War (Vol. 7 No. 1) by Trinity Journal of Literary Translation

JOURNAL OF LITERARY TRANSLATION

VOLUME 7, ISSUE 1

EDITORIAL From the TCD manuscripts collection, a letter from Lieutenant Charles Wynne to his family on the 5th of June 1917: “There is a certain depression over us now, as yesterday we had our first man killed – he was such a good chap everybody liked him...Still I suppose its [sic] bound to happen sooner or later and we’ve really been quite miraculously lucky, up to now.” Charles Wynne died of wounds later that year at the age of 21. His letters home are freely available on the TCD manuscripts website, and are fascinating in so many ways. One example: he always refers to the Germans he was fighting against as “The Huns”. The most striking thing is how normal everything seems to him. In the same letter as the one quoted above, he writes: “What a pity your bad weather – we have had a simply unbroken succession of glorious cloudless days”. Translation is about making the effort to listen to other people. This issue’s submissions come from four continents. The earliest of them was written nearly three-thousand years ago. Every one of them is different, and every translator has approached their task differently. But every translation is an effort to do the same thing: to listen to someone else, and make that person’s voice audible to others. It was with something like that in mind that we have produced an issue themed War, as we approach the centenary of Armistice Day, the end of World War One, the war to end all wars. For most of us who have never experienced a war, Charles Wynne and those like him feel about as distant as Archilochus. 2

But they were real people, who often prove to have been similar to us in unexpected ways, and who suffered things that we simply can’t imagine. The least that we can do is listen to them. This issue would not have been possible without the help of a few talented and dedicated people. To my predecessor and great friend, Andrew Beazley, from whom I have drawn support in countless ways, my sincerest thanks. Andrew’s breathless translation of Tacitus is true to form. My thanks also to Irene Fuentes McDonnell and Ceire Carey, who helped us with editing the languages we didn’t know, and to Dr. Peter Arnds, the academic advisor and backbone of the Journal. His guidance and perspective have been a great support, and we were delighted to close this issue with a thought-provoking original story of his, “Ferdinand’s War”. The biggest thank-you, however, must go to the senior editorial team: Michael Foley, Clare Healy, and Millie van Grutten. Their contribution has been beyond measure. Without them, the Journal simply would not exist. May the contents of this journal serve as proof of their immense talents. Finally, to our contributors. All that is best in this volume is theirs. Jolt cannot do much, but it is through its contributors and people like them that time and place can become bridges between lives rather than barriers. Le dea-ghuí, Rory O’Sullivan 3

CONTENTS Fragment 5

Ancient Greek

From Ἀγαμέμνων

Ancient Greek

From Elegiae

Latin

From Annales

Latin

From Os Lusíades

Portuguese

Oration at the graveside of O’Donovan Rossa

French

Veglia

Italian

Explico Algunas Cosas

Spanish

Le Silence de la Mer

French

Mon Traitre

French

Hêvî

Kurdish

宣告

Mandarin

Pa Heronj, Pa Bujë

Albanian

Ferdinands Krieg

German

CONTRIBUTORS In order of appearance This section contains short biographical notes by our contributors, and descriptions of the works contained in this journal — written by the contributors themselves and setting their selection in context. Harry Farmiloe: Ἀρχίλοχος, Fragment 5, c. 660 BC Harry Farmiloe is a 3rd year Classics student at Trinity. “Archilochus was a lyric poet during the Archaic Period. He was so revered that he was an inspiration to several later famous poets, including Alcaeus and Horace, who were both inspired to write poems inspired by Fragment 5, on the subject of throwing your shield away.” Rory O’Sullivan: Αἰσχύλος, Ἀγαμέμνων 458 BC Rory O’Sullivan is a fourth year Greek student at Trinity, and the Editor of the Journal. “In Greek Drama, a series of four plays by one author would have been performed over the course of one day. The Watchman would have begun his speech just before dawn, and as the sun rose, he would have introduced the Agamemnon, a play that asks how we can ever possibly move from war to peace. Its writer, Aeschylus, was a combat veteran. It has gone down in history as one of the greatest plays ever written.” Millie van Grutten: Propertius, Elegiae, c. 50 BC Millie van Grutten is a 3rd year Classics student at Trinity and the deputy editor of the journal. “Propertius was not so widely regarded and respected at his time of writing as he is now. Today, Propertius and the 5

large number of poems he left behind are a great focus for many scholars. This short extract concerning the Civil War, which is not a central topic in this collection, conveys so much enthusiasm and patriotism that it can be, quite remarkably, appreciated and understood by audiences far and wide.” Andrew Beazley: Tacitus, Annales, c. 117 Andrew Beazley is a Classics graduate from Trinity and former editor of the journal. “Tacitus was Rome’s greatest historian, and this passage – taken from his greatest work, the Annals – is characteristic of his extraordinary prose style. In one breathless sentence, the historian charts the bloody conclusion to Rome’s civil wars and the insurgence of a young Octavian (here just “Caesar”) as its new autocrat. The Latin here is asymmetrical and convoluted; like his predecessor Sallust, Tacitus opted for a disjointed and jarring style as he captured the collapse of a centuries-old Roman republican order.” Orlando Devoy: Luís Vaz de Camões, Os Lusíades, 1572 Orlando Devoy is a 3rd year Classics student. “Os Lusíades, The Lusiads, is the Portuguese national epic. This sixteenth century work by Luís Vaz de Camões, considered by many to be the country’s greatest poet, chronicles the voyages of discovery carried out by the Portuguese people under Vasco de Gama all the way to India. In this passage, the Portuguese have narrowly escaped their long-standing enemies, the Moslims, and their treachery instigated by the god, Bacchus, who is against the Portuguese much like the singular wrath of Poseidon against Odysseus in the Odyssey.” Lee Molloy: Patrick Pearse, Oration at the Graveside of O’Donovan Rossa, 1913 Lee Molloy is a 3rd year French and English student at Trinity. “This is a powerful and poignant piece that marked 6

Pearse as a leader in his own right, as he was the first Republican to be recorded during a speech. I hope the translation does justice to the significance of this piece and I am grateful for having had the opportunity to translate it, as I have yet to find this piece translated into French anywhere else.” Hannah Bowman: Giuseppe Ungaretti, Veglia, 1915. Hannah Bowman is a 4th year European Studies Student at Trinity. “Giuseppe Ungaretti was an Italian poet who fought in the trenches in Northern Italy during the First World War. He was, understandably, greatly disturbed by what he saw while fighting there.” Daniel Gilligan: Pablo Neruda, Explico Algunas Cosas, 1936. Daniel Gilligan is a 3rd year Law and Politics Student at Trinity. “The Chilean Nobel Laureate Pablo Neruda wrote this poem in 1936 while living in Madrid as a Chilean consul. It is a response to the events of the Spanish Civil War, specifically the murder of Neruda’s friend poet Gabriel García Lorca by Nationalist forces.” Angela O’Callaghan: Vercors, La Silence de la Mer, 1942 Angela O’Callaghan is a 4th year English and French student at the University of Edinburgh. ““La Silence de la Mer” is a novel written by Jean Bruller under the pseudonym Vercors, published in Paris during the German occupation of France in World War Two. A German officer stationed in a French town stays in the home of an old man and his niece, and they refuse to speak to him. Their silence is their means of resistance against the occupiers.” 7

