C.-A. Rebaf - Mahler in love with Monroe?

At home I found the metal cylinder in my backpack again and treated the screw cap with some vinegar. It hissed, and then I could open it by turning. Inside was a movie poster from times before the catastrophe. It showed a blond woman with big breasts in a white halter dress. She stood on a mesh shaft, from which a wind blew up and lifted her airy skirt. The woman's face showed that while she was frightened trying to pull her skirt down out of shame, the mischievous component of her smile clearly signaled to the viewer that she was grateful to the breeze from the shaft, which was exposing her beautiful legs and showing their perfect contours. This charms every interested man. In this way, on the one hand, she remained a shy young woman, and only the evil wind was to blame for her wickedness! The seductive arts of women are to master this balancing act between shame and sophistication perfectly. ‘The saint and the whore!’, was the reaction of the male part in me. My feminine side had only one disdainful word for it: ‘Slut!’. On the poster next to the woman was a bold signature: Marilyn Monroe.

I found a blank wall and hung up the poster. Not that I found it particularly nice. But the bare wall with the poster I liked better than without.

But suddenly I remembered the dominant stranger with the horsewhip and my butterflies dandled again down south...

It was almost dark, and I could see almost nothing as I walked light-footed through the former monastery village. In the ruins of the monastery yard I recognized the red Paco with the glowing embers under the wood gasifier. Was the stranger staying here? Here in our damned small dump? Somehow I was suddenly scared and in parallel hopefully stimulated. My joy at trading with Mr. Mayr was almost forgotten.

At home, Golie was waiting for me. He had set the dinner table and was pleased when he saw me. We had dinner together, and then I put him to bed. It was already dark outside, and I put wood in the stove in our kitchen and looked through the hearths into the glow. I had Gottlieb, as he was actually called, found a little foundling in Munich. He had just a sign around his neck with the inscription: "My name is Gottlieb, have mercy on me!" Such was the order of the day since the catastrophe. His parents had probably died of the consequences. As entire families were wiped out, there was always the case that help in the familiar environment was no longer possible, so children were simply abandoned by their dying parents. What should they do in a situation where all medical care had completely collapsed? He had been a cute baby with light brown hair and an eternal smile on his face. In any case, I had no one left and decided to follow the call on the sign and take pity on him. It had been love at first sight, and I never regretted taking him to my little flat where I took care of him like my own baby. At first it was very unfamiliar to me, but over time I quickly grew into my role as a mother, especially as I seamlessly fit into the cityscape with my old, three-wheeled stroller, which I had been able to get hold of thanks to my good negotiating skills on the market.

At some point I decided to leave the city and move out into the country. A good friend told me about an old novel and wanted to accompany me. Books were very, very rare, and only those who had survived the fires of disaster were offered on the markets. In her tattered book, the author was probably a certain Thomas Mann and the title is no longer decipherable, she read from a place called Pfeiffering south of Munich, which was described in the most beautiful colors. Inside the name ‘Dr. Faustus’ appeared. Someone in the old rororo paperback edition of my girlfriend with a blue ballpoint pen on the edge remarked:

Pfeiffering = Polling? and Waldshut = Weilheim?

written. We saw this as a hopeful sign and decided to get to the bottom of it and take a look at this area, where the places had both a real and a literary name. We marched in a beautiful summer week always along the ruined tracks of the old railway line to Garmisch along towards the Alps and actually got there. It was dangerous, but we were young, unreasonable, and exposed ourselves to radiation. In the evening we slept in cellars. The lake we reached in Starnberg attracted us very much to a swim, but we did not want to take that radiation risk, and so we enjoyed the view of the water with the mountains in the background and marched a long the bank. My friend had underlined all the places that were important for our touristic trip and abused the novel about an avant-garde composer as a guide à la Baedecker.

Finally we arrived in Weilheim and saw, to our disappointment, what we knew from everywhere: ruins, burned culture and few people who lived there like scared rats and scurried from one hole to the next. It was so bleak that we quickly marched south along a small river, then left it and followed a small stream to get further and further towards the mountains. Soon after, we arrived at a huge complex of ruins, which must have been the old monastery. An outstanding, higher pile of rubbish, which we had seen from afar the whole time, must have been the old tower. Surprisingly, the old Baroque facade with the round rosette window, was still preserved. It looked like the eye of Polyphemus in the landscape from a certain distance.

Towards the former nave, a tent roof was held with beams. Did not someone play an organ? Should this still be intact? We stood rooted, as it were, and the little Golie, whom I had worn over the long distance on my back, made a strange dance there, as if the music in him kindled something very special. I could not hold him anymore and let him slide to the floor. Immediately he crawled on his back to the narrow, exposed entrance from which the music rang out. He could not walk yet. My girlfriend and I did not understand anything anymore. Inside, under the makeshift tent roof, he lay frozen, listening and unable to move from us until the music broke off and the organist, a man of about forty with a few blond hair and a balding head, cut off a wooden ladder from the rest the organ loft climbed. Behind him followed a boy, who immediately ran free. The blond spoke to us kindly, after all strangers rarely got lost here. His nice words pleased us and together with the beautiful music, cheered us up again lifting our mood. Yes, Golie was freaking out, waving his baby arms like a droll little dancing bear so that the blond fell into laughter with us. Golie was in a good mood here. I had never experienced him like this before. Despite his tender age, he used all the means at his disposal to show me, that he was fine here and that he wanted to stay.

We then looked around the village, found few people and many well-preserved and empty living rooms, which I liked much better than my accommodation in Munich. In me, the decision was made to stay here. However my girlfriend did not understand. She then returned to her home after a few days. Anyway, I had everything that was really valuable to me, and I quartered myself in the former monastery village. Over the next few days, the organist, who was not at all unsympathetic, helped us both with the few people in the village. Golie's sunny nature helped a lot. They were all very friendly and even recommended a special ruin, which was adjacent to a large field where it would be good to farm for life. I took the advice, and so we had landed here in the former manor ‘Schweigestill’ at ‘Pfeiffering’, as it was called in the old novel of my girlfriend. This was already some time ago.

Did I dream it all? Was I asleep? My limbs were quite stiff, and I lay down in the room next door to Golie in our bed. We lived only in these two rooms. Mostly we were outside when the weather allowed it. It may be dangerous, but we both seemed to have enough resistance to radiation, as we had lived that way for several years and enjoyed great health.