“They disappeared when the wall fell”: German writer Jenny Erpenbeck talks about things that have a vast history | imaginary

Drip catcher
Carpet hangers disappeared from backyards when wall-to-wall carpeting and vacuum cleaners were introduced—when Persian carpets were bombed, when there was no money to buy new carpets, when the men who used to carry folded carpets down stairs to clean them were killed in the war.

The shop where I used to take my tights to be repaired when they were torn, when I was a little girl – a shop called Run Express – disappeared when the wall came down and the West could sell its cheap tights in the East.

The drip catchers that once adorned the spouts of the large coffee pots that were placed on the table at every German family reunion—these catchers disappeared when children born during the final days of the war finally rebelled against their parents and stopped planning family reunions, preferring instead to travel to Italy and bring back espresso makers from there.

Things disappear when they are deprived of the means of their existence, as if they also had a hunger to be satisfied. And even if the reason for its disappearance is very far from the things themselves – like the crimes of the German Wehrmacht, it is very far from the German coffee, which is always very weak, and which is served in those pear-shaped pots, which always tried to drip down to be checked by the drip catcher, which is a little roll of foam rubber on a rubber band decorated with a butterfly, or a doll, or a floating pearl Over coffee. The pot lid, that little thing that protected Germany’s white tablecloths from coffee stains until the mid-1970s – and even then, no matter how far removed the thing itself may be from the habit, invention, or revolution that led to its disappearance, that disappearance creates a bond that could not be tighter. For example, the Berlin painter Heinrich Zell once said that you can kill someone with an apartment just as easily as you can kill someone with an axe.

So the little roll of foam rubber and its elastic harness end up in the trash, which means Germans are now rich enough to afford to vacation in Italy again and bring espresso makers in their luggage when they return. Just as everything, however simple, contains within itself all the knowledge of its time, just as everything you cannot touch is contained in a spool of darn thread, for example: in the same way, whenever a thing disappears from everyday life, much more of the thing itself disappears – the way of thinking that goes with it, the way of feeling, the sense of what is appropriate and what is inappropriate, what you can tolerate and what is beyond your means, disappears. We don’t have darning thread anymore! Really, why? People shouldn’t wear out their tights, they should buy new ones!

Things
Every time I take a long trip, I lose at least one scarf or hat, and sometimes even a pair of sunglasses or a watch. I also lost a number of things when changing houses: a piece of molding from an old country wardrobe, some curtains, and once even the typewriter I used to write my first works. Although the hotel rooms she left were small, and the apartments she left were clearly empty, things were still missing later; Somehow, somewhere, they had disappeared into the no man’s land between departure and arrival, it happened with such regularity that I began to expect it when I packed my bags or boxes, as if it were a sacrifice, a price I had to pay for the change in my circumstances, and in that respect, for all the randomness, it was still appropriate. However, during my daily life, the number of things around me never decreased, but rather increased, the piles increased, the folders became thicker, I would imagine that a fire would break out and I would put my diaries, letters and photo albums under my arms and leave the house, but fortunately no fire broke out.

Recently, a Russian woman came to visit me. I moved to Germany a year ago with four children. Piano, how beautiful! She says as she enters my apartment. Books, how beautiful they are! After a few steps, she pointed to some of my son’s drawings on the wall and said: Beautiful! She adds: It’s nice to have something like this. At first I didn’t understand what you meant; After all, she has four children. Well, she says and smiles, you can’t take it all with you. Sure, sure, I say. So, she says, still smiling, we made a big fire, and we all sat around it, and then we took page by page in our hands, and looked at it all again and remembered who had drawn this or that, and how old he was at the time, and enjoyed it together one last time, and then burned it all. It was a beautiful fire, and we were singing. I don’t say anything now. You can’t take all this with you, she repeats, smiling: We left with four children and two large bags. That was it.

A better world
“How often in the gray hours, O glorious art, / When life has caught me in its wild circle, / You have kindled love in my heart / And snatched me away to a better world!” These are the words of one of Schubert’s songs. But I have to: call the insurance company, go to the doctor, the car has a red emissions sticker, do you want a digital cable? Signing a form for the child, booking a flight to X, any hotel, have you ever played the lottery? Photos of my passport, please provide direct debit authorization in writing by mail or fax, buy plants for the balcony, take out the trash, do the laundry, load the dishwasher, and pack my suitcase.

WWhat hat are you working on at the moment? This is the phone company, Mr. Mueller speaking. Pick up a book at the bookstore, buy stamps, buy hay for the animals, someone will pick up the key, sign the kid up for a swim meet, take out the trash, do the laundry, load the dishwasher, and pack my bag. Buy water. Where is my car? Where is the apartment key? Why won’t the cassette player eject the cassette? Get a hepatitis A booster shot, make an appointment with your eye doctor, make an appointment with your gynecologist, make an appointment with your pediatrician. You must be writing something new now, right? Pack my bag. Which hotel? Where are my sunglasses? The bread is moldy. My car has a red emissions sticker. Take out the trash, do the laundry, load the dishwasher, and pack my bag. Purchase soil for planting. Plant flowers. It’s his birthday, it’s her birthday, please pay the bill within 7 days, the parking ticket, you can contest it, where is the school trip going, pick up a book, take pictures, buy water. You’ll have something new to read soon, right? Trash, laundry, dishes. Who will water the flowers? Take the summer clothes out of the cellar, leave the key, and pack the bag. Which city? I forgot my mobile phone charger. Do you know what the title of your next book will be? Why does the camcorder no longer show the image when recording? Good evening, Mayer speaking, we are conducting a survey. Fuel the car, Pack yours, Call the bank, Book a babysitter for Friday, Pay the bill, Change the light bulb, Hang up the wet towels, Book the trip, Sign here, Please fill out the application manually, Why is my bike shaking, Buy stamps, Buy hay for the animals. When will you publish your new novel?

My new novel, I would say, okay, right, I’m in the middle of it right now, in the new novel, Upside Down, working, working on the new novel, I mean. Because what could it mean when the wild circle of life circles around me with its crazy circular needles, when it has been circling me for some time now, when the wild circle of life surrounds me almost completely, what could it mean but that the moment of ecstasy had actually arrived long ago, and that ecstasy had long been as deep within me as possible.