Maria Reinecke- Living In Between
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ISBN: 978-3-941524-22-4
ISBN: 978-3-941524-24-8 (eBook)
1. Edition English
PalmArtPress, 2013
German Edition:
Leben in den Zwischenräumen
PalmArtPress, 2013
ISBN 978-3-941524-21-7
ISBN: 978-3-941524-23-1 (eBook)
Editor: Catharine J. Nicely
Cover Photo: Bernd Reinecke (Market Square in Pollensa, Mallorca)
Translation: Mollie Hosmer-Dillard
Printed in Germany
All rights reserved
© 2013 Maria Reinecke
PalmArtPress
Pfalzburgerstr. 69, 10719 Berlin
www.palmartpress.com
Translated from the German
by Mollie Hosmer-Dillard
Where is the beginning? Where I begin. It has always begun before me: regardless of where I begin. Putting splinters together, shreds of life, of what has been lived, trusting in pent-up pictures, thoughts, memories. How to arrange it all, follow the thread, weave a story? There is no seam for this thread. Everything is like this, and at the same time has always been completely different.
Angles of truth.
Angles of lies.
To reach the angle of eternity.
Once upon a time, there was a man who had seven sons, and the seven sons said, Father, tell us a story. So the father began, once upon a time there was a man who had seven sons, and the seven sons said, Father, tell us a story. So the father began, once upon a time there was a man…
The grown-ups are laughing; the child does not understand, he is laughing along but he sounds unsure of himself, almost sad; he would have liked to remain in the moment when they said that someone should tell a story, any story; that had been exciting, the moment when everything suddenly seemed possible, a hole appeared in the mechanical structure of things, a gap opened for the unexpected, space for freedom, vastness, adventure, and his attention was freed for the miraculous.
Once upon a time there was a man, a woman, a child. And then? A story has to be told some time. Maybe. If it is still needed then. After all, I am of Jewish descent, so there would be the story of my mother, but I don´t feel compelled to dedicate yet another monument to that perverse time. I know my luck. The story would fall into the hands of some keen director, inspiring him to construct historically accurate scenes with abhorrent swastikas; just imagine someone happening upon those images during the evening program – if only for a few seconds – fascinated by the screaming, vacant grimaces and the immaculate cut of uniforms. No. No matter how I look at it, I have no story, don’t want one.
The best thing would be simply to ponder everything like the philosopher once did, next to the fireplace, during a frosty winter in the middle of the war.
- I assume nothing, said the wise man, slippers on his feet, sitting in the armchair.
- Do I even exist? he asked himself, while others stirred the fire for him, brought food, did the laundry, and took the garbage out. What would he have done without them, thought without them?
- I am cold! I am hungry! Therefore I am?! he may have called out eventually, desperate and a bit confused. But no, he was warm and cozy, so he could think and think incessantly, until he thought so much that he thought he might just well exist.
I don’t even want to think right now, can’t think right now. I sit and look. At nothing in particular. At what is there. It’s good that there are things to meet one’s gaze, to be thought about! I look out through the high rectangle of the window. The darkness of the roofs sits on illuminated walls across from me. It advances toward me. Sensing the darkness calms me. I perceive the darkness and feel calm. Time stands still. Let it be. Sit. Look. Penetrate the moment. Be like that house over there, like that tree. No shame, no shyness, no guilt. Be, just be; without any doubt, without any sense of trepidation. My consciousness sinks, melts into my body, stretches out through my skin into the room.
Shreds of clouds, illuminated by the city, are flying along under the black sky. It’s no use. Time falls upon me again. The sense of trepidation will not cease as long as I am breathing. Me. Always me. To listen within will not do, there is nobody there. To return to yourself. As if there were someone waiting who you could meet. Me, my mood unfathomable, perceptions wound into a ball, more or less chaotic.
I´m sitting in the dark kitchen on the wicker couch. The little one is sleeping. Called in sick for another week. Borrowed time. It takes time for the blood vessels to rebuild. They did both legs, taking out the brittle veins, thirty-four incisions. There were complications. The left leg was bound too tightly after the operation, the tip of the foot had already swollen up and was beginning to turn a bluish red; the professor said it was a mess, he personally was the one who freed me from the bandage and left instructions for me to be bandaged up again. Several new blue spots are starting to appear on the left foot.
