THE AGONY OF WAR: A Culture of Remembering (Satis Shroff)A Poem by Satis Shroff The IS fighters are marauding in Syria, Turkey is wary but has taken the refugees, the Ukranian separatists and army are still shooting at each other. The agony of war prevails still, despite pleas. A CULTURE OF REMEMBERING (Satis Shroff)
Mein Name ist Satis Shroff
und bin ursprunglich aus Nepal wo ich als Journalist gearbeitet
habe. Hier bin ich tätig als Dozent, Autor, Dichter und Künstler
und zeitweise als Lehrbeauftragter für Creative Writing an der Uni
Freiburg. Singen und Malen tue ich auch gerne. Ich singe in einem
Männerchor in Kappel. Wir singen Lieder aus Israel, Afrika,
Russland, Broadway Musicals und Heimat und Schwarzwaldlieder. Mein
Lieblingslieder sind: „Berg Heimat Du“ und „Ein Du Mädchen vom
Schwarzwald.“
Worüber ich schreibe? Meine Themen sind: Sehnsucht, die Liebe, Miteinander, Menschenwurde, Migration,Toleranz und One-World.
Ich habe sechs Bücher geschrieben: - Im Schatten des Himalaya (Gedichte und Prosa), - Through Nepalese Eyes (Reisebericht), - Katmandu, Katmandu (Gedichte und Prosa mit Nepali autoren) - Glacial Whispers (Gedichtesammlung zwischen 1997-2010).
Da Literatur eine der wichtigsten Wege ist, um die Kulturen kennenzulernen, habe ich mein Leben dem Kreatives Schreiben gewidmet
Heute lese ich die folgende Gedichte:
1. A Gurkha Mutter 2. Der Verlust des Sohnes einer Mutter
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Lyrik: A GURKHA MOTHER (Satis Shroff) (Death of a Precious Jewel)
The gurkha with a khukri But no enemy Works for the Queen of England, Yet gets shot at In missions he doesn't comprehend. Order is hukum, Hukum is life Johnny Gurkha still dies Under foreign skies.
He never asks why Politics isn't his style He's fought against all and sundry: Turks, Tibetans, Italians and Indians Germans, Japanese, Chinese Argentineans and Vietnamese. Indonesians and Iraqis. Loyalty to the utmost Never fearing a loss.
The loss of a mother's son From the mountains of Nepal.
Her grandpa died in Burma For the glory of the British. Her husband in Mesopotemia She knows not against whom No one did tell her. Her brother fell in France, Against the Teutonic hordes.
She prays to Shiva of the Snows for peace And her son's safety. Her joy and her hope Farming on a terraced slope.
A son who helped wipe her tears And ease the pain in her mother's heart. A frugal mother who lives by the seasons And peers down to the valleys Year in and year out In expectation of her soldier son.
A smart Gurkha is underway Heard from across the hill with a shout 'It’s an officer from his brigade. A letter with a seal and a poker-face "Your son died on duty," he says, "Keeping peace for the Queen of England, And the United Kingdom."
A world crumbles down The Nepalese mother cannot utter a word Gone is her son, Her precious jewel. Her only insurance and sunshine In the craggy hills of Nepal. And with him her dreams A spartan life that kills.
Glossary: gurkha: soldier from Nepal khukri: curved knife used in hand-to-hand combat hukum: Befehl/command/order shiva: a god in Hinduism
******
Der Verlust des Sohnes einer Mutter (Satis Shroff)
Der Gurkha Mit einem gefährlichen Khukri Aber kein Feind in Sicht, Arbeitet für die Königin von England, Und wird erschossen Für Einsätze, Die er nicht begreift. Befehl ist Hukum, Hukum ist sein Leben Johnny Gurkha stirbt noch Unter fremdem Himmel.
Er fragt nie warum Die Politik ist nicht seine Stärke. Er hat gegen alle gekämpft: Türken, Tibeter, Italiener, und Inder Deutsche, Japaner, Chinesen, Vietnamesen und Argentinier.
Loyal bis ans Ende, Er trauert keinem Verlust nach. Der Verlust des Sohnes einer Mutter, Von den Bergen Nepals.
Ihr Großvater starb in Birmas Dschungel Für die glorreichen Engländer. Ihr Mann fiel in Mesopotamien, Sie weiß nicht gegen wen, Keiner hat es ihr gesagt. Ihr Bruder ist in Frankreich gefallen, Gegen die teutonische Reichsarmee.
Sie betet Shiva von den Schneegipfeln an Für Frieden auf Erden, und ihres Sohnes Wohlbefinden. Ihr einzige Freude, ihre letzte Hoffnung, Während sie den Terrassenacker Auf einem schroffen Hang bestellt. Ein Sohn, der ihr half, Ihre Tränen zu wischen Und den Schmerz in ihrem mütterlichen Herz zu lindern.
Eine arme Mutter, die mit den Jahreszeiten lebt, Jahr ein und Jahr aus, hinunter in die Täler schaut Mit Sehnsucht auf ihren Soldatensohn.
Ein Gurkha ist endlich unterwegs Man hört es über den Bergen mit einem Geschrei. Es ist ein Offizier von seiner Brigade. Ein Brief mit Siegel und ein Pokergesicht „Ihren Sohn starb im Dienst,“ sagt er lakonisch: „Er kämpfte für die Königin von England Und für den Vereinigten Königreich.“
Eine Welt bricht zusammen Und kommt zu einem Ende. Ein Kloß im Hals der Nepali Mutter. Nicht ein Wort kann sie herausbringen. Weg ist ihr Sohn, ihr kostbares Juwel. Ihr einzige Versicherung und ihr Sonnenschein. In den unfruchtbaren, kargen Bergen, Und mit ihm ihre Träume Ein spartanisches Leben, Das den Tod bringt.
