EMIL
*
It is rising over the
burnt-out roof trusses of Sondershausen, Sondershausen, Papa
has no house left, you put your
uniform on, you said homeland, I saw the clouds reflected in your eyes, you said homeland, I saw turbid sky in your homeland eyes, the roebuck horns above your head on the panelled wall
I missed you, Papa
they kept on
conscripting you in, so
I wished for the black, brightly
shining men from the street to come by, while mother made sure the curtain
hid me, the hunched up
figure on the perching stool
hastily hammered together, Papa
parents magic up their children’s wishes
how fine you were in the
uniform, streamlined, stately, your boots looked licked, I buckled my tongue
back and forth in my mouth to try to
tell you, Papa
but it would not come out, I
did not want to be a bad person, person unworthy of life, sub-animal life form anymore, the scum of the unified human soup
long and thin, my
right foot grew up my calf, a dumb larva with the stump feelers of the toes, you all hid
it, me, you
said
I was like a stone, dull in the head, you
did not
know that I
sat for hours at the kitchen table, closemouthed, or at the window, keeping a keen eye out for the next selection
***of ice-hard aces
they were gleaming
clean-shaven and, in turn, they razed to the ground, on your rug I heard gnawing in the beams, house beams, home, you said
it was the
woodboring beetle, the larvae fat and white, ringed
like my foot, the
woodboring beetle, you
said, is only loosely
fused in the head, its nerves grow together at random
like me, I thought, Papa
how I picked up the sounds and stored them inside, dust, clattering, crashing
I flew with the
midges or dropped marbles
down on the
rug next to you, dust, clattering, crashing, as you said on the telephone:
“I don’t believe it”
“they wouldn’t dare!”
I heard the name Labude, heard your anger and your fear and began to admire Labude
Labude galloped round a column of triumphal will
the SS man, Bebrastraße Clear-Up Unit, Sondershausen, said I’d get boots and a shovel, anyone who could help, I was needed
said I was good, me, the stone, who
can slog and dig, who will go
home to Oels, Papa
the nightingales from the castle park rejoiced at the window, you whispered with mother, you were unhappy
about me, the child from the
straits, the crush of the womb, I watched your bodies leaning towards one another
stood as
shadow
in the door before
your bed, Papa
if you shut one eye, shooting and striking come automatically, you
said, it need only be a
single eye at chest height, in no time at all, Papa
we’ll see each other again, the clouds are already fizzling, the dawn is rolling over the walls of Sondershausen, over the walls at home, of the family, of the bakeries, over the anemones on the platform where I played with gravel and Eustachius
all around me
people hobble or creep, I walk backwards, go unnoticed, I’m erect in comparison, walking
towards you
streamlined
in my solitary fervour
mute, your son
is writing on the morning of April 9th, 1945, it is an effect of the rotating bombed-out masses that now include events
like me: I was no
got-shot-of
only nearly, when you fetched me
from the hospital, Dr. Winsch had given me paper and pen, I knew everything, but I couldn’t always say it, you, Papa
hear me
singing when the wind whistles over the daisies, I liked it when it tickled my toes, I could feel that, I remember it, memory racing
“Emil, be good,” a
catastrophe
happened on the streets, it strayed around for a long time, a mass monster happened on the streets, so to speak: in panic, so many straight black feet push forwards, a selection
***of ice-hard aces
hangs
a howling
hangs in the air, no more jaws can hold it
miraculously, liverwort will sprout, and woodboring beetles will multiply, their brains not properly connected, unworthy life, loosely fused, botched by mother nature, waggons, tanks, helmets melt back into the sand, only many a wandering corpse thwarts nature
and the blueprint, you rubbed
camphor into my foot, attached splints, hoped it would get better, what was to become of it
how was I meant to
feel
the ape
they called out after us on the
street, you were
afraid
previous lives drift by on silver soles, today’s date is April 9th 1945, the air
is full of wafer-thin people
a glorious dawn is rolling towards America, I’m going the opposite way, Papa
***ice-hard aces
climb, bawling
out of earth shafts and tunnels, gorging and gagging on life is all part of the job
I hear you on the
telephone say, “they wouldn’t dare”
you laugh, the people must hand
themselves over to their heroes, Silesia, Śląsk
Schleswiga, in the middle of the thundering, sputtering HOMELAND
collapsing in on itself
Dr. Winsch came to my bed, I was to
go with him to
another clinic, forever, you wanted this, he said, you just didn’t dare
admit it
to me
I held the pen,
ready to sign, when your rug, Papa
put itself over me, your smell of cigars, gunpowder, you had ample room in the flat, the two of you, alone, who was I in there, again
I took up the pen
started
to write, then you came in through
the door, Lilly had insisted on coming sooner, Papa
the cushions
are nice at home, I walk
streamlined, make it all
myself in my
memory,
while I pass through again in my thoughts, once again: a person invisible outside the flat
unworthy of life, lining up with ration cards for you at dawn so that no one sees the hobbling, hears the stuttering, suspects the talking behind the forehead
***front
says Eustachius, tapping his own
today’s date is April 9th, it will come and go, many will follow it, it is an effect of the masses and maws rotating in the air, I weep so-called important persons: mother, Eustachius, you
dear Emil, your little windmill, your little moo, who rowed on his little cart, who beat his arms about him
who beat himself so he could feel
himself, the getaway suitcase leaning on the bad foot
good job he was so small, so
unmistakably frail
ice-hard Emil, who said to Eustachius, it won’t be easy to find your way home
you must shorten
the route until it finds you, live without frost patterns on window panes, without memory, quietly
love each other
unmistakably ice-hard Emil, a glorious dawn is breaking over the roof of the ravaged house, the Silesian provinces are rolling into a spring day heralded by fire, the light doesn’t care who we are, Papa
***Schläsing
***Silesia
Eustachius had hammered the cart together, stolen the wheels for me, even beneath his jacket I could see his muscles working, he will be tall, distended by the things we lived through, Papa
***Šleska
***Śląsk
I wish you all good luck
if we are ever lucky, then someday the dew will glisten from the trees we rest under, and a woodboring beetle worth everything purely by nature
will crawl over us
and away, Papa
while weeds spume over the roots.