“Your tissue is very thin, there´s nothing we can do about it,” explained the doctor who treated me afterwards. “Just keep on wearing the compression stockings, drink lots of water and prop up your legs!”
I am propping up my legs, especially the left one, and am moving my toes in little circles. I turn on the light, pour myself a glass of water. From behind the bottle, a receipt appears, dated February 14, full of scribbles:
- The unspeakable has to be thought, thoughts create reality; this reality gives strength…I don´t remember what I did that day, but I have to write things down, otherwise they´ll disappear.
Everything is within my reach, telephone, notebook, coffee, books, behind the cup my notes on Whitehead.
- Who is Whitehead? someone asks me.
- A philosopher.
- When was he alive?
- 1861 to 1947.
- Ah, yes.
- Whitehead wrote the Principia mathematica with Russell, I add quietly.
- Oh, Bertrand Russell! Interesting, he could go on and on about anything, was very amusing at times!
It’s moments like those that emptiness breaks open inside of me, filled with sadness, like a woolen blanket that suffocates everything. Tightness in my lower body makes its way up to my stomach. That has nothing to do with Whitehead of course, nor the innocent inquirer. I do not feel well generally, a little bit like being in an open field when it’s hailing. It isn’t just my legs. Everything’s always getting stuck.
Johannes’s sixth birthday is coming up, he wants to invite the whole kindergarten, difficult in the small apartment, but it will be so crowded that he’ll believe they all came. No word from Christian yesterday either. I’m tired, will try to sleep.
I can’t sleep, go to the nursery, sit down on Johannes’s bed. He’s lying on his back, arms angled up slightly. He rolls onto his side, plunging his round cheeks back into the soft pillows, licks his lips, breathes calmly and steadily. Love flows through my body. To sit here forever. I am cold. I lie down again, close my eyes, images emerge…
… They are coming out of church, walking across the cemetery. Christian stops, leans against a bench, takes pictures with the Rollei. Johannes is still very small, he runs along the paths between the graves. His light-blue cape flashes among the crosses. Crosses everywhere, the crucified Lord.
… I´m thirsty. There was a vessel full of vinegar. They filled a sponge with vinegar, put it on a hyssop branch, and held it to his mouth. When Jesus had received the vinegar, he said: “It is finished!” He bowed his head, and relinquished his spirit …
The little rascal comes running, stops in front of them.
“Ouch, Mama, Jesus has a big ouch.”
“Yes, Jesus suffers because he loves people,” Marie says.
“Does he love everyone, Mama, even the bad people?” His face is pale.
“Yes, he loves everyone, even people we don’t like very much.”
Johannes disappears again between the graves.
Christian puts away his camera, sits down on the bench, lights a cigarette. Marie sits down next to him.
“He needs you, Christian. Every night he asks, ‘Where is Papa now? Doesn’t Papa love you anymore, Mama? But he still loves me, right Mama?’ And he squeezes his teddy bear, tossing and turning in bed and crying, ‘I want my Kistian-papa back!’ ”
“He’ll understand someday,” Christian says.
“Johannes needs you now.”
“I just can’t deal with this right now.” Christian stares straight ahead. “I feel like I’ve been hauling sand from one end of the desert to the other for years…” he continues, resting his arms on his knees, ash falling on his trousers. “Sometimes I just lie there and think, there’s no point anymore: Whether I get up now or not, the world will keep running alright without me.”
“It could very well be that it would run more smoothly with your help! It would at least be worth a try!” Marie says, turning away.
“Oh, you have no idea! You just don’t know what it’s like to live with this fear, to feel so dirty and guilty. Don’t you know I love Johannes, too?” Christian’s voice is trembling. Marie turns back to him.
“You have to want to get over your misery, not nurse it…” she says.
“You’re always telling me the same things, always the same things. I am trying, but then I have these hazy dreams at night…I hate him!” Christian throws the cigarette to the ground, grinds it with his heel.
“You have to forgive your father, Christian.”