* * * German Academic Prize Winner Satis Shroff teaches Creative Writing at the elite Albert Ludwigs University Freiburg. The author and lecturer lives in Freiburg and writes about themes like longing, love, the agony of war, the discrimination against Gurkhas, togetherness, dignity of humans, tolerance and one-world in his poems, articles and books.
* * *
The
Lure of the Himalayas (Satis Shroff, Freiburg) Near the town
of Kashgar,
* * *
Die Sehnsucht des Himalaya(Satis Shroff)
Lange ist es her, In der Nähe von Kashgarstadt, Wurde ich, ein Fremder, gefangen Von den wilden Reitern des Vali Khan.
Was macht ein Fremder, Mit blasser Haut und blauen Augen, In Vali Khans Gebiet? Ich, der Fremde, der eine seltsame Sprache sprach. „Er ist ein Spion von China. Köpf ihm,“ brüllte der Kahns Offizier. Ich flehte und bat um Gnade, Versuchte meine Mission zu erklären. Vergebens.
Am 26. August 1857 Ich, Adolph Schlagintweit, Ein Deutscher Reisender, Ein Abenteuerer, Wurde als Spion enthauptet, Ohne eine Verhandlung.
Ich war ein Deutscher Auf Alexander von Humbolts Fußstapfen, Mit meinen Brüdern Herman und Robert, Von Southhampton am 20, September 1954 gestartet, Um Indien, das Himalayagebirge und Hochasien Zu sehen und zu erkunden. Die Mission von der 29,000km Reise War, eine exakte Kartographie anzufertigen, Von den unbekannten Ländern. Sans Einladung, Ich muss gestehen.
In Kamet erreichten wir ein 6785m hohen Gipfel, Eine erstaunliche Höhe in jenen Tagen. Wir haben die Höhen gemessen, Meteorologische, magnetische, Und anthropologische Daten dokumentiert. Sogar botanische, zoologische Und ethnographische Raritäten Haben wir gesammelt.
Hermann und ich machten 751 Skizzen, Aquarelle und Ölbilder. Die Motive waren Himalaya-Panoramas, Einzelne Gipfel, Gletscherformationen, Reißende Himalayaflüße Und exotische Häuser und Hütten Von den Einheimischen.
Padamtal, neben der alten Moraine, Von dem Hauptgletscher in Zanskar In Bleistift und Feder. Ein Blick vom dem 6023 m Gaurishanker-Gipfel, Von der Trans-Sutlej-Kette in Aquarell. In Kalkutta 1855 eine europäische Dame In orientalischen Kleidern. Brahmin, Rajput und Sudra Frauen, Gewickelt in meterlange Saris. Kristo Prasad, ein 35jähriher Rajput, Photographiert in Benaras. Ein alter Hindu Fakir, Mit einer knielangen Rastafrisur. Bhotfrauen von Ladakh, aufgenommen in Simla. Kahars, Palki-Träger von Bihar, Hindus von der Sudra-Kaste. Ein Lepcha bewaffnet mit Pfeil und Bogen, In traditionellen Tracht, Die bis zu seinem Unterschenkel reichten, Und einen Hut mit Feder. Kistositta, ein 25jährige Brahmane aus Bengalen, Kämmte die Haare von Mungia, Einer 42jährigen Vaisa Frau. Manglu in Agra, ein reisender Muslime Bänklesänger mit seine Sarangi Ram Singh, ein 31jähriger Sudra aus Benaras, Der seine Kolebassenflöte spielte. Der Monsun, Und die strohgedeckten Häuser in Cherrapunji
Die kostbaren Dokumente von unserer langen Reise, Kann man im alpinen Museum in München anschauen. Sogar ein Brief von Robert, An unsere Schwester Matilde, Geschrieben am 2. November 1866 von Srinagar: „Wir sind eine 200 englische Meilen Route gefahren Ohne ein Mensch zu sehen, Der nicht zu unserer Karavane gehörte. Außer unseren Pferden, haben wir Kamele, Die richtigen, mit zwei Höckern, Die Du in Indien nicht findest. Wir überquerten 5500m Hohe Gletscherpässe, Und gefährliche Bergflüsse.“
Meine Faszination für das Himalayagebirge Brachte mich um. Ich hatte die Himalayaluft eingeatmet, Und vergaß wo ich war. Ich fühlte mich wie einst Ikarus, Und wollte höher und noch höher Und vergaß wo ich war. Mein Brüder Hermann und Robert Verliessen Indien mit dem Schiff Und erreichten Berlin in Juni 1857. Ich, meinerseits, wollte die Kontinent durchqueren, Ohne Gedanken an Gefahren, Die vor mir lagen, Denn Humboldt war mein Held. Anstatt Ruhm und Ehrung, Mein Körper wurde Von wilden Reitern in den Staub gezerrt, Obwohl ich schon längst Die irdische Welt verlassen hatte.
Ein persischer Reisender, ein Muslim mit Herz, Fand meinen kopflosen Körper. Er brachte mein Leichnam, Über die Himalaya nach Indien, Und übergab ihn zu einem britischen Offizier.
Es war eine fatale Faszination. Aber hätte ich die Chance, Wurde ich dasselbe wieder tun.
** * *
Heidegger Triology: Back from Syrakus
THE FÜHRER OF THE MIND (Satis Shroff)
In
his ‘Seventh Letter’ Plato wrote Among
other philosophic questions,
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BACK FROM SYRAKUS III (Satis Shroff
My first act as the Rector
Of the Freiburger
University,
Was to send a circular letter
To all lecturers.