Aylin Demiralp: Arjen Arî, Hêvî, c. 1970 Aylin Demiralp is a first year Middle-Eastern and European languages and cultures student “Because of the region being a war zone, most of the Kurdish language poems touch the theme of war in some way. This poem however, written by Arjen Arî while in prison, has a more hopeful tone.” Speranza Orlando: 北岛, 宣告, 1976 Daniel Gilligan is a 3rd year Law and Politics Student at Trinity. “The Chilean Nobel Laureate Pablo Neruda wrote this poem in 1936 while living in Madrid as a Chilean consul. It is a response to the events of the Spanish Civil War, specifically the murder of Neruda’s friend poet Gabriel García Lorca by Nationalist forces.” Clare Healy: Sorj Chalandon, Mon Traitre, 2008 Clare Healy is a 3rd year English and French Student and the assistant editor of the journal. “Mon Traitre follows a young Parisian named Antoine who visits Northern Ireland in the 1970s after taking an interest in the ongoing conflict, an interest which slowly turns into an obsession as he involves himself in the personal lives of active members of the IRA. This scene takes place in 2006, after it has been discovered that the father of Antoine’s friend Jack had been working as an informer for the British for several years during the Troubles.”

Chloe Fagan: Ndriçim Ademaj, Pa Heronj, Pa Bujë, 2017 Chloe Fagan works for the Goethe-Institut Irland and is also in the final year of her PhD in the Department of Germanic Studies. “ Ndriçim Ademaj’s first novel tells the story of a Kosovar migrant living in Switzerland, who recalls his childhood during the Kosovo War in the late 1990s” Dr. Peter Arnds, Ferdinands Krieg, 2018 Dr. Peter Arnds is the Head of Comparative Literature at Trinity and the academic advisor of the journal. The story “Ferdinand’s War”, based on events from Arnds’s own life, is an original composition written in both English and German. Cover design and layout by Michael Foley

ANCIENT GREEK

FRAGMENT 5 Ἀρχίλοχος Ἀσπίδι μὲν Σαΐων τις ἀγάλλεται, ἥν παρὰ θάμνῳ ἔντος ἀμώμητον κάλλιπον οὐκ ἐθέλων· αὐτὸν δ’ ἔκ μ’ ἐσάωσα· τί μοι μέλει ἀσπὶς ἐκείνη; Ἐρρέτω· ἐξαῦτις κτήσομαι οὐ κακίω.

FRAGMENT 5 TRANSL. HARRY FARMILOE This Saian lad is really enjoying my shield, which I, against my better judgement, As it was a decent shield, ditched beside a bush. But I saved my own skin, do I really care about that shield? Of course not. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll soon get one just as good.

ANCIENT GREEK

from Ἀγαμέμνων Αἰσχύλος Φύλαξ: θεοὺς μὲν αἰτῶ τῶνδ᾽ ἀπαλλαγὴν πόνων φρουρᾶς ἐτείας μῆκος, ἣν κοιμώμενος στέγαις Ἀτρειδῶν ἄγκαθεν, κυνὸς δίκην, ἄστρων κάτοιδα νυκτέρων ὁμήγυριν, καὶ τοὺς φέροντας χεῖμα καὶ θέρος βροτοῖς λαμπροὺς δυνάστας, ἐμπρέποντας αἰθέρι ἀστέρας, ὅταν φθίνωσιν, ἀντολάς τε τῶν. καὶ νῦν φυλάσσω λαμπάδος τό σύμβολον, αὐγὴν πυρὸς φέρουσαν ἐκ Τροίας φάτιν ἁλώσιμόν τε βάξιν: ὧδε γὰρ κρατεῖ γυναικὸς ἀνδρόβουλον ἐλπίζον κέαρ. εὖτ᾽ ἂν δὲ νυκτίπλαγκτον ἔνδροσόν τ᾽ ἔχω εὐνὴν ὀνείροις οὐκ ἐπισκοπουμένην ἐμήν: φόβος γὰρ ἀνθ᾽ ὕπνου παραστατεῖ, τὸ μὴ βεβαίως βλέφαρα συμβαλεῖν ὕπνῳ: ὅταν δ᾽ ἀείδειν ἢ μινύρεσθαι δοκῶ, ὕπνου τόδ᾽ ἀντίμολπον ἐντέμνων ἄκος, κλαίω τότ᾽ οἴκου τοῦδε συμφορὰν στένων

FROM AGAMEMNON TRANSL. RORY O’SULLIVAN Watchman: Gods give me freedom from this drudge, this year-long vigil of mine, spent lying on Agamemnon’s roof perched on my elbows like a dog. Oh, how many times I have seen the parliament of nighttime stars, bringers of Winter and Summer, kings falling and rising through air, watching here for the signal fire bringing the pronouncement from Troy, the news that it has been conquored. Those are my orders. The spirit that wields power in this city is a man’s, a politician’s, but it belongs to a woman, waiting, hoping for the fire. Whenever I lie on my mat a sleepwalker’s dewy bed-mat

οὐχ ὡς τὰ πρόσθ᾽ ἄριστα διαπονουμένου. νῦν δ᾽ εὐτυχὴς γένοιτ᾽ ἀπαλλαγὴ πόνων εὐαγγέλου φανέντος ὀρφναίου πυρός.

that never witnesses a dream since fear stands always by my side, holding my tired eyelids open and whenever I want to sing or chirp just like a nightingale to cure me of my sleeplessness, I cry, and mourn the disaster that has befallen this old House, the House of Atreus, which once was well-shepherded. No more. I wish that the Gods would free me from all this pain and poor fortune, and that there may be some good news that would shine like a fire in the darkness.

LATIN

FROM ELEGIAE PROPERTIUS Ite agite, expertae bello, date lintea, prorae, et solitum, armigeri, ducite munus, equi! omina fausta cano. Crassos clademque piate! ite et Romanae consulite historiae!

FROM THE ELEGIES TRANSL. MILLIE VAN GRUTTEN Go on now, you battle-tested ships, give sail, Go warring horses, and of your destined duty prevail! I’ll pray for good omen. The disaster of Crassus make corrected! Go and Rome’s history keep protected!

LATIN

FROM ANNALES TACITUS Postquam Bruto et Cassio caesis nulla iam publica arma, Pompeius apud Siciliam oppressus exutoque Lepido, interfecto Antonio ne Iulianis quidem partibus nisi Caesar dux reliquus, posito triumviri nomine consulem se ferens et ad tuendam plebem tribunicio iure contentum, ubi militem donis, populum annona, cunctos dulcedine otii pellexit, insurgere paulatim, munia senatus magistratuum legum in se trahere, nullo adversante, cum ferocissimi per acies aut proscriptione cecidissent, ceteri nobilium, quanto quis servitio promptior, opibus et honoribus extollerentur ac novis ex rebus aucti tuta et praesentia quam vetera et periculosa mallent. neque provinciae illum rerum statum abnuebant, suspecto senatus populique imperio ob certamina potentium et avaritiam magistratuum, invalido legum auxilio quae vi ambitu postremo pecunia turbabantur.

