest.

Not a finger is laid on a single property shark,
regardless of what nation they come from.

The reaction to the economic war
against the right of abode

is war against the homeless.

A drive through Mecklenburg:

at every petrol station
the oil companies' victory banners,

in every village McPaper & Co
instead of the usual stationery store.

In the sea of alienation being German
is the last illusion of identity,

the last island.

But what is that: to be German?

A skinhead's answer to the question,
why are you proud to be German:

"We are the people of poets and thinkers."

For example?
- Brecht and Einstein.

In the German Democratic Republic, young people
were regulated and fawned over in equal measure.

In the wake of the destruction
of an infrastructure

that was essentially meant to pacify them,

they were released without any transition
into the freedom of the market,

which spits out the majority of them,

because it can only be interested
in the present and not in the future.

Now, they are left to fend for themselves.

The rioters in Rostock and elsewhere
are storm-troopers of democracy,

which, ever since its invention
in the Athens of slavery,

has always only really existed as an oligarchy.

They are the radical defenders
of fortress Europe,

precisely because the servants' entrance alone
is open to them in the short or long term.

It is a platitude that the helpless debates
by politicians on asylum law,

as Karl Kraus would have said,

amount to no more
than "cutting a corn off a cancer patient."

"The boat is full,"

or will be so shortly,

and on the agenda is the war over life jackets
and places in the lifeboats,

though nobody knows where they can land,

except on cannibalistic shores.

When asked to explain this state of affairs
to their children, everybody is alone.

And perhaps this loneliness is a ray of hope.

September 29,1992

May 2014

Me.

Rosie is now in the nursing home
on Gotlindestraße in Lichtenberg.

Two stops from the station,
from Siegfriedstrasse via Freyaplatz.

The home is newly built
and located between a supermarket,

allotments, an industrial wasteland,
and a terraced housing estate.

Rosie thinks she's in Pankow

and would be revolted were she to see
the area full of little German flags,

the drunkards, the bargain kiosks
with something or other, mostly in bottles.

As in "The City Beyond the River",
an intermediate realm

in which people
become ever more transparent,

until one day they're forgotten,
vanished into thin air.

I'm observing myself
how I'm dismantling her flat,

how furnishings and a living space
turn into junk.

Rosie's attempt to accept death as a fact,

as already done and dusted,
so as to outsmart it, to retain control,

is going awry for want of oxygen.

This confuses her
and she keeps wracking her brain

about what else remains to be done.

And yet,
I think less about her than about Mark,

who lies in the clinic,
with secondaries in the lungs and the liver,

and I know it's hopeless

and haven't accepted that he'll die
within the year, but assume it will be so.

And no matter what,
Rosie will die this year, if not in weeks, days.

Andreas was admitted
to the hospital in Buch today.

I heard his fear on the phone.

And I don't know what I'm doing,
almost blindly, at the Volksbühne theatre.

This film whose material interests me,

something foreign
that I'll take possession of.

I ought to shoot the grime at Rosie's flat
that now reeks of my cats,

the scattered debris, the slips of paper.

My mother is chuckling
at the prospect of her death

while at the same time
fascinated by it as an experience.

She's eyeballing her fate.