Fill My Palms With the Dark Beads of Your Eyes

Rastinews — You lost your job at the municipality too. No, no, that's not how it was... It wasn't this lovely weather that ruined you; I know better — what really ruined you was the liver-seller's cats.

The liver-seller's cats came at you so hard that you had to hand in your resignation. You were too worn out to fight the wolves — that caste system, that oligarchic machine… Hey! In there you were nothing but a single cell, one tiny cell inside a vast body.

At a desk, you bowed to a blue-inked pen and signed your own decree of unemployment, fully aware of what you were signing.

The deal was this: the 12,000 the company had paid for your bus licence would not have to be repaid. Your November and December wages, your Christmas bonus and holiday pay, would still be paid out. That meant three months to catch your breath. And the company-friendly union man said:
"You've got your licence now, anyway — you'll find work before that runs out."

Your bank card had never seen a sum like that. You nearly had a heart attack, but there was no point getting carried away — rent, insurance, groceries, extra bills… There, your situation was hard. Very hard.

The only thing that eased your mind was telling the union man who'd come to defend you — and hadn't defended you at all —
"How much did they pay you off for?"
There. At least that was a splash of cold water on the fire inside you.

That emptiness inside you on the way home… How bad it was, how frightening. And on top of it all, what was that song playing on the radio:
"You're a worker, stay a worker."
Then: "Ah, I've been burned…"

How would you explain it to the children?
Rent's 1,200. Oh no… Your situation is hard, all right.

How you got home, how you dropped onto the bed like a corpse — only I know that. Did you actually sleep? Tell me, how many times have you felt a tremor like that, a trauma like that? In other forms, plenty of times, of course… But this unemployment — that was the first.

You'd promised the children too — for the first time, the family was going to take a holiday together.
"My nightingale, in a golden cage…"

The furniture's old… Ugh, your situation is hard, all right.

Better you get some sleep. If you can, that is.

The first week: sleeplessness, no appetite. You keep losing weight. You throw up what you eat. You don't want to talk to anyone. Do you even have the strength to go outside?

And let me tell you something.
No one will hear you. No one will see you. You are alone. You're in a tiny rowboat in the middle of a vast ocean. The waves are terrifying. They will crush you, swallow you, and sink you.

Time…
Just a little time…
Isn't a little time sometimes the only thing that saves a person?

Most of your life passed in this foreign land. When you arrived, you were a green newcomer. You were head over heels in love. You were going to be powerful enough to lend a hand to every poor soul. You had promises, you had dreams, you had grand words.

So what happened to that great love?

While you were like this — alone, silent, helpless — your every hour went to rushing from one cleaning job to the next. To putting your children to sleep in the pram, to bringing them home with you late at night.

Home?
Or, by its other name, hell.

Enough to crack a stone.
Sky of brass, earth of iron.

You were pregnant. In the hell you had fallen into — silent, utterly alone, and penniless. A newspaper ad in one hand, two children clinging to your skirt on the other side. You go chasing after the ad.

And there, behind that door…

An old man: Schumacher. Bedridden. Smoking like a chimney. His house a wreck. You would clean it. Daily paper and meals included. Whether you retched or dropped dead, you would clean.

And you cleaned.

Alone, too, with nothing but your own conscience.

Schumacher…
The Schumacher who, in time, leaned against the windowsill waiting for you.
The Schumacher whose elbows grew raw from waiting for you.

"Ah," he would say, "if only I weren't so old and sick… If only you weren't so young, so sad, so unhappy… If only we'd been born in the same time… Ah, what a pity. I came too late for love. You were killed off far too soon."

Are you crying?

Fill my palms now with the dark beads of your eyes.

Doesn't it feel like just yesterday? That day too, you fetched everything Schumacher needed. You fed him his meal. You rubbed cream on his raw elbows, crying as you did it.

And that evening, you gave birth to your daughter.

Her name: Rosa.

That had been Schumacher's last wish.

And this was how your story would go — a story with graves scattered all through it.

Love?

Let me at least laugh.

"Sky of brass, earth of iron."

With a great knife lodged in your back, you would keep falling from cliffs and shattering. Luckily, you would also learn to stitch your own body back together.

The liver-seller's cats were a whole world unto themselves. You would be broken again and again, wounded again and again. But you would also come to know people, truly.

Poor Schumacher…
The Schumacher who wore his elbows raw all day in the chair by the window, waiting for you…

The Schumacher who was buried, in an urn, in the paupers' cemetery.

And you planted a red rose at his headstone.

Yes, love and hope…
One arrived too late, the other far too early.

"Leave him — he doesn't deserve you. Leave, and be happy," they kept saying.

You watered the red rose and said:
"I've let him go."

The mountains shed the snow from their peaks. Much water flowed down into those valleys. The paths lost their trace.

How hard you worked, how hard… Day and night.

Burying the sound of your children's crying deep in your ears.

Was there anyone in this world who cleaned better than you? The hidden grime, the dust, the grease… The tops of cabinets, the backs, the windows, the tiles… The mildew-smelling bathrooms, the stairs, the doors…

Who could clean an untouched cellar better than you?

Love and sharing, is that what you said?

No one was going to see you. No one was going to hear you. You would go on wandering that great labyrinth of lies.

Until the day you died enough that you would never have to die again.

You worked hard. Very hard.

All alone. For your children. For everything.

So, what came of it?
Did you manage even an inch of progress?

Rent's 1,200.

Not counting expenses.

No one will see you. No one will hear you. You are alone.

Better you rest here a while. You've come a long way. You're tired, wounded, sleepless.

Ah… sleepless, above all.

To sleep…

Sleep a while, just to be able to say: so this kind of life exists too.

Waking as the day breaks. Sending your little one off to school. Then sleeping again… As if taking revenge for every sleepless hour you've ever had.

Then waiting, with warm food ready, for your little one to come home from school.

Then watching the finest films.

Tarantino, Coppola, Hitchcock, Kiarostami, Klimov, Polanski, Ghobadi, Kurosawa…

And so many more.

So this kind of life exists too…

Reading books. Reading a great deal, in fact. Novels, philosophy, research…

Then cleaning the house from top to bottom.

Then going to classical concerts with your German friend Helga. Tickets from her, the drive from you.

Oh… to breathe.

Waking as the day breaks.

Well, well… so this kind of life exists too.

How exhausted you've become. What a sacrifice you've made to this life…

Time.
Just a little time.

You're exhausted, I know.

You're a rowboat out on the ocean. No one can hear you, no one can see you. And the money in your account is drying up too.

Rent, bills, groceries… and more besides.

But you are a worker.

Stay a worker.

Go on, drag your boat ashore with your own two hands.

Your time is up.

That's just how this system works.

But you're not exactly empty-handed, dear. Plant your feet firmly on this ground. Somewhere in this world, there are raw elbows that once won your heart.

Fill my palms with the beads of your eyes, and let me kiss those worker's hands of yours.

In spite of the liver-seller's servants, the oleasters you planted have taken root and turned green.

Spring is coming, shouting as it goes.

The morning birds haven't sung yet.

Come on, wake up.

It's time to start work now.

That's enough.

You are a worker.

Stay a worker.