NINE
Let us treat small figures as something big. We become uneasy, because we ourselves could be among them, without having grown big. Likewise. To have remained forever small, despite everything: the judgment. Whatever we produce, it finds no takers, no one takes it. No buyer. We protest many things, we didn't mean it like that, but the EU tugs at us with its maternal hands, we can't even blow our noses anymore without being sternly watched by it. What have we got up to this time? A tasty dessert pancake. Mr. Fuchs with his arm stumps which went down a bomb wouldn't have managed that, he's not allowed to belong to us, although all his work was on our behalf. Now he's hanged himself on a hook in the wall. He peeled off the cable covering of his electric razor with his teeth, unpicked all the plastic with calm patience. At the end death was thirsting day and night for the sight of him. His chin he had described as Germanic, the nose does not express anything, Germans of the North, of the East, non-Germans and the remaining Slavs have one exactly the same. The battle is already over. Mr. Fuchs from Gralla says he doesn't need weeping and wailing, nothing comes of it. The battle is already over, he certainly thinks that he fought and risked a great deal. That too is over. The tourist trade is over a bit too now, because we're being boycotted in Europe. But that something, too, will pass, Europe will get used to us, it will also get used to people wandering around hanging their heads because they don't have a job. If you please, we'll give them one. Without money there is no customer whom we could get back to.