My childhood memories have almost all gone. But there are still a few memories of the memories. And they’re nice. Or at least they don’t provoke any bad feelings.

My mother, where have you driven me?

My father, where are you taking me?

Is that a song?

Of course I would have liked to earn my own money. Instead, I was a lady. And this is not something that’s actually desirable. When you’re a lady, you’re required to wear a permanent mask of make-­up and pride that’s so heavy it forces you into submission. The make-­up and the pride pressed down on my shoulder blades and pushed them out of my back until they stuck out like clipped wings.

I would have liked to have streaked across the fields like the swallows. Or at least spun like the butterflies. They’re all quite mad in spring. It’s so beautiful you could almost believe in God. But that doesn’t get you anywhere. The beauty of the butterflies needs no god. It actually exists.

I wasn’t naturally elegant. As a girl, I would put on my mother’s dancing shoes and walk up and down in front of the mirror. I was the tall, chubby type, a lump, really, and the shoes were two sizes too small. Up and down, up and down. There was nothing innate about it, like with Greta Garbo or Thea Bobrikova. My elegance was hard-­won, but it sufficed for Paulstadt.

There were times when I would have liked to have prayed. Be with me, O God, or something along those lines. But I always stopped myself. I never talked to him, not even when I was in direst need. I didn’t expect much of him.

As a girl you were practically dragged to church, unquestioning, uncomprehending. It was dreadful. I was affronted that I had to kneel. Mainly because it was humiliating, but also because of the marks it left on my tights. I used to make up stories in confession. They were so good and so depraved that I should have written them down and sold them instead of whispering them into the priest’s cold ear. I wasn’t a true sinner, of course. My sins were really pleasures. And God didn’t care, anyway, because he doesn’t exist. If he existed, he wouldn’t need representatives on Earth. All that exists is human. God is not human, so he doesn’t exist. Ever since persuading myself of that, I’ve made my peace with him. Throughout my life, I never feared God. My fears were of a different nature.

It’s strange: I outlived everyone I knew. Those I didn’t outlive, I didn’t know. Now I can’t even tell any more whether that’s sad. I think I’ve lost my sense of humour.

Things disappear over time. It’s called forgetting. I’ve forgotten a lot in a hundred and five years. But I know now that nothing is really lost. It’s like with old pictures. Some you just put in a corner, some you cover up, some are painted over. I’ve painted over innumerable horrors. The fire and the attacks. The mockery and the loneliness. The tear-­soaked pillows. The many, many contorted faces. Lastly, the slow, progressive transformation of my own face for the worse. I painted over all of them, but it didn’t help.