FROM THE ANNALS TRANSL. ANDREW BEAZLEY When, after the slaughter of Brutus and Cassius, there were no longer any republican armies left and Pompey had been crushed at Sicily and, with Lepidus wiped out and Antony killed, not even to the Julian party was there anyone left behind as a leader other than Caesar - he, presenting himself as a consul – the title of triumvir put to one side – and as content with tribunician power for the purpose of protecting the plebs, when he had lured in the military with gifts, the people with cheaper food, and everyone with the sweet taste of peace, he surged up, gradually, and all the prerogatives of the Senate and the magistrates and the laws he drew into himself, and no-one stood in his way, since the fiercest men had fallen on the battle line and through proscription, and the rest of the nobles – each according to his readiness for servitude – were raised up high with riches and honours and, strengthened from the revolution, they preferred safety and the present to the past and its perils. Nor were the provinces refusing that state of affairs; the command of Senate and People had become distrusted on account of the battles of the powerful and the greed of the magistrates, and there was feeble assistance from the laws, which by violence and bribery and, in the end, money itself, were thrown into disorder.

PORTUGUESE

FROM OS LUSÍADES LUÍS VAZ DE CAMÕES O recado que trazem é de amigos, Mas debaxo o veneno vem coberto, Que os pensamentos eram de inimigos, Segundo foi o engano descoberto. Ó grandes e gravíssimos perigos, Ó caminho de vida nunca certo, Que aonde a gente põe sua esperança Tenha a vida tão pouca segurança! No mar tanta tormenta e tanto dano, Tantas vezes a morte apercebida! Na terra tanta guerra, tanto engano, Tanta necessidade avorrecida! Onde pode acolher-se um fraco humano, Onde terá segura a curta vida, Que não se arme e se indigne o Céu sereno Contra um bicho da terra tão pequeno.

FROM THE LUSIADS TRANSL. ORLANDO DEVOY It is as if the message they bring is from friends, But underneath the surface a deeper poison resides, That the thoughts contained animosity, Soon then their deceit was unveiled. O Dangers Great and of the Gravest kind, O Path of Life always uncertain, Wherever a man places his hopes Life in turn provides such little stability! On the sea such nightmarish torment and destruction, Countless times death it has so often felt, On land so much conflict, so much deception, Relentlessly enduring such unnecessary necessity. Where is a defenseless man to seek refuge, Where will he live out in peace the short life allotted him? In knowledge that the stayed heavens will not arm themselves Or express their indignation Towards so insignificant a creature of earth.

FRENCH

ORATION AT THE GRAVESIDE OF O’DONOVAN ROSSA PADRAIG PEARSE It has seemed right, before we turn away from this place in which we have laid the mortal remains of O’Donovan Rossa, that one among us should, in the name of all, speak the praise of that valiant man, and endeavour to formulate the thought and the hope that are in us as we stand around his grave. And if there is anything that makes it fitting that I, rather than some other, rather than one of the grey-haired men who were young with him and shared in his labour and in his suffering, should speak here, it is perhaps that I may be taken as speaking on behalf of a new generation that has been re-baptised in the Fenian faith, and that has accepted the responsibility of carrying out the Fenian programme. I propose to you then that, here by the grave of this unrepentant Fenian, we renew our baptismal vows; that, here by the grave of this unconquered and unconquerable man, we ask of God, each one for himself, such unshakable purpose, such high and gallant courage, such unbreakable strength of soul as belonged to O’Donovan Rossa. Deliberately here we avow ourselves, as he avowed himself in the dock, Irishmen of one allegiance only. We of the Irish Volunteers, and you others who are associated with us in to-day’s task and duty, are bound together and must stand together henceforth in brotherly union for the achievement of the freedom of Ireland. And we know only one definition of freedom: it is Tone’s definition, it is Mitchel’s definition, it is Rossa’s definition. Let no man blaspheme the cause that the dead generations of Ireland served by giving it any other name 22

LE DISCOURS DEVANT LA TOMBE DE ROSSA TRANSL. LEE MOLLOY Avant de quitter ce lieu où reste le cadavre mortel de Rossa, il serait approprié qu’un de nous fait l’éloge de cet homme vaillant, et que nous tentons aussi d’exprimer les pensées et les espoirs qui se trouvent au fond de nous alors que nous nous unissons devant sa tombe. Et pour ceux qui se demandent est-ce juste que c’est moi qui parle plutôt qu’un de ses amis de jeunesse qui a partagé son travail et sa souffrance, je crois que c’est juste car je parle aussi pour la nouvelle génération qui se dévoue à la cause irlandaise et qui accepte la responsabilité qui y est attribuée. Je vous propose donc qu’ici, devant la tombe de ce Fenian impénitent, nous renouvelions notre engagement à cette cause ; qu’ici, devant la tombe de cet homme insoumis et inconquérable, nous priions pour ce que Rossa a possédé luimême ; la détermination inébranlable, le courage admirable et l’esprit indomptable. Nous nous déclarons des Irlandais avec une seule allégeance, comme Rossa se déclarait. Nous, les volontaires irlandais et vous qui êtes associés à nous, sommes unis aujourd’hui en notre devoir, et il faut que nous nous serrions les coudes en union fraternelle pour donner à l’Irlande sa liberté. Et nous ne connaissons qu’une seule définition de la liberté ; C’est celle de Wolfe Tone, de Mitchel, et de Rossa. Ne permettez à personne de blasphémer les générations irlandaises mortes qui ont servi notre cause en la définissant autrement. Nous nous rassemblons devant la tombe de Rossa non pas avec la tristesse, mais avec l’exaltation de nous être liés avec 23

and definition than their name and their definition. We stand at Rossa’s grave not in sadness but rather in exaltation of spirit that it has been given to us to come thus into so close a communion with that brave and splendid Gael. Splendid and holy causes are served by men who are themselves splendid and holy. O’Donovan Rossa was splendid in the proud manhood of him, splendid in the heroic grace of him, splendid in the Gaelic strength and clarity and truth of him. And all that splendour and pride and strength was compatible with a humility and a simplicity of devotion to Ireland, to all that was olden and beautiful and Gaelic in Ireland, the holiness and simplicity of patriotism of a Michael O’Clery or of an Eoghan O’Growney. The clear true eyes of this man almost alone in his day visioned Ireland as we of today would surely have her: not free merely, but Gaelic as well; not Gaelic merely, but free as well. In a closer spiritual communion with him now than ever before or perhaps ever again, in a spiritual communion with those of his day, living and dead, who suffered with him in English prisons, in communion of spirit too with our own dear comrades who suffer in English prisons to-day, and speaking on their behalf as well as our own, we pledge to Ireland our love, and we pledge to English rule in Ireland our hate. This is a place of peace, sacred to the dead, where men should speak with all charity and with all restraint; but I hold it a Christian thing, as O’Donovan Rossa held it, to hate evil,

un Gael si courageux et splendide. Rossa était un homme splendide. Sa virilité fière, son élégance héroïque, sa force gaélique, sa clarté et sa sincérité ; ce sont les choses qui le rendaient splendide. Et toute de sa splendeur, de sa force et de sa fierté étaient compatibles avec une humilité et un dévouement pas seulement à l’Irlande, mais aussi à tout ce qui était jadis belle et gaélique en Irlande. La clarté de cet homme qui, presque tout seul dans son temps, avait une vision de l’Irlande dont nous partageons aujourd’hui : non seulement libre, mais gaélique aussi ; non seulement gaélique, mais libre aussi. Maintenant, avec une connexion spirituelle plus forte que jamais à lui et aussi à ceux de son temps vivants ou morts qui ont souffert avec lui aux prisons anglaises, en rassemblant aussi avec nos propres camarades chéris qui souffrent encore aux prisons anglaises, et en parlant pour eux comme pour nous, nous promettons à l’Irlande notre amour, et à l’Angleterre, notre haine. Cette tombe, c’est un lieu de paix. Un lieu sacré aux morts. Un lieu où on doit parler avec gentillesse et on doit faire preuve de retenue. Néanmoins, je crois que c’est une chose chrétienne, comme Rossa l’a cru aussi, de détester le mal, de détester l’oppression, et, en utilisant cette haine, lutter pour les renverser. Nos ennemis sont forts, sages et prudents ; mais quoiqu’ils soient, ils ne peuvent pas empêcher la volonté de Dieu qui fait mûrir aux coeurs des jeunes hommes les germes semés par les générations passées; et les germes semés

