Officer Factory. Hans Hellmut Kirst

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      The sky is dark, as it almost always is, and it rains a lot. I have grey eyes and the mirror I see them in has lost its sheen. The houses in the street are a muddy grey, the same color as my father's face. When I kiss my mother my hands wander across her forehead; and her hair is stiff and dry, grey as old silver, almost as grey as lead.

      When it rains, dull grey, milky grey water runs through the streets. We run bare-foot and the water comes up to our ankles. Our hands scoop sand and earth from the garden and mud from the street and we knead it together and compress it into a dough-like mass, build dams with it. And the water rises, forms a pool, spreads and overflows the pavement, threatening to invade the cellars. People curse us, and we laugh; then we trample down the dams and run off until we can no longer see or hear the people cursing us.

      Once again water is flowing. And this time it's the river at the edge of the town, called the Oder. The waters rush past sucking and churning up the earth and the sand, driving them before it, as we stare into the swirling current. We fold up huge banknotes on our knees. These banknotes have lots of zeros on them and we fold them into paper boats. They float and bob giddily about on top of the water, turn drunkenly round and round, bump into each other—but the important thing is they float. This paper money makes wonderful boats.

      “All the money's any use for is to wipe your arse on!" says a man, who's my uncle. “No," says my father,” that isn't true!" “Everything printed or written, all paper in short," says my uncle,” is only fit to wipe your arse on." “You shouldn't say that!" cries my father indignantly, “at least not in front of the children."

      Father doesn't talk much. Mother hardly talks at all. It's always very quiet with us in the little house. only when there's discussion of what my father calls " higher things " does he get at all excited—talk about the Fatherland for example, or the postal service. " When many men love and honor a thing," says my father, ”then you can be certain that it's worthy of love and honor—you mark my words, my son." And then my father is suddenly standing to attention in the middle of our little garden, for the head of the post office, Herr Giebelmeier, is passing by. “Very fine, Krafft," Herr Giebelmeier shouts at my father. “Really very fine—your flowers are like so many soldiers standing there. They make a brave show. Carry on, Krafft!"

      “We’re going to paint this little house of ours," says my father after thinking for a long time. “We want to make a brave show of it!" And so my father buys whitewash and lime and two paint-brushes—the smaller one for me. And we begin painting it blue—bright blue, the color of the sky. And then once again the head of the post office, Herr Giebelmeier, comes past and says “What on earth are you doing there, Krafft? What's all this about?" “I’m smartening the place up a bit, sir," says my father, standing to attention. “But you can't do that," says Giebelmeier firmly,” that sort of thing's much too ostentatious; it's too garish, man. If only you'd chosen post-office yellow, I might have come round to it—but sky blue! It positively screams at you! Anyway, all I can say is: it's certainly not right for any official of mine."

      “Very good, sir," says my father, and when Giebelmeier has gone my father says to me: “He was an officer of the reserve, you see." “I don't see," I say. “What’s the connection between an officer of the reserve and house painting?" “Later," says my father, “you’ll understand that too." And our house stayed grey.