Storybook Stories (Lesebuchgeschichten)
By Wolfgang Borchert
Translated from German into English by Kristel Smith
Everyone has a sewing machine, a radio, an icebox, and a telephone. What will we make now? asked the factory owner.
Bombs, said the inventor.
War, said the general.
If there's no other alternative, the factory owner said.
The man with the white coat wrote numbers on a paper. In addition, he wrote very small, delicate letters.
Then he took off the white coat and tended the flowers on the windowsill for an hour. When he saw that one flower had withered, he became very sad and cried.
And the figures stood on the paper. According to them, in two hours one could kill a thousand people with half a gram.
The sun shone on the flowers.
And on the paper.
Two men spoke with each other.
Cost estimate?
With tiles?
Naturally, with green tiles.
Fourteen thousand.
Fourteen thousand? Good. Yes, my dear man. Had I not timely switched over from chocolate to gunpowder, then I could not give you fourteen thousand.
And I could not give you a shower room.
With green tiles.
With green tiles.
The two men left each other.
It was a factory owner and a building contractor.
It was war.
Bowling alley. Two men spoke with each other.
Well, what up teacher?A dark suit? Did someone die?
Not
at all, not at all. Had a going away ceremony.
Boys are going to the front. I
gave a little speech. Reminded
them of
My God, teacher. Stop! That is horrible!
The teacher stared angrily at the other man. During the whole story, he had made nothing but crosses on the paper. Nothing but crosses. He stood up and laughed. Took a new ball and rolled it down the lane. It thundered lightly, then the pins fell over backwards. They looked like little men.
Two men spoke with each other.
Well, how’s it going?
Not very well.
How many do you still have?
If things go well, fourteen thousand.
How many can you give me?
At most, eight hundred.
That’s not enough.
So, a thousand.
Thank you.
The two men departed.
They spoke of men.
They were generals.
It was war.
Two men spoke with each other.
Volunteer?
Of course.
How old?
Eighteen. And you?
Me too.
The two men left each other.
They were soldiers.
Then the one fell over. He was dead.
It was war.
When the war ended, the soldier came home. But he didn’t have any bread. Then he saw someone, who had bread. He beat him to death.
You can’t beat people to death, said the judge.
Why not, asked the soldier.
When the peace conference ended, the ministers were walking through the city. They walked by a shooting gallery.
Would the gentleman like to take a shot? Cried the girls with red lips. Then all the ministers took a rifle and shot at little men made of cardboard.
In the middle of the shooting an old woman came and took their rifles away. When one of the ministers demanded it back, she boxed his ears.
It was a mother.
Once there were two men. When they were two years old, they slapped each other with their hands.
When they were twelve, they hit each other with sticks and stones.
When they were twenty-two, they shot at each other with rifles.
When they were twenty-four, they hurled bombs.
When they were twenty-six, they attacked each other with bacteria.
When they were eighty-eight, they died. They were buried side-by-side.
When an earthworm ate through both their graves a hundred years later, he didn’t notice that two different men were buried there. It was the same earth. All the same earth.
When a mole peeked out of the earth in the year 5000, he satisfyingly determined:
The trees are still trees.
The crows still crow.
And the dogs still lift their legs.
The smelt and the stars,
the moss and the sea,
and the mosquitoes:
They have all stayed the same.
And sometimes ─
sometimes one encounters a human being.