to hate untruth, to hate oppression, and, hating them, to strive to overthrow them. Our foes are strong and wise and wary; but, strong and wise and wary as they are, they cannot undo the miracles of God who ripens in the hearts of young men the seeds sown by the young men of a former generation. And the seeds sown by the young men of â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;65 and â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;67 are coming to their miraculous ripening to-day. Rulers and Defenders of Realms had need to be wary if they would guard against such processes. Life springs from death; and from the graves of patriot men and women spring living nations. The Defenders of this Realm have worked well in secret and in the open. They think that they have pacified Ireland. They think that they have purchased half of us and intimidated the other half. They think that they have foreseen everything, think that they have provided against everything; but the fools, the fools, the fools! â&#x20AC;&#x201D; they have left us our Fenian dead, and while Ireland holds these graves, Ireland unfree shall never be at peace.

par les jeunes hommes en ’65 et ’67 sont en train de mûrir. Les rois, les reines et les défenseurs des royaumes ont bien travaillé en public et en secret ; Ils croient qu’ils ont pacifié l’Irlande. Ils croient qu’ils ont acheté la moitié d’entre nous et qu’ils ont intimidé l’autre moitié. Ils croient qu’ils ont tout prévu et qu’ils sont protégés de tout ; mais les idiots, les idiots, les idiots ! Notre Fenian est mort, et pendant que l’Irlande a ces tombes ; l’Irlande sans liberté n’aura jamais de paix.

ITALIAN

VEGLIA CIMA QUATTRO IL 23 DECEMBRE 1915 GIUSEPPE UNGARETTI Un’intera nottata buttato vicino a un compagno massacrato con la sua bocca digrignata volta al plenilunion con la congestione delle sue mani penetrata nel mio silenzio ho scritto lettere piene d’amore Non sono mai stato tanto attaccato alla vita

VIGIL PEAK FOUR, THE 23RD OF DECEMBER 1915 TRANSL. HANNAH BOWMAN An entire night thrown near a comrade slain with his mouth snarling at the full moon his swollen hands seeped into my silence I wrote letters full of love Never had I been so attached to life

SPANISH

EXPLICO ALGUNAS COSAS PABLO NERUDA Preguntaréis: Y dónde están las lilas? Y la metafísica cubierta de amapolas? Y la lluvia que a menudo golpeaba sus palabras llenándolas de agujeros y pájaros? Os voy a contar todo lo que me pasa. Yo vivía en un barrio de Madrid, con campanas, con relojes, con árboles. Desde allí se veía el rostro seco de Castilla como un océano de cuero. Mi casa era llamada la casa de las flores, porque por todas partes estallaban geranios: era una bella casa con perros y chiquillos. Raúl, te acuerdas? Te acuerdas, Rafael? Federico, te acuerdas debajo de la tierra, te acuerdas de mi casa con balcones en donde la luz de Junio ahogaba flores en tu boca? Hermano, hermano! Todo eran grandes voces, sal de mercaderías, 30

I EXPLAIN A FEW THINGS TRANSL. DANIEL GILLIGAN You’ll ask: And where are the lilacs? And the poppy-covered metaphysics? And the rain that often struck its words and filled them up with holes and birds? I’ll tell you everything. I lived in a suburb of Madrid, with bells, with clocks, with trees. From there you could gaze at the dry face of Castile: like an ocean of leather. My house was called the house of flowers, because high and low geraniums burst: it was a pretty house with dogs and children. Raúl, do you remember? Do you remember, Rafael? Federico, do you remember from under the ground, my house with its balconies where June’s light drowned flowers in your mouth? Brother, brother 31

aglomeraciones de pan palpitante, mercados de mi barrio de Argüelles con su estatua como un tintero pálido entre las merluzas: el aceite llegaba a las cucharas, un profundo latido de pies y manos llenaba las calles, metros, litros, esencia aguda de la vida, pescados hacinados, contextura de techos con sol frío en el cual la flecha se fatiga, delirante marfil fino de las patatas, tomates repetidos hasta el mar. Y una mañana todo estaba ardiendo Y una mañana las hogueras salian de la tierra devorando seres, y desde entonces fuego, pólvora desde entonces, y desde entonces sangre. Bandidos con aviones y con moros, bandidos con sortijas y duquesas, bandidos con frailes negros bendiciendo venían por el cielo a matar niños, y por las calles la sangre de los niños corría simplemente, como sangre de niños. Chacales que el chacal rechazaría, piedras que el cardo seco mordería escupiendo, víboras que las víboras odiaran! Frente a vosotros he visto la sangre de España levantarse 32

Everything loud voices, salt of merchandise, pile-ups of palpitating bread, markets of my suburb of ArgĂźelles with its statute like a drained ink-well amongst the hake: oil flowed into spoons a deep throbbing of feet and hands filled the streets, metres, litres, the piercing essence of life. stacked-up fish, the texture of rooves under a cold sun in which the weather vane falters, delirious fine ivory of potatoes, tomatoes, incessant to the sea. And one morning everything was burning And one morning the bonfires leaving the earth devouring human-beings, and from then on fire, gun powder from then on, and from then on blood. Bandits with planes and moors, bandits with rings and duchesses, bandits with black friars in benediction came from the sky to kill children, and through the streets the childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s blood ran straightforwardly, like the blood of children. Jackals that the jackals would reject, stones that the dry thistle would bite and spit out, vipers that the vipers would abhor!

para ahogaros en una sola ola de orgullo y de cuchillos! Generales traidores: mirad mi casa muerta, mirad España rota: pero de cada casa muerta sale metal ardiendo en vez de flores, pero de cada hueco de España sale España, pero de cada niño muerto sale un fusil con ojos, pero de cada crimen nacen balas que os hallarán un dia el sitio del corazón. Preguntaréis por qué su poesía no nos habla del sueño, de las hojas, de los grandes volcanes de su país natal ? Venid a ver la sangre por las calles. venid a ver la sangre por las calles, venid a ver la sangre por las calles!

Face to face with you I have seen the blood of Spain rise up to drown you in a single wave of pride and knives! Generals traitors: Look at my dead house, look at broken Spain: but from every dead house comes burning metal instead of flowers, but from every crater of Spain comes Spain, but from every dead child comes a rifle with eyes, but from every crime bullets are born which will one day discover the site of your heart. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll ask why his poetry does not tell us of dreams, of leaves, of the great volcanoes of his native land? Come and see the blood in the streets come and see the blood in the streets, come and see the blood in the streets!

