sundry and, worse still, to the children themselves. I couldn't undertake any such exposure without rendering myself guilty of distorting their childish voices into the constrained mode of speech that would inevitably result, because the five of them would find their own voices just as alien as I myself did at their age.
*
Hedda has already fallen asleep beside me, and the others have also settled down for the night. A shame, because I'm not the least bit tired. I'd have liked to talk to them about Herr Karnau — about little Heide, too. I can't sleep, I'm too thirsty. I'll go to the kitchen and get myself something to drink. Very quietly, so as not to wake the others. I won't put the light on, I'll tiptoe out in my bare feet. Not a sound.
Somebody's talking in Herr Karnau's room, I can hear voices through the closed door. But Herr Karnau's all by himself, surely. Or did he have a visitor and we never noticed? Perhaps he's just listening to the radio. That's not German, though, I can't understand a word. Is he listening to an enemy broadcast? No, it doesn't sound like that, not loud and clear like a news-reader. News-readers don't break off in the middle and leave long gaps — they don't keep sighing in between. It's weird. The kitchen's all dark, I'm afraid to go in there now.
The sounds are getting louder and louder. Herr Karnau must have someone in his room, he simply must — someone in pain. Now the man is screaming. Why is he making those awful noises? I want to go straight back to bed, but I can't move, I can't stop listening. No, those aren't words, it's someone being hurt. Maybe it isn't a person at all, maybe it's an animal I can hear, howling like that. My heart is really thumping. Is Herr Karnau torturing his dog? No, that's not Coco, it must be a human being. Now he's making choking noises, gasping for air, whimpering horribly. Why doesn't Herr Karnau do something, why doesn't he help the poor man?
*
It's sometimes far easier to detect the characteristic features of a voice from its most extreme utterances — shouts, hoarse cries, whimpers — than from the spoken word, even though those sounds leave exceptionally deep scars on the vocal cords. Even though, or for that very reason? That is when the voice attains a singular clarity unsuspected by speaker and listener alike: when the organ is coping with rough treatment or contending with difficulties and striving with all its might to overcome them, for instance during a fit of coughing that threatens to stifle it and extinguish every sound. Those are the times when a person's vocal image manifests itself with unbridled freedom.
Recordings of such vocalisations get to the very heart of the sound source in question. They penetrate far deeper than monitored and recorded heartbeats, which, although they vary in rhythm from person to person, do nothing more, in the last analysis, than confirm that the engine is ticking over steadily. The heartbeat is simply evidence of life, a vegetative function common to many living creatures. But the voice, being partly subject to the will, generates sounds that all reveal the special characteristics of its resonator: the human being.
*
The door suddenly opens, and Herr Karnau stands there looking down at me as if nothing had happened. His room is silent now. 'Can't you sleep, Helga?' he says. 'You haven't been crying, have you?'
I'm frightened. Herr Karnau takes my hand and leads me into his room. It's dark in there except for the light on his desk. Can I see something moving over there in the shadows, a visitor clutching his stomach and writhing in agony? No, it's only Coco. He comes trotting over. Herr Karnau sits me on his bed and wraps me in a blanket. Then he sits down at his desk beside the gramophone. Coco jumps up on the bed, snuffling. He wants to get under the nice warm blanket with me. Is there really nobody here but us?
*
Little Helga looked absolutely distraught when I found her standing
*
Hedda has already fallen asleep beside me, and the others have also settled down for the night. A shame, because I'm not the least bit tired. I'd have liked to talk to them about Herr Karnau — about little Heide, too. I can't sleep, I'm too thirsty. I'll go to the kitchen and get myself something to drink. Very quietly, so as not to wake the others. I won't put the light on, I'll tiptoe out in my bare feet. Not a sound.
Somebody's talking in Herr Karnau's room, I can hear voices through the closed door. But Herr Karnau's all by himself, surely. Or did he have a visitor and we never noticed? Perhaps he's just listening to the radio. That's not German, though, I can't understand a word. Is he listening to an enemy broadcast? No, it doesn't sound like that, not loud and clear like a news-reader. News-readers don't break off in the middle and leave long gaps — they don't keep sighing in between. It's weird. The kitchen's all dark, I'm afraid to go in there now.
The sounds are getting louder and louder. Herr Karnau must have someone in his room, he simply must — someone in pain. Now the man is screaming. Why is he making those awful noises? I want to go straight back to bed, but I can't move, I can't stop listening. No, those aren't words, it's someone being hurt. Maybe it isn't a person at all, maybe it's an animal I can hear, howling like that. My heart is really thumping. Is Herr Karnau torturing his dog? No, that's not Coco, it must be a human being. Now he's making choking noises, gasping for air, whimpering horribly. Why doesn't Herr Karnau do something, why doesn't he help the poor man?
*
It's sometimes far easier to detect the characteristic features of a voice from its most extreme utterances — shouts, hoarse cries, whimpers — than from the spoken word, even though those sounds leave exceptionally deep scars on the vocal cords. Even though, or for that very reason? That is when the voice attains a singular clarity unsuspected by speaker and listener alike: when the organ is coping with rough treatment or contending with difficulties and striving with all its might to overcome them, for instance during a fit of coughing that threatens to stifle it and extinguish every sound. Those are the times when a person's vocal image manifests itself with unbridled freedom.
Recordings of such vocalisations get to the very heart of the sound source in question. They penetrate far deeper than monitored and recorded heartbeats, which, although they vary in rhythm from person to person, do nothing more, in the last analysis, than confirm that the engine is ticking over steadily. The heartbeat is simply evidence of life, a vegetative function common to many living creatures. But the voice, being partly subject to the will, generates sounds that all reveal the special characteristics of its resonator: the human being.
*
The door suddenly opens, and Herr Karnau stands there looking down at me as if nothing had happened. His room is silent now. 'Can't you sleep, Helga?' he says. 'You haven't been crying, have you?'
I'm frightened. Herr Karnau takes my hand and leads me into his room. It's dark in there except for the light on his desk. Can I see something moving over there in the shadows, a visitor clutching his stomach and writhing in agony? No, it's only Coco. He comes trotting over. Herr Karnau sits me on his bed and wraps me in a blanket. Then he sits down at his desk beside the gramophone. Coco jumps up on the bed, snuffling. He wants to get under the nice warm blanket with me. Is there really nobody here but us?
*
Little Helga looked absolutely distraught when I found her standing
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