The
construction of a new mental world,
For the German folk is the
essential duty
Of the German university.
This is national
work
Of the highest meaning and priority.
In 1933 I craved for power,
In the field of Political
Science.
I wanted to be a Führer of the Mind,
To create a real
geistige world
For the German folk.
I found a suitable forum
In
the NS-Führer-State.
I greeted the Freiburger students
With
the authoritative imperative words:
‘Not teachings and ideas
Are
the rules of your being.
The Führer himself alone
Is the
German reality
And your law today
Till hereafter.’
The teachers had to be taught again,
So I transformed
my philosophical thoughts,
To political activities.
Again and
again,
The being, the Germanvolk,
And the Führer were
connected
In all my speeches.
At the beginning of 1934 ,
It became clear to
me,
That the greatness (Hitler) which I desired,
Was destined
to fall.
I noticed that the liberals and conservatives
Were
disgusted with Hitler’s propaganda.
Erich Jaensch characterised
my philosophical thoughts
As ‘tamundic-rabulistic,’
Which
would have a magnetic attraction
For Jews and people of Jewish
descent.
To Erich Jaensch,
I was a dangerous schizophrenic
And
my pathologic writings
Would only be admired by weird
people.
Ernst Krieck saw in my philosophy
A ferment of decay
and decomposition
For the German folk.
I saw in the Führer not the egocentric powerful
man,
But an instance of political knowledge,
With a
concentration
Of the new spirit of state-and-folk community.
There
is only one will for the state to exist.
The Führer has awakened
this desire
In the entire folk and made it
To a common goal.
In
lieu of the objective he-she-it,
I preferred the meaning of being
‘I am.’
I became a follower of the NSDAP,
The propagandist
of national socialism.
I wanted to see people who had the
will,
The inner power to make greatness even bigger.
Most
people made the usual snarls
Of ordinary citizens,
Who cling to
small and half-things;
They don’t want to see,
Never can see
the big and farthest,
The unique and all-powerful.
My
friends wrote to me on my 80th birthday:
‘Mr. H.,
Are you
back from Syrakus?’
Back from my escapade.
I felt like
Plato,
Who was disappointed by Dionysios II.
My disappointment
was much bigger
Than that of Plato,
Because the tyrant and his
victim,
Were not beyond the seas,
But in my own country.
My thoughts moved to Being,
Das Sein.
In my search
for heroes I came across:
Parmenides, Heraklit, Holderlin and
Nietsche.
I abandoned political thought,
Embraced the thoughts
of the poet,
Poetic thoughts,
For in the language of
poetry,
You find the purest essence of language,
Which can
begin and develop.
I wanted to show that language
Is not an
expression of biological-racist humans.
The essence of humans
through language,
Is the basic reality of the mind.
To
the Nazis I became suddenly
A suspected person,
Who needed to be shadowed
* * *
THE GURKHA NEVER ASKS WHY (Satis Shroff)
A lifeless body is cremated,
His sins and folley,
Bravery and loyalty,
Licked and devoured by the flames
Of Agni.
Only the thoughts remain,
Of a man who did his duty,
Never questioning why.
He did it for the Queen of England,
The small, sturdy Gurkha.
But when he became ill and old,
The NHS refused to pay the bill
For his medical treatment.
Hischildren weren't sent
To English schools.
The Brits would rather let
The Gurkha and his kind,
Go to Nepal,
To lick his wounds.
His English friends never rallied
Around him.
They kept to themselves,
And let the stoic, brave Gurkha,
Die in the foothills
Of the Himalayas.
His was not the praiseworthy laughter,
Friendships, gentlemanliness
Of the English world.
The dying Gurkha never saw your tears,
The praise that you bestowed upon him
Became a curse.
Many a Gurkha fought
For your English honour,
Pride and greed;
Died with his blood-soaked khukri
For evermore.
Did you care, the MoD,
The oh-so-proud officers?
Nevermore. Nevermore.
* * *
Victory Memorial (Siegesdenkmal in Freiburg today) Schlacht bei Belfort 15. 16. 17. January 1871
LE GRANDE GUERRE (Satis Shroff)
Man versus monstrous machines,
Scared humans with panic stricken eyes,
Against the angry growls of guns,
The wailing shells that rained death,
In the trenches of Verdun, Gallipoli,
Flander's Boesinghe.
The West and East Front.
Puny soldiers pitted against beastly machines,
Infernal to the core,
Manufactured to slaughter
Enemies with two legs,
On both sides.
After forty years of peaceful coexistence,
Hatred, greed, envy, political cuningness
Began to spread in Europe,
Like the plague,
Or aids and MRSA today.
The Germans, French, Russians,
Austrians, Hungarians, British
Began slaughtering each other.
Was it a war of colonial powers,
Of whites against whites in their own homes?
Far from it.
Logistics, armaments and cannon-fodder
From even the former colonies,
Were not spared.
In the bloodiest of battles
That began in the summer of 1914,
The soldiers lost everything,
Even their precious minds,
In a krieg of man against technology.
Humans were herded like cattle to the slaughterhouse.
The larks hid themselves and ceased to sing,
In the thunderous din of the shells
That shook the heavens.
The charge of the light brigade
Was abruptly stopped by well-placed barbed-wire.
People in uniform perished
In a hail of bullets from machine guns.
White bones only prevailed.
'Schnellfeuer!' was the order of the day.
Load, aim, fire!
The systematic killing of heroes began
In a hell of shells.
A yellowish-green mist arose,
Made in the lab by chemist Fritz Haber,
Mingled with the air.
