Mother to son: Should I kill myself?
Her son says: Of course not, Mother.
He says: Oh, Mother.
He says: How can you ask such a thing?
The son visits his mother on Sunday at four, his mother has a forearm that is completely black and blue. He asks: Did you fall?
No, his mother says. She says that her skin just turns black and blue like that in certain spots all by itself.
In the kitchen, the housekeeper tells the son that she doesn’t think that’s true, but his mother never tells her anything.
The son comes to visit his mother on Sunday at four. As the housekeeper is taking his coat, she says that his mother has only been awake for half an hour since when she arrived in the morning to start work, she’d found his mother sitting fully dressed on the edge of the bed, where she’d apparently been since the evening before. So she put her to bed for the day.
Thank you, the son says. Thank you so much for all your trouble.
Then the housekeeper calls the son at 7:30 in the morning, saying his mother is not at home. Is she with him? The son says: No. He says: I’ll be right over.
The son cancels a meeting, tells his older child that he’ll have to take the bus to school and that he should get a move on since it is already late, asks his wife to take their younger child to school, and his wife says: Are you out of your mind? I’ve got make-up at 8:30, oh right, the father says, and calls his daughter’s school to say she’s ill, when he hangs up, his daughter says: It’s bad to tell lies, and her father says: Get a book, read, and wait until I get home.
Then the son drives to his mother’s house.
The housekeeper says: What am I supposed to do?
The son: It’s not your fault.
The son goes searching for his mother in all the surrounding streets. Somewhere or other, she is sitting on the curb in her nightshirt, crying.
That night, when the children are in bed, the son says to his wife:
Things can’t go on like this with my mother.
His wife says: I don’t know what you mean.
My mother owns a large house.
His wife says: Forget it.
The man says: I know it wouldn’t be easy for you.
The woman: She kept trying to turn the children against me. If you’re in the mood for a war, sure, let’s go move in with her.
The man: But she can’t look after herself anymore.
She didn’t help me with the children even once that entire year you were in Leningrad.
It’s just that she can’t take it when the boy plays his music so loud.
And the girl?
It was just too much responsibility for her.
You see, now I’m the one who can’t take it, and it’s just too much responsibility for me.
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.
BOOK V
1
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.