“Forgive, forgive, how can I ever forgive that bastard? He destroyed my life, he destroyed our life, he destroyed everything! Forgive? No way. I don’t have to do anything!”
“Your hatred is destroying you, you have to…”
Christian jumps up and shouts:
“Good, I forgive him, I forgive him, happy now?”
It’s very quiet all of a sudden. Johannes! They look around. The little light-blue figure is lying behind them on the ground, between the plots.
“Johannes! Little man!”
They rush over to him. The child’s eyes are closed, his thick, fair hair framing his white face.
“Johannes!”
He opens his eyes, the blood surging back into the skin. He doesn’t know what happened, no, he didn’t fall. Christian carries him to the car. When they arrive at the hotel, Johannes is already playing with his Lego bus again.
“It’s probably this Good Friday mood in the air today…” Christian says to himself.
At some point I fall asleep.
Johannes is in kindergarten. They’ve been hammering, drilling for days in the apartment above me. You can feel the noise. Nobody minds. Most of them are out of the house during the day, and Mrs. Breyer downstairs across from me is hard of hearing anyway.
The phone rings.
“Aunt Elsa! Good Morning! Yes, Johannes is already gone.”
“How are your legs?” asks the kind woman.
“I’m doing all right.”
“Erich wants to know when Johannes is going to come by again to liven the place up. I could come and pick him up today.”
“Thank you, Auntie, he’ll be so happy!”
“Say, what’s my dear sister-in-law up to, anyway? I haven’t heard from her since her birthday.”
“Oh, Mother’s upset because you just wrote a card and didn’t call.”
“Well, listen! I always end up distracting her from watching television, so I don’t call anymore, really…”
“Give my love to Erich, thanks, Aunt Elsa!”
“Yes, darling, see you tonight!”
The February-March sun drifts timidly through the milky grey windowpane, blue bits of the sky can be seen between white clouds, spring is on its way, I will clean windows, at least the one in the kitchen, and plant yellow primroses, Johannes likes those. I go to bring the mail up. The heating bill from the year before last, they want another 186.17 DM; how did they come up with that amount? I´m invited to review the documents at any point after consultation with the property management, that’s all I need. Amidst junk mail, a postcard:
“Dear Marie, stuck between Australia and the Antarctic, Greetings from afar! R.”
Rudolf! Flakes of memories drift through my stomach, a queasy sadness, Rudolf: son of a watchmaker, never wore a watch, Rudolf Kempf, professor of mathematics, regularly confused by his dreams in the night; always looking for pure adventure on his vacations, traveling through South America and East Asia or camping in Africa, with the secret hope that something might happen to him; now he was at the ends of the earth. Stupid card, white steamboat in the blue sea, masses of ice behind it. I don’t feel like thinking about Rudolf, am happy that I can listen to Santana again without crying. But it had been short and sweet.
It was a Wednesday. They met in the university cafeteria. He sits down at her table; they smile at each other, directness, yes, rare in these latitudes… Spain! Things are totally different there. His eyes lock with hers; he speaks Spanish quite well, is in Madrid regularly, Seville, Saragossa, for conferences, research…
“You’re a mathematician?”
“Yes, can you tell?” He laughs. “My name’s Rudolf, Rudolf Kempf, I’m on the 6th floor. Do you work here too?”
“Over there, in the philosophy department…”
“Oh, a philosopher!” His eyes flash with amusement. “I have to pass on that, unfortunately. I prefer to keep to safer terrain; philosophy is too difficult for me, especially since, it unfortunately doesn’t achieve anything.” He grins and shoves a sizable piece of pork cutlet into his mouth. Marie´s pulse is strong.
“It’s certainly true that two sheep plus two sheep equals four sheep, but this kind of truth just isn’t enough,” she says and is annoyed with herself at the same time. Silly enough to want to have a conversation with a mathematician about mathematics as a non-mathematician. The thing about the sheep was obviously completely off the mark. Mathematics works because of absolute abstraction, it formulates truths in which sheep and goats play no role at all. Her head is spinning, she pours herself some water.
He smirks:
“With or without sheep, mathematics is generally quite a reasonable, respectable subject with which you can’t do too much damage, don’t you think?”