Soldiers started coughing, bodies shook,
Big horses neighed and trembled,
The riders and their steeds faltered.
Chemical war waged on April 22, 1915,
Near Ypern �" the Belgian Front.
150 tons of chlorine emptied in the trenches,
Panic broke among the French troops.
1200 soldiers of Franch died,
Another 3000 were injured,
Without firing a single shot.
The gas war had begun,
And mustard gas was deployed
The British Tommies died in pain.
80,000 soldiers were killed in the gas war.
More than a million were injured.
Tears of happiness flowed
Over Fritz Haber's cheeks,
And he received soon a promotion
For his deed.
'Im Frieden der Menschheit,
im Krieg dem Vaterland'
Was his motto.
Haber and Bosch discovered
The ammoniac synthesis,
Useful as fertilizers.
The Allies wanted to bring him to court,
But the Swedes awarded Fritz the Nobel Prize.
After the Great War was over,
Fritz Haber created Zyklon B,
The dreaded gas of concentrations camps.
The Nazis forced him
To give up his job at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute.
He went to England,
Died eight months later,
For he'd been declared a Jew.
* * *
CROSSES AND POPPIES (Satis Shroff)
Remember the dead
And place a scarlet poppy
Between the hundreds of white crosses
In Flanders,
Or elsewhere.
The sun has set for the men
Who fought,
Died on duty
For their fatherlands,
Or for the wily politicians,
In the home front.
The dead were obliged to take up quarrels
Instigated by politicians and powers that be,
Wh used fiery speeches,
To mobilise the masses.
To fight the enemy
With aeroplanes, tanks and infernal gas.
The tempo of combat became fast,
Put pressure on the mind and body.
Enlisted, mobilised soldiers were caught
Unprepared and surprised.
Isn't history full of goodwill and good intentions?
Even tyrants and dictators believe,
And still do,
They're improving the world.
Galvanizing and mesmerising people
With their charisma,
The way Hitler, Stalin, Lenin have done,
The fury of World War I went on
For four years and three months.
It left 2,7 million dead Germans,
More than 1,8 million Russians.
1,9 million French dead,
1,8 million Austrians and Hungarians,
And 1 million from the British Isles.
What had ended for the dead?
This wonderful world,
With its friendships, smiles given, favours done,
The culinary flavours, mirth, glorious sunsets,
The twitters and chirps of birds at dawn,
Music and dewdrops,
An unforgettable lover's kiss.
The seasonal changes, children laughing at play,
The whims of women,
The pride of men,
The useful technology of man,
Philosophy and literature.
All these came to an end,
For the 15 million humans died.
2 million Germans died near Villiers.
August Stramm (1874-1915) wrote in his 'Tropfblut:'
Sturmangriff
Aus allen Winkeln gellen
Fürchte wollen
Kreischen
Peitsch
Das Leben
Vor sich
Her
Den Keuchen Tod
Die Himmel fetzen
Blinde schlächter wildum das Entsetzen.
Erich Maria Remarque scribed:
Ruhr, Grippe, Typhus �"
Würgen, Verbrennen, Tod.
Graben, Lazarett, Massengrab
�" mehr Möglichkeiten gibt es nicht.
In the autumn of 1917 a fourth of the British
Drowned, wounded and helpless in swamps.
Half of the ther twelve million soldiers
Of the Zar of Russia were wounded or died.
There was a dearth of medication.
The only solace was the Orthodox priest,
Who blessed them all.
* * *
GURKHAS GO TO THE GREAT WAR (Satis Shroff)
Gurkha soldiers on leave in the hills of Nepal
Were summoned to their batallions.
Colonial British based in India
Pledged to do their bit.
The Gurkhas left India on the SS Barpeta,
In November 1914.
British ladies gave them tea, dried fruits,
Chillies and
cigarettes.
The officers were given books.
The 1/4th Gurkhas chugged in the SS Baroda,
Destination: Suez Canal on August 24,1914.
To the Hindu Gurkhas the sea was 'kala pani,'
Black Water.
It was a sacrilege to cross the sea.
A Hindu Gurkha would risk his caste,
Unless a Vedic ritual was performed ,
A ceremony with the name pani patiya.
If a Hindu returned from overseas,
A Brahmin priest was summoned
And this special dispensation performed.
The Nepalese Maharaja
Sir Chandra Shamsher Jang Bahadur Rana
Appealed to the Raj Guru (high priest)
To give his approval to cross the Black Water.
The Gurkhas became seasick.
'Where did the water come from?
Where did it go?' asked the hillmen.
The ship left a trail behind,
Where were the tracks up front?
Steam ship? Never heard of such a thing.
The Gurkhas were simple, sturdy, loyal sons,
Knew no geography, leave alone history.
School was out of question.
They were outdoor men and loved a good fight.
What was the cause of the war?
They couldn't read English newspapers,
Couldn't talk with people other than Gurkhas.
They lived in splendid isolation.
The king was the absolute monarch of Nepal,
Even though he'd usurped the throne.
Democracy was a foreign word.
Gurkhas fought for the honour of their army units,
After the motto:
'It is better to die than nto be a coward.'
They fought for their comrade-in-arms,
For pay and pension.
And the excitement of combat,
Whipped up by their officers.
Nepal not only gave its best men to the world,
But also a million rupees to the colonial British.
The Maharaja presented thirty-one machine guns
On King George's birthday in 1915.
On October 29,1914 the first Gurkhas entered
the trenches near Festubert.
The war was grim,
The terrain was wet, cold, damp,
And hunger prevailed in the trenches.
The 2/8th Gurkhas were greeted
By heavy German shelling.
