little soldiers. The anthem has seven verses.
Amalie hangs the map of Romania on the wall.
“All children live in blocks of flats or in houses,” says Amalie. “Every house has rooms. All the houses together make one big house. This big house is our country. Our fatherland.”
Amalie points at the map. “This is our Fatherland,” she says. With her fingertip she searches for the black dots on the map. “These are the towns of our Fatherland,” says Amalie. “The towns are the rooms of this big house, our country. Our fathers and mothers live in our houses. They are our parents. Every child has its parents. Just as the father in the house in which we live is our father, so Comrade Nicolae Ceausescu is the father of our country. And just as the mother in the house in which we live is our mother, so Comrade Elena Ceausescu is the mother of our country. Comrade Nicolae Ceausescu is the father of all the children. And Comrade Elena Ceausescu is the mother of all the children. All the children love comrade Nicolae and comrade Elena, because they are their parents.”
The cleaning woman leaves an empty wastepaper basket by the door. “Our fatherland is called the Socialist Republic of Romania,” says Amalie. “Comrade Nicolae Ceausescu is the General Secretary of our country, the Socialist Republic of Romania.”
A boy stands up. “My father has a globe at home,” he says. He shapes a globe with his hands. A hand knocks against a vase. The carnations are lying in the water. His Falcons’ shirt is wet.
Shards of glass are lying on the little table in front of him. He’s crying. Amalie pushes the little table away from him. She must not shout. Claudiu’s father is the manager of the butcher’s shop at the corner.
Anca lays her face on the table. “When can we go home?” she asks in Romanian. German is cumbersome and passes her by. Udo is building a roof. “My father is the general secretary of our house,” he says.
Amalie looks at the yellow leaves of the acacia. The old man leans out of the open window as he does every day. “Dietmar is buying cinema tickets,” thinks Amalie.
The Indians march across the floor. Anca swallows the pills.
Amalie leans against the window frame. “Does anyone know a poem?” she asks.
“I know a land with an arc of mountains,/ On whose peaks early glows the morning,/ In whose woods as through the ocean waves/ The spring wind roars till all is blooming.”
Claudiu speaks German well. Claudiu raises his chin. Claudiu speaks German with the voice of a shrunken grown man.
TEN LEI
The little gypsy girl from the next village is wringing out her grass-green apron. Water runs from her hand. Her plait hangs down onto her shoulder from the middle of her head. A red ribbon is plaited into her hair. It sticks out at the end like a tongue. The little gypsy girl stands barefoot with muddy toes in front of the tractor drivers.
The tractor drivers are wearing small, wet hats. Their black hands are on the table. “Show me,” says one. “I’ll give you ten lei.” He puts ten lei on the table. The tractor drivers laugh. Their eyes gleam. Their faces are red. Their glances finger the long flowery skirt. The gypsy girl lifts her skirt. The tractor driver empties his glass. The gypsy girl takes the bank note from the table. She twists the plait around her finger and laughs.
Windisch can smell the schnaps and the sweat from the next table. “They wear their sheepskins all summer long,” says the joiner. Froth from his beer clings to his thumbs. He dips his forefinger into the glass. “The dirty pig beside us is blowing ash into my beer,” he says. He looks at the Romanian standing behind him. The Romanian has a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. It’s wet from his saliva. He laughs. “No more German,” he says. Then in Romanian: “This is Romania.”
The joiner has a greedy look. He raises his glass and empties it. “You’ll soon be rid of us,” he shouts. He signals
Amalie hangs the map of Romania on the wall.
“All children live in blocks of flats or in houses,” says Amalie. “Every house has rooms. All the houses together make one big house. This big house is our country. Our fatherland.”
Amalie points at the map. “This is our Fatherland,” she says. With her fingertip she searches for the black dots on the map. “These are the towns of our Fatherland,” says Amalie. “The towns are the rooms of this big house, our country. Our fathers and mothers live in our houses. They are our parents. Every child has its parents. Just as the father in the house in which we live is our father, so Comrade Nicolae Ceausescu is the father of our country. And just as the mother in the house in which we live is our mother, so Comrade Elena Ceausescu is the mother of our country. Comrade Nicolae Ceausescu is the father of all the children. And Comrade Elena Ceausescu is the mother of all the children. All the children love comrade Nicolae and comrade Elena, because they are their parents.”
The cleaning woman leaves an empty wastepaper basket by the door. “Our fatherland is called the Socialist Republic of Romania,” says Amalie. “Comrade Nicolae Ceausescu is the General Secretary of our country, the Socialist Republic of Romania.”
A boy stands up. “My father has a globe at home,” he says. He shapes a globe with his hands. A hand knocks against a vase. The carnations are lying in the water. His Falcons’ shirt is wet.
Shards of glass are lying on the little table in front of him. He’s crying. Amalie pushes the little table away from him. She must not shout. Claudiu’s father is the manager of the butcher’s shop at the corner.
Anca lays her face on the table. “When can we go home?” she asks in Romanian. German is cumbersome and passes her by. Udo is building a roof. “My father is the general secretary of our house,” he says.
Amalie looks at the yellow leaves of the acacia. The old man leans out of the open window as he does every day. “Dietmar is buying cinema tickets,” thinks Amalie.
The Indians march across the floor. Anca swallows the pills.
Amalie leans against the window frame. “Does anyone know a poem?” she asks.
“I know a land with an arc of mountains,/ On whose peaks early glows the morning,/ In whose woods as through the ocean waves/ The spring wind roars till all is blooming.”
Claudiu speaks German well. Claudiu raises his chin. Claudiu speaks German with the voice of a shrunken grown man.
TEN LEI
The little gypsy girl from the next village is wringing out her grass-green apron. Water runs from her hand. Her plait hangs down onto her shoulder from the middle of her head. A red ribbon is plaited into her hair. It sticks out at the end like a tongue. The little gypsy girl stands barefoot with muddy toes in front of the tractor drivers.
The tractor drivers are wearing small, wet hats. Their black hands are on the table. “Show me,” says one. “I’ll give you ten lei.” He puts ten lei on the table. The tractor drivers laugh. Their eyes gleam. Their faces are red. Their glances finger the long flowery skirt. The gypsy girl lifts her skirt. The tractor driver empties his glass. The gypsy girl takes the bank note from the table. She twists the plait around her finger and laughs.
Windisch can smell the schnaps and the sweat from the next table. “They wear their sheepskins all summer long,” says the joiner. Froth from his beer clings to his thumbs. He dips his forefinger into the glass. “The dirty pig beside us is blowing ash into my beer,” he says. He looks at the Romanian standing behind him. The Romanian has a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. It’s wet from his saliva. He laughs. “No more German,” he says. Then in Romanian: “This is Romania.”
The joiner has a greedy look. He raises his glass and empties it. “You’ll soon be rid of us,” he shouts. He signals
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