FRENCH

LE SILENCE DE LA MER VERCORS Ce fut ma nièce qui alla ouvrir quand on frappa. Elle venait de me servir mon café, comme chaque soir (le café me fait dormir). J’étais assis au fond de la pièce, relativement dans l’ombre. La porte donne sur le jardin, de plain-pied. Tout le long de la maison court un trottoir de carreaux rouges très commode quand il pleut. Nous entendîmes marcher, le bruit des talons sur le carreau. Ma nièce me regarda et posa sa tasse. Je gardai la mienne dans mes mains. Il faisait nuit, pas très froid : ce novembre-là ne fut pas très froid. Je vis l’immense silhouette, la casquette plate, l’imperméable jeté sur les épaules comme une cape. Ma nièce avait ouvert la porte et restait silencieuse. Elle avait rebattu la porte sur le mur, elle se tenait elle-même contre le mur, sans rien regarder. Moi je buvais mon café, à petits coups. L’officier, à la porte, dit : « S’il vous plait. » Sa tête fit un petit salut. Il sembla mesurer le silence. Puis il entra. La cape glissa sur son avant-bras, il salua militairement le buste. Il se tourna vers ma nièce, sourit discrètement en inclinant très légèrement le buste. Puis il me fit face et m’adressa une révérence plus grave. Il dit : « Je me nomme Werner von Ebrennac. » J’eus les temps de penser, très vit : « le nom n’est pas allemande. Descendant d’émigré protestant ? » Il ajouta : « Je suis désolé. » Le dernier mot, prononcé en traînant, tomba dans le silence. Ma nièce avait fermé la porte et restait adossée au mur, regardant droit devant elle. Je ne m’étais pas levé. Je déposai lentement ma tasse vide sur l’harmonium et croisai 36

THE SILENCE OF THE SEA TRANSL. ANGELA O’CALLAGHAN It was my niece who opened the door when it was knocked on. She was in the middle of serving me my coffee, as she did every evening (the coffee helped me to sleep). I was sitting at the back of the room, comparatively in darkness. The door opens straight out into the garden and all around the house there is a red brick footpath, which is super convenient when it rains. We heard the sound of footsteps on this path. My niece looked at me and put down her cup. I held mine in my hand. It was nightfall, but not very cold; that November wasn’t very cold. I saw a large silhouette, a flat cap, a mackintosh thrown over the shoulders like a cape. My niece had opened the door and was waiting in silence. She had pulled the door right back to the wall, and she herself was backed up against the wall too, staring blankly. Me, I was drinking my coffee in small sips. “If you please”, said the officer at the doorway. He gave a small nod of greeting as he took in the weight of the silence. Then, he entered. He slid his cape onto his forearm, gave a military salute and removed his hat. He turned to my niece, smiling discreetly as he bowed gently towards her. He then faced me, addressing me with a deeper bow. “My name is Werner Von Ebrennac.” I had time to quickly think “that name isn’t German, maybe he is a descendant of a Protestant emigré? He added “I am so sorry.” The final word, which he slightly drew out, fell into the silence. My niece had closed the door and stayed backed up against the wall looking out in front of her. 37

mes mains et attendis… Le silence se prolongeait. Il devenait de plus en plus épais, comme le brouillard du matin. Épais et immobile. L’immobilité de ma nièce, la mienne aussi sans doute, alourdissaient ce silence, le rendaient de plombe.

I hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t yet stood up. I slowly placed my empty cup on the harmonium, folded my hands and waited.... The silence built and expanded. It became thicker and thicker, like the morning mist. Thick and stagnant. The immobility of my niece, and without doubt mine as well made it even heavier, and seemed to turn it to lead.

KURDISH

HÊVÎ ARJEN ARÎ Hêleke min diqutife ji sermê Çiya keleheke asê, rê asê, dem asê Hêviya min kulîlka binê berfê Ha bel bû ha bel bibê Û berf tê Tê Tê..! Bibare berfê Li ber xwe bide kulîlkê, Tu ji vê axê yî, ez ji vê axê..! Bibare berfê Li ber xwe bide kulîlkê Berf li hêlekê, tu li hêlekê Hêviya min jî bihar e

HOPE TRANSL. AYLIN DEMIRALP The cold surrounds me Mountains hard like a castle, hard path, hard times My hope is the flower under the snow And it snows Snows Snows…! When snow stops Stand up flower, You belong to this earth, I belong to this earth…! When snow stops, Stand up flower, Snow one way you another My hope is the spring.

FRENCH

MON TRAITRE SORJ CHALANDON Jack est rentré au milieu de la nuit, après avoir gardé la porte de son pub. Il a heurté la table basse en jurant. Il était ivre. J’ai entendu le fauteuil craquer. Il s’est assis, les coudes sur les genoux et la tête dans les mains. — Tu dors, Tony ? Je n’ai pas répondu. Je l’ai regardé entre mes cils. Il avait gardé son blouson. Sa cravate noire était desserrée. Sa chemise blanche, sortie du pantalon. — Je sais que tu ne dors pas. Il a massé ses joues avec ses paumes. Je n’osais pas bouger. Il a allumé une cigarette. Il a toussé un peu. Chanté trois notes de Piaf. — No, rwien dé rwien … Il m’a demandé quel était son nom, déjà, à cette chanteuse française. Il a écrasé sa cigarette. Il m’a dit qu’il avait un travail de merde, une vie de merde, un père de merde. Il a dit que le cessezle-feu n’avait mené à rien. Il a dit qu’il était toujours aussi pauvre, toujours aussi catholique et toujours aussi seul. Il a dit que sa mère pleurait la nuit, le matin, le soir. Il m’a dit que, pendant trois jours, le laitier avait oublié leur porte. Il m’a dit qu’on le regardait comme on regarde un rat. Il m’a dit que ses seuls amis étaient ceux de la prison. Trois gars qu’il me présenterait un jour. Il m’a dit qu’à sa sortie il n’avait plus reconnu personne. Il m’a dit que les prisonniers avaient été oubliés. Il m’a dit que depuis la paix, le parti républicain évitait les anciens détenus. Il m’a dit que lui et ses camarades de captivité n’étaient pas assez instruits, pas assez bien, trop frustres, trop tatoués, trop barbelés pour le nouveau monde. Il m’a cité des noms que je ne connaissais pas. Des élus Sinn Féin d’Irlande du Nord, du Sud, des gamins sans passé, des gamines sans souffrance, des qui font jolis sur les affiches, des rassurants 42