After a splendid dash the Gurkhas beat them back,
But thirty seven were killed,
Sixty were wounded.
A hundred were missing,
Blown to bits and pieces by shells.
Nepal's hillmen had to brave the German artillery,
Bitter stormy wind in northern France and Belgium.
The straw-filled sandbags over the boots,
Whale oil for feet massage,
Were of no help against frost bite.
Gurkhas and officers were shot dead,
While cutting barbwire in the Front.
4000 Indian Corps soldiers were wounded
In ten days.
Heavy rains flooded the trenches and ground
Around Neuve Chapelle.
Among the 529 Gurkhas,
147 fell.
Where was the glory?
Angst, bloodshed, frozen toes,
Biting pain subdued the thoughts
Of the ones he's loved and left in the Himalayas.
Duty and war demanded sacrifice.
Breathing poisonous air,
Emitted by the enemy,
A whiff and your eyes burn,
Yellow blisters develop on your skin.
Mustard gas was fifty times worse
Than chlorine.
Not even the gas mask could save you.
It went through and through.
Richard Aldington (1892-1962) wrote aptly:
'The battle was as a rule so impersonal
That it was like a nature catastrophe,
A clash of the elements.
It was a war of shells,
Murderous explosives that made a lose
Your senses,
And not a fight man against man.'
* * *
(Sketch of Günter Grass by Satis Shroff)
THE AGONY OF WAR (Satis Shroff)
Once upon a time there was a seventeen year old boy
Who lived in the Polish city of Danzig.
He was ordered to join the Waffen-SS,
Hitler’s elite division.
Oh, what an honour for a seventeen year old,
Almost a privilege to join the Waffen-SS.
The boy said, “Wir wurden von früh bis spät
Geschliffen und sollten
Zur Sau gemacht werden.”
A Russian grenade shrapnel brought his role
In the war to an abrupt end.
That was on April 20, 1945.
In the same evening,
He was brought to Meissen,
Where he came to know about his Vaterland’s defeat.
The war was lost long ago.
He realised how an ordinary soldier
Became helpless after being used as a tool in the war,
Following orders that didn’t demand heroism
In the brutal reality of war.
It was a streak of luck,
And his inability to ride a bicycle,
That saved his skin
At the Russian-held village of Niederlausitz.
His comrades rode the bicycle,
And he was obliged to give them fire-support
With a maschine-gun.
His seven comrades and the officer
Were slain by the Russians.
The only survivor was a boy
Of seventeen named Grass.
Günter Grass.
He abandoned his light maschine-gun,
And left the house of the bicycle-seller,
Through the backyard garden
With its creaky gate.
What were the chances in the days of the Third Reich
For a 17 year old boy to understand the world?
The BBC was a feindliche radio,
And Goebbels’ propaganda maschinery
Was in full swing.
There was no time to reflect in those days.
Fürcht und Elend im Dritten Reich,
Wrote Bertold Brecht later.
Why did he wait till he was almost eighty?
Why did he torment his soul all these years?
Why didn’t he tell the bitter truth,
About his tragi-comical role in the war
With the Waffen-SS?
He was a Hitlerjunge,
A young Nazi.
Faithful till the end.
A boy who was seduced by the Waffen-SS.
His excuse:
„Ich habe mich verführen lassen.“
The reality of the war brought
Endless death and suffering.
He felt the fear in his bones,
His eyes were opened at last.
Grass is a figure,
You think you know well.
Yet he’s aloof
And you hardly know him,
This literary titan.
He breathes literature
And political engagement.
In his new book:
Beim Häuten der Zwiebeln
He confides he has lived from page to page,
And from book to book.
Is he a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?
Dr. Freud and Mephistopheles,
In the same breast?
Grass belongs to us,
For he has spent the time with us.
It was his personal weakness
Not to tell earlier.
He’s a playwright, director and actor
Of his own creativeness.
His characters Oskar and Mahlke weren’t holy Joes.
It was his way of indirectly showing
What went inside him.
Ach, his true confession took time.
It was like peeling an onion with tears,
One layer after the other.
Better late than never.
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Works by Günter Grass: Surrealist poems Die Vorzüge der Windhühner 1956, grotesque plays Hochwasser 1956, Onkel-Onkel, Noch zehn Minuten bis Buffalo, Die bösen Köche 1957, original novel Die Blechtrommel 1959 (The Tin Drum), poems and drawings Gleisdreieck 1960, Hundejahre 1963, Die Plebjer proben den Aufstand 1966, Büchner Prize 1965, illustrated poems Ausgefragt 1967, third novel örtlich betäubt, play Davor, 1969 gesammelte Gedichte1971, Maria zuehren 1973, Liebe geprüft 1974, wie ich mich sehe 1980, ,fourth novel Aus dem Tagebuch einer Schnecke 1972,a study of melancholy Melancholia I, lengthy novel Der Butt1977, Das Treffen in Telgte 1979, Kopfgeburten oder Die Deutschen sterben aus 1980, Widerstand lernen, Politische Gegenreden 1980-1983, Aufsätze zur Literatur 1957-79 in 1980.Beim Häuten der Zwiebeln 2006.
* * *
SUMMERTIME I (Satis Shroff)
I sat in the garden
With
Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure
On my
lap,
And watched a small butterfly
With dark spots on its frail
wings,
Violet patterns on its tail.
It was Aglais
utricae
Flattering lightly
Between
the marigolds
And chrysanthemums.
The
Potentilla nepalensis
Was
growing well
Under the shade of the rhododendrons.
The great
pumpkin was spreading
Its leafy tentacles everywhere.
The
tomatoes were fighting for light
Hiding beneath the pumpkin’s
gigantic green leaves.
