The End of Days (22 page)

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.

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 Zabel:

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.

I find myself in a transitional stage, Frau Hoffmann says.

Her mother is silent.

And I don’t know what to do, Frau Hoffmann says.

Her mother is silent.

The question is whether I’ll be able to hold out against him. He’s very
powerful, and he’s very cruel to me. I’d have asked for a bit more kindness. But he
doesn’t know anything about kindness. He’s rough with me, and cruel.

Her mother is silent.

It’s going to be a goddamn fight. I’m not the one attacking. It’s him
attacking me — him or her. He or she is attacking me, from all sides. But I
don’t want — I still have so many, so many possibilities. There are many
things I don’t remember, but still something . . .

Oh,
meydele
, her mother says all at once, and her voice doesn’t
really sound old.

I would like to take steps against this gentleman, or this lady, don’t
you know, Frau Hoffmann says. Before now, there was no one — no one! —
who would have dared to fight me.

Not even me, her mother says and smiles.

Not even you, Frau Hoffmann says.

At the beginning of the week when she is going to die, the day after her
ninetieth birthday, Frau Hoffman smiles together with her mother for the first time
in her life.

There’s one thing you should know, child, her mother says. You can
actually put a scare into him with a handful of snow.

Really? Frau Hoffmann says, relieved.

Then she remembers it’s May.

2

Oh come, dear May, and let

The trees all bud again.

And let us to the brook

To see violets blow again.

How dearly I am longing