Taking about a one‑meter run‑up and then smashing the football with full force. G. is standing in goal. And as he told me years later, even a club member of the Stuttgarter Kickers had taken notice of me — though he played it down to him. Not that football was the be‑all and end‑all for me back then, but I needed the attention, and he gave it to me.
Well, that was the beginning of a—well—long story, one that plays a major role here in my own story, though of course mine begins much earlier. If I were to joke in earnest, the beginning would have been roughly four billion years ago. I’ll stick with earnest joking and start vaguely around 1945.
There would be so much to tell, and before that, so much still to listen to … but that train seems to have left the station. My grandmother H. is still alive, but she probably won’t want to, and likely can’t, contribute anymore. Who could blame her — born in the spring of 1931.
Life must still have been fairly pleasant then, naturally, once you’ve familiarized yourself, even loosely, with the dates and the geography. And over time, little stories would seep through, drop by drop, here and there: that older man I once passed on a walk, telling his companion that back then, in East Prussia, the world had been in order. Or the documentary on “East Prussia’s ruined castles,” which revealed that the region had once been a rich granary for the rest of the continent. And then? That catastrophe of the Third Reich swept through, and I don’t like to say it, but fortunately “the Russ” came. Unfortunately — yes, in some way, of course unfortunately. What can I say? I, like millions of others, would never have been born. What are we supposed to say to that. But was it worth it? That’s not the point, okay. Note to self: you inherit the burdens of the past. Fine.