A
Papilio machaon with
its swallow-tail
Came from no where.
The laughter of the
children,
As they swung in the garden’s two swings
Were a
delight to one’s soul.
Little Florentin’s fear
of bees,
Natasha’s morbid fear of spiders,
Elena’s garden
gymnastics
And Julian’s delight in discovering
New insects,
snails and snakes.
Holding hands we strolled
in our garden.
You watered the flowers and trees,
I removed
long, brown snails,
A hobby-gardener of Nepalese descent,
In a
lovely house with character in Zähringen,
An Allemanic
stronghold.
Once the subject of dispute
Between Austria and
France,
Now a sleepy residential area of Freiburg.
* * *
Zeitgeistlyrik:
HOW COULD I EXIST? (Satis Shroff)
How could I further exist
Without the Basmati rice from the Ganges delta,
The garam masala from Punjab,
The olive oil from Liguria,
The Mountain cheese from Austria,
The Bauernbrot from the Schwarzwald
And the limoncello from Sirmione?
How could I live any more
Without the novels of Dickens, Hardy, Goethe,
The poems of Schiller, Poe, Rilke,
Wordsworth, Yeats, Burns and Keats,
Sonnets of Shakespeare?
How could I live
Without having seen the majestic Himalayas, Alps and Dolomites,
Felt the biting winds of the North Sea in winter,
The solace of the Atlantic Ocean in summer,
Or without having experienced the wrath of the Monsoon rain,
Or the reassuring warmth of the sun,
Which creates great wines in Ihringen and Freiburg?
How could I exist without having experienced the angst of imminent war
Against the teeming Chinese army in Sikkim,
The war against West and East Pakistan
And the birth of Bangladesh,
The British Gurkhas in the Falklands,
The victims of Sebrenica,
And Russians in Crimea.
How could I exist
Without having drunk beer with Nepalese, German and Czech students in Prague,
Eaten Schollen with Italian friends in Chioggia,
Pasta in Giacomo's Spaghetteria near Brescia,
Crimean sekt in Freiburg with Alemannic women,
Salad with Aceto balsamico from Modena.
How could I exist
Without seeing the poppies gow in Flanders,
The green grass in the Normandy,
French children with wide eyes in La Rochelle as a trawler chugs to the harbour.
There are no quarrels between the former foes.
How could I exist in Europe
Without witnessing the sea dead of Lampedusa?
Men and women huddled, tossed and turned
In rickety African fisherboats,
Gone to rough sea with hope of a better life in the fortress that is Europe.
This is the sad tenor of humanity,
Where no bed awaits the travel-sore, weak and poor in the northern hemisphere.
This is the turbid ebb and flow
Of haves and have-nots.
* * *
HOPE HEALS (Satis Shroff)
Unto you that fear my name
Shall the sun of righteousness
Arise with healing in his wings
(Malachi)
Bridges of peace, friendship and togetherness
Are built on mutual respect,
Tolerance and Miteinander.
We must talk about the symbols
Of tyranny in your villages, towns and cities.
On Memorial Day we gather with earnest faces,
To honour and remember the people
Whose names are engraved on stones,
Who died in the two World Wars.
The suns and husbands have fallen,
But a new ghost raises its ugly head again,
The Neonazis who work for
The Bundesnachrichtendienst.,
Who receive money for their incompetence,
In Thuringen, Saxony,
Hessen and Lower Saxony.
The lesson of faschism taught us
Never to combine
The police with the secret service,
For it would be akin to the Gestapo,
The Geheimen Staatspolizei.
The sixteen secret services in Germany
Cannot coordinate and cooperate.
Since thirteen years have we given
Neonazis a free hand,
Who robbed banks,
Executed Turkish and Greek migrants.
The constitution makes it possible:
‘Germany for the Germany,
All aliens out!’
Long live the Freedom of Speech.
But prithee, where is the protection
Of the migrants and underdogs
Of the society?
Is a new holocaust in the offing?
Yet there is no way
But the path of peace and togetherness.
The ewig gestrigen and the neos
Are still licking the wounds of war,
Wounds that won’t heal,
For they are infected with hate anew,
With brown-propaganda.
War has always been ugly and brutal.
The widows of the on-going krieg in the Hindukush,
The survivors who don’t understand their own world,
After the trauma of Vietnam, Irak, Afghanistan.
When the NATO sirens are tested,
The air vibrates with a monstrous noise.
Fear makes the olde soldier’s heart beats faster,
His pulse races and he almost chokes.
The memories and the fury of war overwhelm him.
Who will restore the faces we’ve adored?
Love, faith, togetherness and peace
Haven’t been lulled to sleep.
We still hear the clarion call
To the dangers of war,
To the hoarse shouts
Of the Neos in the street,
Who strut and fret,
And believe Auschwitz was a lie.
A silence treads like clouds shadows,
Among the people of Germany.
Hope hasn’t abandoned us yet,
Despite the petite victories of the rightists,
In Germany, Switzerland and Austria.
The people in these lands
Think otherwise.
In every good person there is a bad part,
In every bad person there’s a good trait,
Like ying and yang.
We can only appeal to humans,
Hope and pray for peace,
And the old wounds to heal,
Between humans in this world.
* * *
GRUESOME GURS NEVERMORE(Satis Shroff)
The Blue Bridge stretches over the railroad tracks,
A bronze greyish-blue overcoat hangs near the bridge.
The sleek, white intercity Express glides below,
On its way to Basle (Switzerland).
Shortly thereafter a TGV-train from Freiburg to Paris.
The overcoat reminds us of the trains in October 1940,
That took Freiburg's Jewish population,
400 of them,
To Gurs, a concentrationcamp in southern France.
