Jenny Erpenbeck: The End of Days

We’re all going to be old some day.

I’ll be damned if I’ll go blackmailing my children when the time comes.

She’s not blackmailing me.

Oh, really?

She doesn’t know what she’s doing any longer.

Serves her right for playing the know-it-all for so many years.

What an ugly thing to say.

Now she’s even going to drive us apart.

Nonsense.

The week Frau Hoffmann is going to die, the day after her ninetieth birthday, Sister Renate has the early shift.

The week Frau Hoffmann is going to die, the day after her ninetieth birthday, she is sharing a room — just as she’s done for seven months now — with Frau Buschwitz, whose habit it is to scratch and slap anyone who comes within three feet of her. The day Frau Buschwitz moved into Frau Hoffmann’s room, Frau Hoffmann fought her first and only battle with her new roommate, she’d approached Frau Buschwitz intending a friendly greeting, whereupon Frau Buschwitz took a swipe at her, as was her wont, prompting Frau Hoffmann in her surprise to hunt for the nearest object within reach that she might use to defend herself, and what she found was a piece of zwieback lying on the table. She scraped this zwieback right across Frau Buschwitz’s face, whereupon Frau Buschwitz retreated. From then on, Frau Hoffmann has never gone within three feet of her roommate.

This week, too — the week she is going to die, the day after her ninetieth birthday — begins with a Monday, just like every other week, and this Monday, too, begins with breakfast at eight, just like every other day. Breakfast begins, as always, with the attendant on duty pushing her in her wheelchair from her room to the breakfast room, giving Frau Buschwitz a wide berth.

What is a Monday? Frau Hoffmann sits at the long table, as always, between Frau Schröder and Frau Millner, who are still able to sit in chairs. Between the chairs of Frau Schröder and Frau Millner, a place, as always, has been left empty for her wheelchair. Frau Hoffmann’s red hair is now gray as well, such that a person who knew her before would have a hard time picking her out from among all the many nodding, tilted, dozing, or bent gray- and white-haired heads. When Frau Hoffmann speaks at breakfast, it disturbs no one here, for the ears of all these ladies and gentlemen are really quite old. And if jam falls on her blouse, it disturbs no one, for the eyes of all these ladies and gentlemen are old as well. After a few bites she pushes her breakfast plate away and refuses to eat anything more.

Thousands have been invited here for this meal, from many different levels. But this I cannot eat.

Sister Renate, who is pouring tea, says:

But Frau Hoffmann, there really aren’t thousands of us here.

Yes — thousands! And I don’t know why these people have assembled here, I cannot determine the cause, the purpose of this meeting — but it must have a purpose!

Frau Hoffmann, please eat your breakfast.

It’s so paltry! There ought to be more selection. Why are all these thousands eating this mess that is served here?

Fresh rolls straight from the bakery, Frau Hoffmann.

There’ll have to be a discussion of this some time, this food and the purpose of everyone having only this paltry mess to eat — but I haven’t yet been able to speak with anyone about this.

But, but, Frau Hoffmann.

I can’t eat it. First I must determine what sort of development — developments of all different sorts! — these individuals have gone through, what motivates them, what might win them over, and what not.

*

Between 8:30 and 9:30, after the breakfast has been cleared away, it isn’t worth having yourself wheeled back into your room. You sit where you are. At 9:30 everyone in wheelchairs goes to the exercise room, where the fingers, hands, feet and heads of those who can no longer get up, or at least not on their own, are worked over, and at 11:00 it’s back to the day room. From 11:00 until 11:30 everyone sits there. The TV is on. On the wall is a large clock. Some are asleep in their wheelchairs, wrapped up in blankets.

She would like to read. If she held the book close to her eyes, she would even be able to decipher the letters, but her arms and hands aren’t strong enough to hold the book.

Frau Zeisig was an excellent skier.

Down we go! I so wish I could go whizzing down the slope just once more, but it’s not possible.

Herr Behrendt was a pastor.

I so wish I could write something down sometimes, but my head won’t cooperate.

Frau Braun walked all the way from Heydekrug on the Memel to Berlin after the war, with three children.

No one can quite imagine what that means anymore.

And all of them survived.

All three of them proper, lovely children.

From the kitchen, the clinking of plates can be heard.

My oldest recently celebrated his own golden anniversary.

It smells of stew. The staff sets the table. The day room is full of desires. At 11:30 lunch is served.

Frau Hoffmann says to Frau Millner, who is hard of hearing:

We have to organize our group. A few of them will show up early, others late — we have to coordinate all of that and then await orders from leadership.

Frau Millner doesn’t look at Frau Hoffmann, she is trying to spear the little shreds of chicken in her fricassee on her fork.

We cannot under any circumstances take action until the orders have reached us.

Frau Millner nods, but not because she agrees with Frau Hoffmann; she nods because the fricassee tastes good.

I’ve been waiting for my husband, Frau Hoffmann says. I always stood there on the corner, waiting. I’ve spent my whole life standing on the corner, waiting.

Frau Hoffmann, Sister Renate says in passing, you’ve got to eat something, too.

If I start eating, Frau Hoffmann says, it’ll make me feel awful.

But, but, says Sister Renate.

I can’t.

Just one spoonful at least, Frau Hoffmann.

It would be good if I could eat something, that would make life more stable somehow.

Precisely, Frau Hoffmann.

But I can’t.

After lunch she tries pushing the wheels of her wheelchair herself to return to her room, but she doesn’t get anywhere because she doesn’t have the strength in her hands.

Oh, Frau Hoffmann, let me give you a hand, Sister Renate says, helping her.

On the way to her room, Frau Hoffmann looks down the corridor and at its end she sees the young attendant coming out of one of the many doors, she calls: Hey there, hey! And lifts one hand to wave, but he appears to be in a hurry or perhaps he didn’t hear her shout, already he’s vanished behind one of the many other doors.

He doesn’t have time for you right now, Frau Hoffmann, maybe later.

Frau Hoffmann nods. We’ve got to be a little bit patient, don’t we?

Precisely, Frau Hoffmann.

For our struggle.

Of course.

But that’s not such an easy thing to do.

No, you’re certainly right.

The nurse pushes the wheelchair into the room, giving a wide berth to the bed of Frau Buschwitz, who has lain down for an after-lunch nap.

Next to the window, Frau Hoffmann?

Yes, please.

When the nurse has locked the wheels and is about to leave, Frau Hoffmann grabs her by the sleeve:

What should I do now?

That’s not something I can tell you, Frau Hoffmann, the nurse says and brushes the elderly hand from her sleeve — the hand is cold — lays Frau Hoffmann’s cold hand back in her lap and leaves. The doors in this place shut so softly, Frau Hoffmann doesn’t hear that the nurse is already gone.

Why and what? she inquires of the early afternoon silence, but receives no answer.

Her body is a city. Her heart is a large shady square, her fingers pedestrians, her hair the light of streetlamps, her knees two rows of buildings. She tries to give people footpaths. She tries to open up her cheeks and her towers. She didn’t know streets hurt so much, nor that there were so many streets in her to begin with. She wants to take her body on a stroll, out of her body, but she doesn’t know where the key is. I’m afraid of losing my head. Afraid someone might take the key of my head away from me.