MY TRAITOR TRANSL. CLARE HEALY Jack came home in the middle of the night, after guarding the door of his pub. He bumped into the end table, cursing. He was drunk. I heard the armchair creak. He sat down, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. “You asleep, Tony?” I didn’t answer. I looked at him through my eyelashes. He had kept his jacket on. His black tie had been loosened. His white shirt, untucked from his trousers. “I know you’re awake.” He rubbed his cheeks with his palms. I didn’t dare move. He lit a cigarette. He coughed a little. Sang three notes of Edith Piaf. “No, ree-an da ree-an …” He asked me what her name was, again, that French singer. He stubbed out his cigarette. He told me that he knew I was listening to him. He threw his head back. He told me that he had a shit job, a shit life, a shit father. He said that the ceasefire had led to nothing. He said that he was still just as poor, still just as Catholic and still just as alone. He said that his mother cried in the night, the morning, the afternoon. He told me that, for three days, the milkman had forgotten their door. He told me that people looked at him like people look at a rat. He told me that his only friends were those he’d made in prison. Three guys that he’d introduce me to someday. He told me that when he got out he no longer recognised anyone. He told me that the prisoners had been forgotten. He told that since peacetime had begun, the republican party had steered clear of the old detainees. He told me that he and his friends from captivity were not educated enough, not good enough, too rough, too tattooed, too jagged for the new world. He listed some names to me that I didn’t recognise. Members of 43

pour tous, des sortis d’on ne sait où, qui savent tenir une conversation, pas un fusil. Il m’a dit qu’il était en colère. Il m’a dit qu’il se sentait trahi. Pas par son père le traître, mais la vie qui va. Il m’a dit que tout allait trop vite. Il m’a dit qu’il n’avait plus de repère. Il m’a dit que la guerre était simple, du noir, du blanc, un ciment de souffrance. Il m’a dit que la paix était trop chère pour les pauvres gens. Il m’a dit que hier il était lieutenant de l’IRA. Il m’a dit qu’aujourd’hui, il était un chômeur de plus. Il m’a dit qu’il n’y avait plus rien de socialiste dans tout cela. Que James Connolly, mon bel homme à col rond, s’était bien fait rouler lui aussi. Il a parlé, parlé, parlé. Il a dit que ce matin, à Ballymena, un écolier catholique qui revenait d’acheter une pizza, avait été lynché à mort et en pleine rue par des gamins protestants de son âge. Il a dit que jamais, jamais, jamais les unionistes et les loyalistes ne voudraient partager le pouvoir avec le catholiques. Il a dit qu’il ne fallait pas confondre la paix et le processus de paix. Il a dit qu’il n’y aurait jamais de paix sans justice. Il a répété ses slogans de murs. Il a chanté trois mots de Piaf. Il a frotté sa barbe de fatigue. Il a dit qu’il ne m’avait rien dit. Il s’est excusé de tout cela. Il a dit qu’il avait confiance quand même. Il m’a demandé de dormir. Il a dit qu’il avait un peu bu. Qu’il était triste. Que c’était l’épuisement, la déception et la colère. Il a dit que je devais voir Tyrone. Qu’il le fallait. Pas pour le croire, mais pour le voir. Il m’a dit qu’il n’avait plus de père non plus. Que lui aussi été tué par les Britanniques. Pas avec une balle, mais avec de l’argent. Il m’a dit qu’il faudrait faire mon deuil de lui. Il a fredonné « No rigrette rwien ». Il s’est levé du fauteuil en soufflant. Il est monté à l’étage, dans sa chambre d’enfant. Dans ma chambre, du temps où il était soldat.

Sinn Féin from the North, the South, young boys without pasts, young girls without hardship, who looked pretty on posters, who were reassuring to everyone, who came from who-knows-where, who could hold a conversation, not a gun. He told me he was angry. He told me he felt betrayed. Not by his treacherous father, but by the life that was passing him by. He told me that everything went too fast. He told me he didn’t have any point of reference. He told me that war was simple, black and white, a bond of suffering. He told me that peace was too costly for poor people. He told me that yesterday he had been a lieutenant in the IRA. He told me that today, he was just another dole-bludger. He told me that there was nothing socialist about that. That James Connolly, my great man with the round collar, had been cheated too. He talked and talked and talked. He said that this morning, in Ballymena, a Catholic schoolboy who had been coming home after buying a pizza had been lynched in the middle of the street by some Protestant kids of the same age. He said that unionists and loyalists would never, never, never want to share the power with the Catholics. He said that the peace process shouldn’t be confused with peace. He said that there would never be peace without justice. He repeated the slogans from the murals. He sang three words of Edith Piaf. He rubbed his beard tiredly. He said that he hadn’t said anything to me. He apologised for all that. He said that he still had faith. He asked me to go to sleep. He said he’d had a little to drink. That he was sad. That it was the exhaustion, the disappointment and the anger. He said that I ought to see Tyrone. That I had to. Not to believe him, but to see him. He told me that he didn’t have a father anymore, either. That he too had been killed by the British. Not with a bullet, but with money. He told me that I should mourn him. He hummed “No regretta ree-an”. He stood up from the armchair, sighing. He went upstairs, into his childhood bedroom. Into what had been my bedroom, back when he’d been a soldier. 45

MANDARIN

宣告

—献给遇罗克北岛也许最后的时刻到了我没有留下遗嘱只留下笔，给我的母亲我并不是英雄在没有英雄的年代里，我只想做一个人。宁静的地平线分开了生者和死者的行列我只能选择天空决不跪在地上以显出刽子手们的高大好阻挡自由的风从星星的弹孔里将流出血红的黎明

MANIFESTO

—DEDICATED TO OUR MARTYR, YU LUOKE TRANSL. SPERANZA ORLANDO Perhaps, the last moment has come I have no will to leave Except my pen, for my mother Not that I am the hero In an era of without heroes I want to be merely mortal The horizon serenely divides Those living and those dead I can only choose heaven I refuse to ever kneel down Already the hangman’s might is shown To hinder the wind of liberty Out of the starry bullet holes Flows the blood red dawn, ichor pure

ALBANIAN

PA HERONJ, PA BUJË NDRIÇIM ADEMAJ Prej asaj dite fillova t’i dëgjoj lajmet rregullisht. Kishte shumë gjëra që nuk i kuptoja. Nuk e di as vetë pse do t’i kuptoja. Në lagje nuk luhej më futboll. Në shkollë nuk na linin më të dilnim në pushin të gjatë. Rrugët po bëheshin çdo ditë e më të shkreta. Nuk shkonim më as te gjyshi. Atëherë lajmet u bënë gjëja e vetme interesante. Mësova se UÇK donte të thoshte Ushtria Çlirimtare e Kosovës. Nuk ishte hiç e thjeshtë. Kjo ndodhi ditën e parë, kur në televizor ishte një flamur ne këtë gjë të shkruar sipër. Të nesërmen mora vesh se kështu quheshin shqiptarët që kishin armë. Këta luftonin kundër milicëve më duket. Ose diçka e tillë. Kjo ushtri ishte diku ku nuk e dinte asnjeri. Askush nuk duhej të fliste për ta. Kështu thotë nëna. Një gjë ishte e sigurt; me luftën nuk bëhej shaka. Njerëzit vdisnin përnjëmend. Nuk ishte si në filmat me kauboj. Nuk ishte as si Lucky Luke. Atë nuk vriste asgjë. Ndoshta sepse të nesërmen duhej të dilte prapë në televizor. Një ditë isha kthyer më herët nga shkolla. Nëna dhe babai po rrinin në ballkon, por nuk më panë kur u futa brenda. U afrova ngadalë në ballkonin e kuzhinës. Ata po flisnin me zë të ulët. U afrova edhe më. Ngjita veshin pas xhamit. -Bile mos fol keq për ta...- i thoshta nëna babait. -S’kam çka me folë, kjo punë po shihet. Na morën n’qafë. -Po dikush duhet me luftue, o burrë. -Me luftue!...A luftohet me shtet? Nuk luftohet. Kta po i qesin nja tri-katër pushkë e po ikin n’mal. Mandej shkijet po i turren popullit. A luftë po m’i thu k’saj a? 48