And from there to Auschwitz,
To be murdered.
That was state-organised racism.
The deported Jews had lived in Baden,
Saarland and the Pfalz.
6,504 deported Jews.
Most were forced like cattle in wagons
In the summer of 1942,
Deported to concentration camps in Eastern Europe.
A few could escape,
Many died in the inhuman camps,
Which had barbed-wire, Alsatian dogs and armed guards.
The winter was hard.
Some children were saved by help-organisations.
These survivors are the time-witnesses,
Who have lived to tell
Of the cruelty of deportation,
Life in the Lager Gurs,
1027 kilometres away from Freiburg,
And their rescue from the clutches of the Gestapo
In the end.
Ah, in this very town there are people,
Who want to keep this shameful deed in mind.
The Zeitzeugin Renate Haberer-Krauss came in 2010,
To tell us how it was in those days.
The Basic Law now holds for all,
Irrespective of nationality, faith or colour.
We have realised that without respect and tolerance,
There can be no peaceful togetherness.
Tolerance should not lead to indifference.
Let us march in demonstrative silence,
To the blue Wiwili Bridge,
Where the bronze overcoat is.
Denke, Du, was uns geschah.
Think, yes you, of what happened to us.
* * *
UPROOTED & BANISHED (Satis Shroff)
A Banat Swabian poetess
Was born in 1953
In a hamlet called Nitzkydorf,
Which lies in Romania.
She came to Berlin in 1987.
Wrote verses to mete out justice
To the fate of German Romanians,
Who were departed to work camps.
The other way round.
Jews died in concentration camps,
80,000 ethnic Germans from Romania,
Uprooted and banished,
Suffered hunger and death
In the Ukranian camps.
Survival strategies and dreams
At the end of the Second World War.
If Bertold Brecht’s Furcht und Elend
Im Dritten Reich
Told us about the Nazi terror,
Hertha’s verses and prose reveal
The sadness and angst of her lost people.
In a small hamlet in Banat,
Small Herta tells us
In her hard, Banat-German accent,
How hostile her home environment was.
She speaks of her doubts and fears,
For it is plain to see:
She’s made of another genetic material
That made her vulnerable to her environs,
Like underdogs everywhere in this world.
How unbearable for Romanians,
The Banat-Germans had their own
Culture, tradition
And way of life.
But pray, don’t ethnic Germans say
The same things about migrants
Eking out a living here?
Hertha speaks a poetic language
Of a gone but not lost past,
Of the misery, angst and terror
Felt by her people.
Her books emphasise
The cruel, inhuman face of communism,
Under Nicolae Ceausescu.
A chronist walking
Along the thin line,
Between poetry and terror,
Where every line is a cry
Against injustice
With pregnant titles:
The Fox Was even Then a Hunter (1992),
Herztier (1994),
In the Hair-knots Lives a Lady,
The King (Ceausescu) Bows and Kills (2000)
The Pale Gentleman and the Mocca Cups (2005).
Herta said:
‘My innermost desire is to write
I can live with it.’
Her literary style is precise,
Laconic and matter-of-fact.
Despite her publications,
Ms. Müller was a nobody.
Without her notes on Oskar Pastiors
She couldn’t have penned ‘Atemschaukel.’
It became more than a swing of breath.
She was shadowed, interrogated and persecuted.
Günter Grass said:
‘I’m very satisfied with the Literature Prize
For Herta from Stockholm.’
Karasek quipped:
‘My mantra is always for Philip Roth,’
And sounded like: ‘My Heart Belongs to Daddy.’
Germany’s literary pope
Marcel Reich-Ranicki:
‘I plead for Roth and wish to say
No more.’
Literary critics form the USA commented:
‘We suggest Philip Roth, Thomas Pynchon,
Joyce Carol Oates
Or Bob Dylan.’
The Swedish Academy gave the prize
For the fourteenth time
To Germany.
Poor Romania
* * *
Rübenzahl: Schlesian fairytale figure
Schlesien, My Forgotten Heimat (Satis Shroff)
Blue hills; green valleys
In the middle a small house,
So
wonderful this piece of earth,
That´s where I´m at
home.
This old Heimat song from Schlesien was painted and hung
on the stairs of Frau Ana Podolski in Kappel by her dear husband when
I visited her. We´d had a chat outside her house where her late
husband had done a mural on the side wall of the house. When you
drive or walk to Kappel you can´t miss it: a big painting depicting
a giant called the Rübenzahl, holding a carrot and near his feet is
an old Schlesien town with its church. In the distance you can
discern the Schneekoppe, which is a 1603m high mountain.
Ana
said, ´It is a German mountain with alpine character. Below the peak
you can see a Wetterwarte, a small building to forcast the
weather.´
Frau Ana Podolski was born in Hiddensee,
Agnetendorf, and has gone through her share of separation from her
old home during the war years, and has now found a place she call
home in Kappel. But the longing (sehnsucht) remains. Rübezahl is a
giant from the Riesengebirge, a mountain spirit, and is the name of a
person and place since the 13th century. It might be noted that there
are 13 Rübezahl stories in the Daemonologia Rubenlii Silesii
published in 1622 by Johannes Praetorius in 1662. Rübenzagel is the
name used in Schlesien like the words: zahl, zoal, zeul even
today.
Ana said, ´In Norway they have a spirit called the
Troll and in Schlesien we had our Rübezahl, who is not only a
Berggeist but also a magic word. The spirit helps the poor.´ Her
home is filled with memories of Schlesien. I asked Ana to tell me
something about her late husband because he seemed to be omnipresent
in the house. He´d constructed and painted a lot of beautiful and
useful things which were on display.
