forward in the queue. A hand tears the tickets in half. The usherette is wearing a black headscarf and a black dress. She switches off her torch. Corn cobs trickle out of the long neck of the harvester behind the tractor. The short is over.
Dietmar’s head rests on Amalie’s shoulder. Red letters appear on the screen: “Pirates of the Twentieth Century.” Amalie puts her hand on Dietmar’s knee. “Another Russian film,” she whispers. Dietmar lifts his head. “At least it’s in colour,” he says in her ear.
The green water ripples. Green forests line the shore. The deck of the ship is wide. A beautiful woman is holding on to the ship’s railing. Her hair blows like leaves.
Dietmar crushes Amalie’s finger in his hand. He looks at the screen. The beautiful woman speaks.
“We won’t see each other again,” he says. “I’ve got to join the army, and you’re emigrating.” Amalie sees Dietmar’s cheek. She moves. She speaks. “I’ve heard Rudi’s waiting for you,” says Dietmar.
On the screen, a hand opens. It reaches into a jacket pocket. On the screen are a thumb and an index finger. Between them is a revolver.
Dietmar is talking. Behind his voice, Amalie hears the shot
WATER HAS NO PEACE
“The owl is injured,” says the night watchman. A cloud-burst on the day of a funeral is too much even for an owl. If itdoesn’t see the moon tonight, it won’t ever fly again. If it dies, the water will stink.”
“The owls have no peace, and the water has no peace,” says Windisch. “If it dies, another owl will come to the village. A stupid young owl that doesn’t know anything. It will sit on anyone’s roof.”
The night watchman looks up at the moon. “Then young people will die again,” he says. Windisch sees that the air just in front of him belongs to the night watchman. His voice manages a tired sentence. “Then it will be like the war again,” he says.
“The frogs are croaking in the mill,” says the night watchman.
They make the dog crazy.
THE BLIND COCK
Windisch’s wife sits on the edge of the bed. “There were two men here today,” she says. “They counted the hens and noted it down. They caught eight hens and took them away. They put them in wire cages. The trailer on their tractor was full of hens.” Windisch’s wife sighs. “I signed,” she says. “And for four hundred kilos of maize and a hundred kilos of potatoes. They’ll take those later, they said. I gave them the fifty eggs right away. They went into the garden in rubber boots. They saw the clover in front of the barn. Next year we’ll have to grow sugar-beet there, they said.”
Windisch lifts the lid from the pot. “And next door?” he asks. “They didn’t go there,” says Windisch’s wife. She gets into bed and covers herself up. “They said that our neighbours have eight small children, and we have one, and she’s earning money.”
There is blood and liver in the pot. “I had to kill the bigwhite cock,” says Windisch’s wife. “The two men were running about in the yard. The cock took fright. He flapped up against the fence and struck his head against it. When they had left he was blind.”
Onion rings float on eyes of fat in the pot. “And you said we’ll keep the big white cock so we’ll get big white hens next year,” says Windisch. “And you said anything white is too sensitive. And you were right,” says Windisch’s wife.
The cupboard creaks.
“When I was riding to the mill, I got off at the war memorial,” says Windisch in the dark. “I wanted to go into the church and pray. The church was locked. I thought, that’s a bad sign. Saint Anthony is on the other side of the door. His thick book is brown. It’s like a passport.”
In the warm, dark air of the room, Windisch dreams that the sky opens up. The clouds fly away out of the village. A white cock flies through the empty sky. It strikes its head against a bare poplar standing in the meadow. It can’t see. It’s
Dietmar’s head rests on Amalie’s shoulder. Red letters appear on the screen: “Pirates of the Twentieth Century.” Amalie puts her hand on Dietmar’s knee. “Another Russian film,” she whispers. Dietmar lifts his head. “At least it’s in colour,” he says in her ear.
The green water ripples. Green forests line the shore. The deck of the ship is wide. A beautiful woman is holding on to the ship’s railing. Her hair blows like leaves.
Dietmar crushes Amalie’s finger in his hand. He looks at the screen. The beautiful woman speaks.
“We won’t see each other again,” he says. “I’ve got to join the army, and you’re emigrating.” Amalie sees Dietmar’s cheek. She moves. She speaks. “I’ve heard Rudi’s waiting for you,” says Dietmar.
On the screen, a hand opens. It reaches into a jacket pocket. On the screen are a thumb and an index finger. Between them is a revolver.
Dietmar is talking. Behind his voice, Amalie hears the shot
WATER HAS NO PEACE
“The owl is injured,” says the night watchman. A cloud-burst on the day of a funeral is too much even for an owl. If itdoesn’t see the moon tonight, it won’t ever fly again. If it dies, the water will stink.”
“The owls have no peace, and the water has no peace,” says Windisch. “If it dies, another owl will come to the village. A stupid young owl that doesn’t know anything. It will sit on anyone’s roof.”
The night watchman looks up at the moon. “Then young people will die again,” he says. Windisch sees that the air just in front of him belongs to the night watchman. His voice manages a tired sentence. “Then it will be like the war again,” he says.
“The frogs are croaking in the mill,” says the night watchman.
They make the dog crazy.
THE BLIND COCK
Windisch’s wife sits on the edge of the bed. “There were two men here today,” she says. “They counted the hens and noted it down. They caught eight hens and took them away. They put them in wire cages. The trailer on their tractor was full of hens.” Windisch’s wife sighs. “I signed,” she says. “And for four hundred kilos of maize and a hundred kilos of potatoes. They’ll take those later, they said. I gave them the fifty eggs right away. They went into the garden in rubber boots. They saw the clover in front of the barn. Next year we’ll have to grow sugar-beet there, they said.”
Windisch lifts the lid from the pot. “And next door?” he asks. “They didn’t go there,” says Windisch’s wife. She gets into bed and covers herself up. “They said that our neighbours have eight small children, and we have one, and she’s earning money.”
There is blood and liver in the pot. “I had to kill the bigwhite cock,” says Windisch’s wife. “The two men were running about in the yard. The cock took fright. He flapped up against the fence and struck his head against it. When they had left he was blind.”
Onion rings float on eyes of fat in the pot. “And you said we’ll keep the big white cock so we’ll get big white hens next year,” says Windisch. “And you said anything white is too sensitive. And you were right,” says Windisch’s wife.
The cupboard creaks.
“When I was riding to the mill, I got off at the war memorial,” says Windisch in the dark. “I wanted to go into the church and pray. The church was locked. I thought, that’s a bad sign. Saint Anthony is on the other side of the door. His thick book is brown. It’s like a passport.”
In the warm, dark air of the room, Windisch dreams that the sky opens up. The clouds fly away out of the village. A white cock flies through the empty sky. It strikes its head against a bare poplar standing in the meadow. It can’t see. It’s
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