NO HEROES, NO TENDERNESS TRANSL. CHLOE FAGAN From that day I started to listen to the news regularly. There was a lot of stuff I didn’t understand. I didn’t even know myself why I wanted to understand it all. I didn’t play football out in the neighbourhood anymore. In school they didn’t let us go out for big break anymore. Each day the streets were becoming more and more deserted. We didn’t even go to visit grandad anymore. Now the news became the only thing of interest. I learned that KLA stood for the Kosovo Liberation Army. It wasn’t that simple. On the first day, it happened that there was a flag on TV, with this stuff written on it. The next day I learned that they were called the Albanians with weapons. They fought against the militia, so it seemed to me. Or something else. This army were somewhere, somewhere noone knew. No-one was allowed to talk about it. That’s what mum said. One thing was certain, war was no joke. People died forever. Not like in the cowboy films. Not like Lucky Luke. Nothing killed him. Maybe because he had to go out on television again the next day. One day I came home early from school. Mum and dad were on the balcony, but they didn’t see me when I came in. I slowly approached the kitchen balcony. They were talking in low voices. I got even closer. I stuck my ear to the glass. -Don’t even talk about it...- Mum said to dad. 49

Nëna nuk foli. Megjithëse kisha mësuar shumë fjalë të reja këto kohë, zor se po kuptoja se për çka po flitej tamam. -Po bre burrë, po nuk asht kollaj me dalë n’mal. Besa nuk asht kollaj as me i dalë plumit para.Pak burra a bajnë kta. Aty babait i ndërroi fytyra. U bë i vrazhdë. Sikur dont të rrihte dikë. Po prapë fliste me zë të ulët. -Çka po don me thanë ti? A unë s’jam burrë simbas teje a? -Qysh po t’i nxen goja k’to fjalë. Ti e din që n’sytë e mi burrç veç teje s’ka. -A po don me thanë se v’llai jot qenka ma burrë se unë a? Po ai rrugaç tanë jetën e vet u kanë. Me dije se n’luftë ka me shku. A mos ka pasë me u ba msus a? Nëna nuk foli më. Fshiu lotët dhe u ngrit të futej brenda. Ika shpejt. U fute në banjë. Tani po e marr vesh pse nënës i rrodhën lotët kur daja erdhi tek ne në mes të natës. Ai nuk ndënji shumë. Babait as nuk i foli. Më puthi mua dhe motrën, përqafoi nënën dhe shkoi. Prej asaj kohe nuk e kisha parë më. nuk vriste asgjë. Ndoshta sepse të nesërmen duhej të dilte prapë në televizor. Një ditë isha kthyer më herët nga shkolla. Nëna dhe babai po rrinin në ballkon, por nuk më panë kur u futa brenda. U afrova ngadalë në ballkonin e kuzhinës. Ata po flisnin me zë të ulët. U afrova edhe më. Ngjita veshin pas xhamit. -Bile mos fol keq për ta...- i thoshta nëna babait. -S’kam çka me folë, kjo punë po shihet. Na morën n’qafë. -Po dikush duhet me luftue, o burrë. -Me luftue!...A luftohet me shtet? Nuk luftohet. Kta po i qesin

-I have nothing to say, the matter is becoming very clear. They’re ruining us. -But someone has to fight, my dear.-Fight!..Is it the state that’s fighting? It’s not. This is getting around three-four rifles and going into the mountains. Then they scream and roar at people. Are you telling me that that’s war? Mum said nothing. Even though I had learned a lot of new words in this time it wasn’t easy to understand exactly what was being discussed. -But dear, it isn’t easy to go into the mountains. Really, it is even less easy to fire the first bullets. A few men are doing that.Dad’s face changed then. It became brutal. Like he wanted to thrash someone. But he still spoke in a low voice. -What do you want me to say? That I’m not a man, according to you?-How can you let those words leave your mouth? You know that in my eyes there’s no other man except except you.-

nja tri-katër pushkë e po ikin n’mal. Mandej shkijet po i turren popullit. A luftë po m’i thu k’saj a? Nëna nuk foli. Megjithëse kisha mësuar shumë fjalë të reja këto kohë, zor se po kuptoja se për çka po flitej tamam. -Po bre burrë, po nuk asht kollaj me dalë n’mal. Besa nuk asht kollaj as me i dalë plumit para.Pak burra a bajnë kta. Aty babait i ndërroi fytyra. U bë i vrazhdë. Sikur dont të rrihte dikë. Po prapë fliste me zë të ulët. -Çka po don me thanë ti? A unë s’jam burrë simbas teje a? -Qysh po t’i nxen goja k’to fjalë. Ti e din që n’sytë e mi burrç veç teje s’ka. -A po don me thanë se v’llai jot qenka ma burrë se unë a? Po ai rrugaç tanë jetën e vet u kanë. Me dije se n’luftë ka me shku. A mos ka pasë me u ba msus a? Nëna nuk foli më. Fshiu lotët dhe u ngrit të futej brenda. Ika shpejt. U fute në banjë. Tani po e marr vesh pse nënës i rrodhën lotët kur daja erdhi tek ne në mes të natës. Ai nuk ndënji shumë. Babait as nuk i foli. Më puthi mua dhe motrën, përqafoi nënën dhe shkoi. Prej asaj kohe nuk e kisha parë më.

-Do you want me to say that your brother is more of a man than I am? That hooligan; our lives are all there is. Going off to war, fully aware. Did he have to do it?Mum didn’t speak anymore. She wiped her tears and rose to go inside. I left quickly. I went into the bathroom. Now I understood why mum’s tears fell when my uncle came to us in the middle of the night. He didn’t stay long. Dad didn’t even speak to him. He kissed me and my sister, embraced mum and left. Since that moment I hadn’t seen him again.

GERMAN

FERDINANDS KRIEG DR. PETER ARNDS Opa Ferdinand sprach immer nur von den Franzmännern, niemals von Franzosen. Den Franzmännern hatte er es nämlich zu verdanken, dass er seit seinem achzehnten Lebensjahr nicht mehr richtig gehen konnte. Sein Leben lang musste er humpeln, weil die Franzmänner ihm seine Beine im ersten Weltkrieg zerfetzt hatten. Als wir noch Kinder waren, wollte ich immer wieder die Geschichte von ihm hören, wie er und seine Kumpanen im Kreis standen, als eine Handgranate in ihrer Mitte einschlug. Außer Opa Ferdinand überlebte niemand und er landete mit von Schrappnellsplittern zerrissenen Beinen im Krankenhaus, wo er sich in seine Krankenschwester verliebte. Doch davon wollen wir nicht sprechen, sagte er wenn er an diesem Punkt der Geschichte angekommen war. Die Ilse will davon nichts hören. Ich sehe ihn stets vor mir, wenn ich Oma Ilses Wohnung besuche. Er saß zumeist den ganzen Tag auf der grünen Holztruhe in der Küche, rauchte Zigarre und las dabei die Hannoversche Allgemeine. Er war sehr schweigsam, nur wenn wir Kinder zu laut wurden, knurrte er manchmal: Jetzt aber ruhig. Wenn es ihm zu viel wurde, stand er auf und stieß mit dem Kopf fast an die Decke, denn er gehörte zu den Riesen. Er griff nach dem Bambusstock auf dem Küchenschrank und wurden wir immer noch nicht still, dann schlug er damit kurz aber heftig und dabei die Luft scharf durchschneidend auf den Küchentisch, an dem wir saßen, worauf wir vorübergehend 54

