The Passport by Herta Müller

Author:Herta Müller [Müller, Herta]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Nobel Prize, Historical, Fiction
ISBN: 9781852421397
Publisher: Serpent's Tail
Published: 1986-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

A BIG HOUSE

The cleaning woman wipes the dust from the banisters. She has a black mark on her cheek and a violet eye. She’s crying: “He hit me again,” she says.

The clothes hooks shine empty around the walls of the hallway. They are a thorny garland. The slippers, small and worn down, stand in a perfect row beneath the hooks.

Each child has brought a transfer to the nursery from home. Amalie stuck the little pictures under the hooks.

Every morning each child looks for its car, its dog, its doll, its flower, its ball.

Udo comes through the door. He’s looking for his flag. It is black, red and gold. A German flag. Udo hangs his coat on the hook, above the flag. He takes off his shoes. He puts on his red slippers. He places his shoes under his coat.

Udo’s mother works in the chocolate factory. Every Tuesday she brings Amalie sugar, butter, cocoa and chocolate. “Udo will only be coming to the nursery for another three weeks,” she said to Amalie yesterday. “We’ve been told about our passport.”

The dentist pushes her daughter through the half-open door. A white beret hangs on the girl’s hair like a snow flake. The girl looks for her dog among the hooks. The dentist gives Amalie a bunch of carnations and a small box. “Anca has a cold,” she says. “Please give her the tablets at ten o’clock.”

The cleaning woman shakes the duster out of the window. The acacia is yellow. The old man sweeps the pavement in front of his house as he does every morning. The leaves of the acacia are blown by the wind.

The children are wearing their Falcons’ uniforms. Yellow blouses and dark blue trousers and pleated skirts. “It’s Wednesday,” Amalie thinks, “Falcons’ day.”

Building bricks click. Cranes buzz. Indians march in columns in front of little hands. Udo is building a factory. Dolls are drinking milk from little girls’ fingers.

Anca’s forehead is hot.

The anthem can be heard through the classroom ceiling. The big group is singing on the floor above.

The building blocks are lying on top of one another. The cranes are silent. The column of Indians stands at the edge of the table. The factory has no roof. The doll with the long silk dress is lying on the chair. She’s sleeping. She has a rosy face.

The children stand in a semi-circle in front of the teacher’s desk in order of size. They press the palms of their hands against their thighs. They raise their chins. Their eyes grow large and wet. They sing loudly.

The boys and girls are 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.

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