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.
At 3 p.m. there’s coffee along with a little bowl of ice cream. Frau Buschwitz had someone wheel her out of the room, but Frau Hoffmann stays where she is, drinking the coffee and stirring the ice cream around until it melts, then she slurps it up spoonful by spoonful. There’s a knock at the door. It’s Herr Zabel from Residential Area III, who sometimes stops by for a visit when he can’t find his wife, she died twelve years ago.
Frau Hoffmann, do you happen to know where my wife is?
What does she look like?
She has curly brown hair down to her shoulders and likes to laugh.
No, she hasn’t been here, but if she shows up, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.
That’s very kind of you, Frau Hoffmann.
Herr Zabel has forgotten many times now that his wife is dead, and so again and again the horrific news of her death comes crashing down on him with all its weight whenever someone who hasn’t been paying attention replies:
Your wife? But she’s been dead for years!
He’s had to mourn his wife’s loss all over again many times now, but Frau Hoffmann — and for this she has his eternal gratitude — always promises to let him know if his wife passes by. Herr Zabel also enjoys sitting down to chat with Frau Hoffmann for a little while. She is courteous, and he can speak with her about anything that troubles him. He might say, for example:
I am slowly but sickly beginning to be an animal.
And Frau Hoffmann says:
I’m afraid of gradually becoming transparent in both directions.
And Herr Zabel says:
The sick are beginning to abandon their honor.
And Frau Hoffmann says:
It is so difficult to bear all of this.
And Herr Zabeclass="underline"
Why don’t we try biting open our illnesses?
This reminds Frau Hoffmann of a verse from her childhood:
God our Father whom we love, you gave us teeth, now give us food.
And Herr Zabel adds:
God our Father whom we love, if we’re all one, make us all good.
Strange, isn’t it, Frau Hoffmann says, the way one word can find its way through the thicket of all the words.
Yes, it certainly is strange, Herr Zabel says, and he remains silent for a while.
At some point he gets up, makes a little bow in Frau Hoffmann’s direction and goes back to his room in Residential Area III; after all, his wife might be on her way there herself by now.
At 5:30, all those who are able to walk or can be pushed in wheelchairs are summoned to the dining room. At six, dinner is served. Frau Hoffmann still uses the Viennese word Nachtmahl or “night meal,” even though it’s been a lifetime since she lived there. The space for her wheelchair is between Frau Schröder and Frau Millner.
What a fuss people make about eating, Frau Hoffmann says to Sister Katrin, who is cutting an open-face sandwich into little squares for her.
People go out for fine dining, she says with a little bleat of laughter.
It’s nice to go out, Sister Katrin says, candlelight dinners, don’t you agree, Frau Hoffmann?
And really you’re only eating so you won’t die.
Goodness, Frau Hoffmann. Bon appétit!
Without eating, you die, that’s all there is to it, Frau Hoffmann says.
But Sister Katrin isn’t listening any longer, she’s moved on to one of the other tables, where she’s busy tying a bib around a woman’s neck.
It’s just because you have to eat that people make such a fuss about it, Frau Hoffmann says.
But neither Frau Schröder nor Frau Millner can hear what her neighbor is saying.
It’s just to keep people from getting bored, she says.
*
Then the evening comes.
Frau Buschwitz has put on her headphones and begun to listen to the radio. Sister Katrin helped Frau Hoffmann change into her nightgown and held the drinking glass for her while she sat on the edge of her bed and swallowed her pills. Then Sister Katrin left.
Frau Hoffman can see quite clearly that someone has meanwhile taken a seat in her armchair next to the window. And although it’s been a long time since she last saw her, she recognizes this visitor at once. Against the yellow evening sky she looks like a silhouette.