She smiled and said, ´My
husband was a painter but he also indulged in artistry. He could
repair a lot of things. We had leave Schlesien in 1945 because
Germany had lost the war that began in 1939 and lasted till 1945. We
also lost the territory till the Gorlitz-Neisse line. We were
evacuated to north Germany. The winter months of 1944-45 were
extremely cold and snowy, and many people migrated to the USA and
Canada. What followed was injustice towards us Germans.´
It
was on Juli 14, 1945 between 6 to 9am that the evacuation of Germans
began. The German population was brought to the area west of the
river Neisse. Every German was allowed to carry a maximum of 20 kilos
of luggage. Transports like wagons, oxen, horses, cows were not
allowed. The entire living and inanimate objects had to be left
behind and became the property of the Polish government. Hirschberg
became Yelemagora and Breslau was given the Polish name of
Wronlaw.
We had to travel from Pommern, East Prussia across
the east sea to Schleswig-Holstein because the Russians were coming.
The people in the east part of Schlesien were trying to flee the
onslaught of the Russians. The German radio spoke of a wunderwaffe
that Hitler´s Luftwaffe was working on, but the living conditions
declined with the passage of each day. Towards the end of January we
were kept awake by the artillery fire. The front was coming closer to
the Bunzlau, Liegnitz and Breslau, some 50 km north of Hirschberg.
Even old men had orders to fire at the enemy with the panzerfaust
(bazookas) to save the Vaterland.
A lot of people died in the
East Sea and everything was confiscated by the Russian soldiers. We
had to remain. My father died on February 1, 1943 in the home
military hospital. That was also the day when Stalingrad fell and
lots of German soldiers were missing. The Russians had won the
battle.
My husband was a prisoner of war (p.o.w.) and had to
construct bridges, work in the mines and elsewhere. He always sent
his mother letters, who later had to flee from where she lived near
Breslau.
Before he came home, my husband used to construct
useful things with wood and the Russians discovered that he had
talent so they took him to the Kremlin as a carpenter. He was six
years in Russia and he worked for Russians officers to help build
their houses and dachas.
Ana said, ´In order to avoid
assassination, Stalin had three identical limousines with
security-men. My husband was wounded on the left leg and that was why
he was discharged from the p.o.w. camp.
After he was
released, he returned to his mother, and that was when I got to know
him better and fell in love with him,´ she said with a twinkle in
her eyes as we sat in her living room.
He got a job as a
painter in the town council of Rerenau (Amt Oberkirchen). It´s
called Auetal now. We had a lot of agriculture in those days an in
the Ruhr area everything was destroyed. You know, we were evacuated
and weren´t refugees,´ said Ana emphatically.
Ana Podolski
folded her hands, which looked frail like parchment, the blue veins
were distinctly visible on the backs of her fair, pigmented hands, as
she said, ´We had no choice but to leave the country in the years
1946-47. This was a decision made by the USA and the Soviet Union
with the signatures of the former enemy nations: Great Britain and
France. We had the Russian East Zone, the British and US West Zones
and the French Zone. The love for our dear hamlet and the whole of
Schlesien has not been minimised, even though we were forced to leave
our beloved land. We Schlesiens meet every two years in our old
Heimat, and even the younger generations share our sense of loss of
Heimat and the pain that goes with it.´
Ana went further to
say, ´I still think it´s important to tell people in the west about
our odyssey from Schlesien. I have the impression the people still
don´t know what happened to us in those days.´
It might be
mentioned that Krommenau is an old settlement and was mentioned in
1305 in the bishop district circa Hyrsberc (Hirschberg) as the hamlet
´Crupow.´ There was a coal mine, a small tavern with fishery and a
place for breakfast, complete with a tree, under the shade of which
the travellers could tie their horses. There was a nickel-mine in the
year 1373 on the Czeis hills. You can read about it in the city
library of Breslau. As time went by, the name of Crupow was changed
to Cromnow, then Krummenau, and in the end Krommenau. A rivulet
called Krummseiffen flowed through the hamlet. It was three km long
before it became a tributary of the Altkemnitz. There was an
elevation called Nebelberg, which means ´Misty Mountain´ (698m).
The founders of this settlement were 20 families where agriculture
was the main occupation. According to a certificate book, in the year
1576 Krommenau had 25 farmers. The main religion (90%) was
evangelism. During the 30 Year War (1618-1648) the Christians had a
tough time because in 1637 the Lutherian faith was forbidden, and as
a result 578 evangelist churches were closed.
The entire
country was destroyed and was in penury. When the King of Prussia
Friedrich II took over Schlesien in 1714, he declared freedom of
religion for all. A big church was built but was misused by the Poles
as a store-room for hay, straw and cereals. The windows were closed
with nailed planks.
I asked her how she and her husband had
landed in Kappel and not in north Germany.
Ana said, ´ A
cousin of my husband met a colleague from the Black Forest and she
married him and settled down in Lenzkirch. My husband got a job at
Knosp in the Moltke street. I was 14 years old when the World War II
began and now I´m 70.´
© 2014 Satis Shroff
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Added on September 23, 2014
Last Updated on September 23, 2014
Tags: literature, zeitgeistlyrik, gedichte, poems, satisshroff, a gurkha mother, the lure of the himalayas, heidegger, le grande guerre, crosses, poppy fields, how could I exist, summertime
Author
Satis Shroff
Freiburg, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Germany
About
I'm a German of Nepalese descent based in Freiburg, and have worked in Kathmandu(Nepal) as a features journalist (The Rising Nepal) and wrote commentaries for Radio Nepal. before coming to Germany for.. more..Writing
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