face and finally, when he has forced her into the farthest corner and she bites his arm and he twists both her arms behind her back, he catches a whiff of camphor and peppermint, this smell of illnesses one waits out lying in bed, this smell of maturity and peacetime.
Then he grows calm, and calmly he begins to kiss the lips he cannot see, he who has never before kissed anyone on the mouth, he kisses this most probably German mouth that is full and perhaps also slightly wilted, but he cannot judge this because he has never before kissed anyone on the mouth, then he releases her arms and strokes the woman’s head, she is no longer struggling, but he hears her begin to cry, he strokes her head as if to comfort her, and then doesn’t know what to do next, although he’s seen often enough what his men do in comparable situations. Mama , he says, without knowing what he is saying, it’s so dark that you cannot even see your own words, and she thrusts him away from her, he stumbles, falls down, she kicks him, he tries to grasp her once more and in the process takes hold of her knees, and then she stands still, then she slowly pulls her dress up a little, he rests his forehead against her belly, she appears to be naked under her dress, he inhales the smell of life emanating from the curly hair. She says one or two words, but her words too are invisible in this dark hiding place. Perhaps the war consists only in the blurring of the fronts, for now, as she pushes the soldier’s head between her legs, pushing it between her legs perhaps only for the reason that she knows he has a weapon and that it is better not to struggle, she begins to guide him, perhaps war consists only in one person’s guiding another out of fear, and then the other way around, and on and on in this way. And as now the young soldier, perhaps only out of fear of the woman, pushes his tongue in among the curly hair, tasting something that tastes like iron, a warm stream begins to flow over his face, first gently, then more forcefully, the woman is urinating on his face, urinating on him in just the way his men urinated on the painted door in the entryway below, and so she too is waging war, or is this love, the soldier doesn’t know, the two seem to resemble one another, and now, when it ought to be his turn to take over, to guide her, he remains kneeling there, and amid all the wetness tears have begun to flow down his face, and his tears have the same temperature as the great river that is flooding him, with which his tears now intermingle here in the depths of a German closet. Instead of taking over, he remains kneeling there at the feet of the woman, sobbing audibly now, but perhaps it is precisely his weakness that disarms the woman far more effectively than force would have done. For now she draws him at last to his feet, dries his face on one of the pieces of clothing between which they are standing, and speaks softly to him. It wouldn’t take much for her to push him out of the closet with a little spank, like a mother sending her young son off to school.
Back where he was at home there was no such thing. It’s as if his childhood had stopped where his homeland did. Back where his home was, the girls wore two braids on their way to school or else tied these braids into loops with big, red silk ribbons and a triangular neck scarf. When they walked, they held their heads up in a way he has not seen any woman do here in Germany, as if everything that might have weighed them down had been lifted from their shoulders. On summer evenings they went strolling along with their heads held high like this, strolling one last time out to the edge of the field, linking their arms in pairs or even three at a time, chatting and laughing when they saw the boys leaning up against the linden tree, they laughed and went walking past, and the swallows were flying, and the boys were sitting and standing around the linden tree, and sometimes, very
Then he grows calm, and calmly he begins to kiss the lips he cannot see, he who has never before kissed anyone on the mouth, he kisses this most probably German mouth that is full and perhaps also slightly wilted, but he cannot judge this because he has never before kissed anyone on the mouth, then he releases her arms and strokes the woman’s head, she is no longer struggling, but he hears her begin to cry, he strokes her head as if to comfort her, and then doesn’t know what to do next, although he’s seen often enough what his men do in comparable situations. Mama , he says, without knowing what he is saying, it’s so dark that you cannot even see your own words, and she thrusts him away from her, he stumbles, falls down, she kicks him, he tries to grasp her once more and in the process takes hold of her knees, and then she stands still, then she slowly pulls her dress up a little, he rests his forehead against her belly, she appears to be naked under her dress, he inhales the smell of life emanating from the curly hair. She says one or two words, but her words too are invisible in this dark hiding place. Perhaps the war consists only in the blurring of the fronts, for now, as she pushes the soldier’s head between her legs, pushing it between her legs perhaps only for the reason that she knows he has a weapon and that it is better not to struggle, she begins to guide him, perhaps war consists only in one person’s guiding another out of fear, and then the other way around, and on and on in this way. And as now the young soldier, perhaps only out of fear of the woman, pushes his tongue in among the curly hair, tasting something that tastes like iron, a warm stream begins to flow over his face, first gently, then more forcefully, the woman is urinating on his face, urinating on him in just the way his men urinated on the painted door in the entryway below, and so she too is waging war, or is this love, the soldier doesn’t know, the two seem to resemble one another, and now, when it ought to be his turn to take over, to guide her, he remains kneeling there, and amid all the wetness tears have begun to flow down his face, and his tears have the same temperature as the great river that is flooding him, with which his tears now intermingle here in the depths of a German closet. Instead of taking over, he remains kneeling there at the feet of the woman, sobbing audibly now, but perhaps it is precisely his weakness that disarms the woman far more effectively than force would have done. For now she draws him at last to his feet, dries his face on one of the pieces of clothing between which they are standing, and speaks softly to him. It wouldn’t take much for her to push him out of the closet with a little spank, like a mother sending her young son off to school.
Back where he was at home there was no such thing. It’s as if his childhood had stopped where his homeland did. Back where his home was, the girls wore two braids on their way to school or else tied these braids into loops with big, red silk ribbons and a triangular neck scarf. When they walked, they held their heads up in a way he has not seen any woman do here in Germany, as if everything that might have weighed them down had been lifted from their shoulders. On summer evenings they went strolling along with their heads held high like this, strolling one last time out to the edge of the field, linking their arms in pairs or even three at a time, chatting and laughing when they saw the boys leaning up against the linden tree, they laughed and went walking past, and the swallows were flying, and the boys were sitting and standing around the linden tree, and sometimes, very
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