FERDINAND’S WAR DR. PETER ARNDS Grandpa Ferdinand was a man of few words. Asked about his limp he’d say: “Shrapnel wound. First World War.” The little he did say was usually about the French, whom he insisted on calling Franzmänner, Frenchies. “Tell me that story again,” I’d say, “of how the Frenchies almost got you.” It happened when he and his buddies were standing in a circle, relaxing, laughing, and having a smoke. The grenade landed in the middle of them. Out of the four men only Grandpa Ferdinand survived, but the shrapnel tore apart his legs so much that he did not have to return to the front. Instead, he fell in love with his nurse. Grandma Ilse was a notoriously parsimonious woman. Every day of the week she would take a brisk stroll over to the bank to check on the health of her money. She counted the pennies steadily accruing on her savings with such keen interest that the bank clerks gave her the nickname Interest Ilse. Even as she watched her worth grow she couldn’t see the value in spending any of it. She never owned a dishwasher, but then she didn’t really need one. Grandpa Ferdinand always ate every last morsel of food. He would hold the heavy plate close to his face and lick criss and cross, up and down, back and forth until it looked brand new. Ilse then wiped it with her kitchen towel, just once or twice, before placing it neatly back in the cupboard. Ferdinand would withdraw to his favorite place, a massive wooden chest by the kitchen door, where he spent almost all his time reading and smoking cigars, sitting 55

verstummten. Er ging nur selten aus dem Haus, höchstens einmal in den Garten hinunter, um sich an seinen Lieblingsplatz zu setzen, zwischen der Laube, in der es immer nach feuchter Erde roch, und dem Kirschbaum, der später abgesägt wurde, weil seine Äste so lang wurden, dass sie zum Nachbarn über den Zaun ragten. Kurz nach dem Krieg gab es hier neben dem Kirschbaum einen tiefen Bombentrichter, in dem unsere Mutter als Kind gerne spielte. Davon zeugt noch ein Photo. Einmal fand ich sein Kriegstagebuch. Es lag versteckt im Bücherschrank zwischen der Pappschachtel mit den Hakenkreuzorden und Hitlers Bestseller, den Opa Ferdinand am Ende des zweiten Weltkriegs im Bombentrichter unter dem Kirschbaum versteckt halten musste und erst in den fünfziger Jahren wieder auszubuddeln wagte. Opa Ferdinands Schrift war kaum zu entziffern, doch eine Eintragung ist mir lebhaft in Erinnerung geblieben. Es ist nur eine Zeile, doch sie drückt die Mentalität eines Soldaten aus, der sein Wirken an der Front als Beruf versteht. Da stand: Heute war ein guter Tag -- eine Flasche Rotwein getrunken und zwei Franzmänner um die Ecke gebracht.. Lange habe ich mich nach der Lektüre dieser Zeile mit der Frage beschäftigt, in welcher Reihenfolge dies geschehen ist. Hat Opa Ferdinand zuerst die Flasche Rotwein getrunken und dann die Franzmänner erledigt oder umgekehrt, ein Unterschied, der verschiedene Motivationen verrät. Hat er den Rotwein etwa benutzt, um sich vor dem Töten Mut anzutrinken, um danach zu feiern oder um das Töten zu vergessen. Ich habe ihn damals, als er noch lebte, nie nach

on his box and guarding it like a treasure. In his final months Grandpa Ferdinand had to give up the box for the bed. He could no longer read his papers due to a cyst which had grown nearly to the size of a ping pong ball, covering his right eye almost entirely. Grandma Ilse called it a Grützbeutel, a grit bag, and her interest in it was obsessive. Like some ogress she kept walking around the apartment with the sharpest kitchen knife she could find, dead set on cutting it open so that the gunk would ooze out. I was alone in the kitchen one day when I realized that Grandpa’s box now stood unguarded. I found myself kneeling in front of it suddenly, lifting up its heavy green lid. Inside there were stacks of old newspapers and, next to a copy of Mein Kampf, a cigar box, in which I discovered a small leather-bound journal. Each page was marked with a date from 1916. The handwriting was almost indecipherable, the letters excessively slanted, interlocked and jagged. However, one entry immediately stood out. A single short line underneath the date 12th of October 1916: Heute war ein guter Tag – Flasche Rotwein getrunken und drei Franzmänner um die Ecke gebracht. Today was a good day – drank a bottle of red wine and finished off three Frenchies. (literally: brought them round the corner) Watching my bedridden Grandpa stare at the ceiling I tried

seinem Tagebuch gefragt. Auch nach den Nazis brauchte ich ihn nicht zu fragen, denn von denen sprach er niemals. Nach dem zweiten Weltkrieg schloss er sich der freiwilligen Feuerwehr an, von der er eine Uniform und im Laufe der Zeit einige Orden und zur Freude von uns Kindern Miniaturnachbildungen von Feuerwehrautos bekam, mit denen wir auf dem Küchentisch spielten. Die Jahre bevor Opa Ferdinand starb, lag er die meiste Zeit im Bett und döste. Die Augen waren zu schwach geworden, um die Hannoversche Allgemeine zu lesen, außerdem war sein Grützbeutel jetzt so groß, dass er das rechte Auge fast ganz abdeckte, und die Füße taten ihm selbst beim Sitzen auf der Küchentruhe weh. Oma Ilse, vor der er sich in acht nehmen musste, dass sie ihm den Grützbeutel nicht aufschnitt, sorgte sich wegen seiner nachlassenden Sehkraft und hegte außerdem den Verdacht, dass er sich wegen zunehmender Senilität an niemanden mehr erinnern konnte. Nicht einmal an die nächsten Verwandten. So stellte sie ihn immer wieder auf die Probe. Ferdinand, hör zu. Wer ist das? fragte sie einmal, als mein Vater zur Tür reinkam. Opa Ferdinand öffnete seine müden Augen und blickte seinen Schwiegersohn verloren an. Adolf, sagte er nur kurz, um die Augen dann wieder zu schließen. Oma Ilse lief verzweifelt aus dem Schlafzimmer und rief: Um Gottes Willen. Jetzt wird er den Arsch bald zukneifen. Als sie verschwunden war, zwinkerte Opa Ferdinand unserem Vater zu und sagte: Die spinnt doch. Ich weiß doch, dass du es bist, Ulli.

to imagine how this had happened. Did he drink the bottle of red wine before killing the French soldiers, or did he kill them first and then drink the wine? Did he use the wine to muster up courage for the killing, to celebrate it, or to try and forget it? Should I ask him about it now, or leave him in peace? Grandma’s voice interrupted my musings. “Ferdinand,” she said anxiously, “who is this?” Worried about his diminishing eyesight and haunted by the suspicion that he had become so senile that he might not remember even the people closest to him, Ilse wanted to put Ferdinand to the test. He opened his tired eyes and gave me a long and forlorn stare. “Kaiser Wilhelm,” he said, and closed his lids again. Grandma ran out of the bedroom screaming “For heaven’s sake. His arse will snap shut any day now.” This was her favorite saying, a way of exclaiming that death was coming soon. But as soon as she was out the door, Ferdinand winked at me with his healthy eye: “She’s a little nuts, you know. Of course, I know it’s you.” A few days later he closed his eyes for good. At heart, I’ve always thought of Grandpa Ferdinand as a good guy, and I told myself for a long time that if he hadn’t killed those three French men they would have done the same to him.