Herta Müller - The Hunger Angel

I’m tired and don’t want to yearn so much for anything. There are all kinds of boredom, some that go running ahead and others that come limping behind. If I treat them well they won’t hurt me and they’ll be mine to have. All year long, over the Russian village, there’s the boredom of the moon—the thin moon whose neck resembles a cucumber flower, or a trumpet with gray valves. Then a few days later the half-moon that hangs in the sky like a cap. And then the boredom of a full moon, full to the point of overflowing. Every day there’s the boredom of the barbed wire on the camp wall, the boredom of the guards in the towers, Tur Prikulitsch’s shiny toecaps, and the boredom of my own torn galoshes. There’s the boredom of the cooling-tower cloud as well as the boredom of the white bread linens. And there’s the boredom of the corrugated asbestos sheets, the streaks of tar, and the old puddles of oil.

There’s the boredom of the sun, when the wood shrivels and the earth gets thinner than reason in your head, when the guard dogs doze instead of bark. Before the grass has entirely withered, the sky closes in, and then there’s the boredom when the ropes of rain fall, when the wood swells and your shoes stick in the mud and your clothes stick to your skin. The summer is cruel to its leaves, the fall to its colors, the winter to us.

There’s the boredom of freshly fallen snow with coal dust and old snow with coal dust, the boredom of old snow with potato peels and freshly fallen snow without potato peels. The boredom of snow with cement creases and tar stains, the floury wool on the guard dogs, and their different barks, either metallic-deep or soprano-high. There’s the boredom of dripping pipes, with icicles like glass radishes, and the boredom of plushly upholstered snow on the steps to the cellar. And the hairnet of icy threads melting on the chipped fireclay of the coke ovens. And the sticky snow that’s so fond of humans, which glazes our eyes and burns our cheeks.

On the wide Russian train tracks there’s the snow on the wooden cross ties and the rust on the wreaths of densely set screws that come in sets of two, three, or even five, like epaulettes for different ranks. And on the train embankment, if someone falls over, there’s the boredom of the snow with the corpse and the shovel. Scarcely has the corpse been cleared away than it’s already forgotten, because bodies that thin hardly leave any trace in snow that thick. All you can see is the boredom of an abandoned shovel. It’s best not to go near the shovel. When the wind is weak, a soul flies up, adorned with feathers. When the wind is strong, the soul is carried off in waves. And not just the soul, since presumably every corpse also releases a hunger angel who goes looking for a new host. But none of us can nourish two hunger angels.

Trudi Pelikan told me that she and the Russian medic drove with Kobelian to the train embankment and loaded Corina Marcu’s frozen body onto the truck. That Trudi climbed into the truck bed to undress the body before it was buried, but that the medic said: We’ll take care of that later. That the medic sat with Kobelian in the cab and Trudi sat in the truck bed with the body. That Kobelian didn’t drive to the cemetery but to the camp, where Bea Zakel was waiting in the sick barrack and that she stepped outside carrying her baby when she heard the rumble of the truck. That Kobelian hoisted Corina Marcu onto his shoulder and didn’t carry her to the dying room or to the surgery but to the medic’s own room, as the medic told him to do. That he didn’t know where to put the body, because the medic said: Wait. That the dead woman grew too heavy and he let her slide down his side and stood her on the ground. That he propped up the body until the medic had stashed her canned goods in a bucket and the table was free. That Kobelian laid the dead woman on the table without saying another word. That Trudi Pelikan started to unbutton Corina Marcu’s jacket, because she thought Bea Zakel was waiting for her clothes. That the medic said: First the hair. That Bea Zakel locked her child up with the other children behind the wooden screen. That her child kept kicking the wooden screen and screaming until the other children joined in even more shrilly, the way dogs bark more shrilly after one has already started. That Bea Zakel pulled the dead woman’s head over the edge of the table so that her hair hung down. That as if by some miracle Corina Marcu’s head had never been shaved and the medic then cut her hair with the clippers. That Bea Zakel placed the hair neatly inside a little wooden box. That Trudi wanted to know what that was good for and the medic said: For window cushions. That Trudi asked: For whom, and Bea Zakel said: For the tailor shop, Herr Reusch sews window cushions for us, the hair stops the draft. That the medic washed her hands with soap and said: You know what I’m afraid of, that it’s so boring when you’re dead. That Bea Zakel said, with an unusually high-pitched voice: You’re right to be afraid. That Bea Zakel then tore two empty pages out of the sick register and covered the little wooden box. That with the box tucked under her arm like that she looked like she’d just been to the store in the Russian village and had bought something perishable. That Bea didn’t wait for the clothes but disappeared with the little box before the dead woman was completely undressed. That Kobelian went to his truck. That it took some time to undress Corina Marcu, because Trudi didn’t want to ruin the good fufaika by cutting it off the body. That with all the tugging a cat brooch fell out of the dead woman’s pocket and landed on the floor next to the bucket. That when Trudi Pelikan bent down to pick it up she read the printed label off one of the shiny tins in the bucket: CORNED BEEF. That she couldn’t believe her eyes. That meanwhile the medic picked up the brooch. That the truck was rumbling outside the whole time and didn’t drive off. That the medic went out holding the cat brooch and came back empty-handed and said: Kobelian’s sitting at the steering wheel, bawling, and saying My God My God over and over.

Boredom is fear’s patience. Fear doesn’t want to exaggerate. Only on occasion—and fear considers this very important—does it want to know how things stand with me.

I could eat a piece of saved bread from my pillowcase, with a pinch of sugar or salt. Or dry my wet footwraps on the chair next to the stove. The little wooden table casts a longer shadow, the sun has moved. In the spring, next spring, maybe I’ll finagle two pieces of rubber from the conveyor belt in the factory or from a tire in the garage. Then I’ll take them to the cobbler.

Bea Zakel was the first in the camp to wear the shoes we called balletki . She’d had them since the previous summer. I’d gone to see her in the clothes room, I needed new wooden shoes. I rummaged through the pile, and Bea Zakel said: The only shoes I have left are either too big or too small, nothing but thimbles or ships, the medium-sized shoes are all gone. Because I wanted to stay there longer, I tried on several pairs. At first I decided on a small pair, then I asked when some medium shoes would be coming in. In the end I took two large ones. Bea Zakel said: Put them on right now, leave the old ones here. Look what I have: ballet shoes.

I asked: Where from?

She said: From the cobbler. See how they bend, just like barefoot.

How much do they cost, I asked.

She said: You have to ask Tur.

Kobelian might give me the pieces of rubber for free. They have to be at least as big as two shovel blades. But I’ll need money for the cobbler. I’ll have to sell some coal now while it’s still cold out. In the summer, next summer, the boredom may take off its footwraps and wear ballet shoes. Then it will walk around just like barefoot.