It had been raining since early morning, a cold, drizzly November rain; the foggy grey of approaching dusk had descended on the town, and the lights of the streetlamps and neon signs were trembling in the puddles. I was on my way home from the office, hurrying along Marktstrasse, where autumn leaves were drifting as if on a dark river, when I saw them. They were standing under the awning above the door of Sophie Breyer’s tobacconist’s. He was holding her with both arms; her head was resting on his chest. She had closed her eyes; he had raised his head slightly and was looking out at the rain. I hadn’t seen him since school; he’d gone grey at the temples, but his face with its close-­set eyes hardly seemed to have aged. His hand slid slowly down her back. A movement passed through his body, like a shiver. Then he turned his face in my direction, and I saw his nostrils flare.

That was all a long time ago. In my memory it never stopped raining; the world drowned. Now I lie here, between my parents. My path was not a long one. But it’s peaceful here, and sometimes at night I hear a distant howling. Very soft at first, a high, even note, like a child crying; then it quickly swells, grows louder and more urgent, until it seems to fill the night. I lie still, listening to the howling of the wolves, until all of a sudden it breaks off. Then I know: it’s just the wind blowing through the hole in the cemetery wall. Through the head-­sized hole old Schwitters’ degenerate son kicked in the wall, when he was wasted on beer.

Sonja Mayers

I used to visit my grandfather after school on Saturdays. We would sit at his table and play chess. Occasionally he would forget my name, or what the piece in his hand was called. Sometimes he would ask when his wife was coming home. Granny had been dead for twenty years, but I couldn’t tell him that. I’d say: she’ll be back late today. That would calm him, and we could play on. Her photo stood on the chest of drawers. A young woman, not especially pretty, nothing remarkable about her face. She was wearing a pale blouse and a necklace. Her smile was thin and gave nothing away, but Grandpa believed she was poking fun at him. Once I took the photo out of the frame to look at it more closely. There was something written in pencil on the back.

21/3/III.

I became ill

and died

the heroine

of my tragedy

entitled:

ALL IN VAIN

Grandpa didn’t know what to make of it, either. I stuck the photo back in the frame and we went on playing. He thought for a long time, then said: I’m moving my soldier to C7.

Father Hoberg

I was three years old when the war ended, and five on the November day when Father came home.