Edeltraud Grom (b. 1966)
by Danny Lenois
To my mother
I. Frankfurt am Main, 1970
Back when the air was clean and crisp
and breath unspooled in silver streams
beyond my tiny lips. I rode half-fare,
Mutti lying daily to tuck away a few
D-Marks for bread. A businessman
sat reading Die Zeit headlined about
diplomats and New Guinea. Only ten
minutes to the bed and breakfast, Mutti
would change sheets, wait tables, check in
Americans, smile in English. I would stay
in a half-timbered villa laced with
darkened beams, flower boxes spilling
over in blushing reds and golds. My doll,
whose vinyl voice was stolen by my brother,
formed a silent cradle of peacetime boredom.
I would often chase squirrels around the courtyard,
their flickering tails a blur of mischief vanishing
into rustling whispers of green. They would bury
acorns like secrets deep into the earth, greed haunting
their instincts. In their autumnal race, I wondered:
would squirrels carve another’s land for buried gain
to preemptively protect against a foreign rodent’s claim.
and breath unspooled in silver streams
beyond my tiny lips. I rode half-fare,
Mutti lying daily to tuck away a few
D-Marks for bread. A businessman
sat reading Die Zeit headlined about
diplomats and New Guinea. Only ten
minutes to the bed and breakfast, Mutti
would change sheets, wait tables, check in
Americans, smile in English. I would stay
in a half-timbered villa laced with
darkened beams, flower boxes spilling
over in blushing reds and golds. My doll,
whose vinyl voice was stolen by my brother,
formed a silent cradle of peacetime boredom.
I would often chase squirrels around the courtyard,
their flickering tails a blur of mischief vanishing
into rustling whispers of green. They would bury
acorns like secrets deep into the earth, greed haunting
their instincts. In their autumnal race, I wondered:
would squirrels carve another’s land for buried gain
to preemptively protect against a foreign rodent’s claim.
„Was macht ein Ossi,
wenn er eine Schlange sieht?
Er stellt sich an!“
II. Rottenbach, 1977
I stepped into the East once, spurred by a dare
from a blonde girl, a Besserwessi. The wall heaved,
hissing threats restlessly in barbed-wire tongues.
I placed my foot into its gaping mouth, rusty teeth bared,
hungry for missteps. A gunmetal glance flicked my way—
the Grenzer, cloaked in his brick turret. I retreated,
as she laughed sharp and lurid. I heard of a crossing once:
Mutti worked with a family who flew
their lofty hot-air balloon over searchlights,
clawing the darkening clouds. They crashed
into a neighbor’s farmland, now they sell televisions
in their shop downtown. They could finally
detest having too many choices for cereal
and express their distaste for plain foods.
Their imprisoned bodies couldn’t be exchanged
for coffee and oranges. They wouldn’t need
to request a car for their newborn to own
in twenty years despite this iron divide
the perfect destination for a fifth-grade field trip.
from a blonde girl, a Besserwessi. The wall heaved,
hissing threats restlessly in barbed-wire tongues.
I placed my foot into its gaping mouth, rusty teeth bared,
hungry for missteps. A gunmetal glance flicked my way—
the Grenzer, cloaked in his brick turret. I retreated,
as she laughed sharp and lurid. I heard of a crossing once:
Mutti worked with a family who flew
their lofty hot-air balloon over searchlights,
clawing the darkening clouds. They crashed
into a neighbor’s farmland, now they sell televisions
in their shop downtown. They could finally
detest having too many choices for cereal
and express their distaste for plain foods.
Their imprisoned bodies couldn’t be exchanged
for coffee and oranges. They wouldn’t need
to request a car for their newborn to own
in twenty years despite this iron divide
the perfect destination for a fifth-grade field trip.
„Man darf das, was geschehen ist,
nicht vergessen! Damit würde man sich
schuldig machen! Nie wieder…“
III. Frankfurt am Main, 1979
My history teacher witnessed the pogrom
from the third story of a bakery, nauseated
by the glints of light from the shattered
window below. My father once told me
Americans exaggerated about our history, but really
it lies buried beneath the rubble their missiles left behind.
My uncle’s farmland was detonated and became
an American airfield. The local ball-bearing works
is now abandoned except by ash. We say we will never
forget, yet erase every trace of the past and remain
silent. How can I even remember that night
of broken glass? Perhaps my father is right in a sense:
The land of the free bombed Germany, yet rebuilt
bureaus for Nazi spies and scientists and judges
in the West without any charges and then claim
that we’re the cult of shame.
from the third story of a bakery, nauseated
by the glints of light from the shattered
window below. My father once told me
Americans exaggerated about our history, but really
it lies buried beneath the rubble their missiles left behind.
My uncle’s farmland was detonated and became
an American airfield. The local ball-bearing works
is now abandoned except by ash. We say we will never
forget, yet erase every trace of the past and remain
silent. How can I even remember that night
of broken glass? Perhaps my father is right in a sense:
The land of the free bombed Germany, yet rebuilt
bureaus for Nazi spies and scientists and judges
in the West without any charges and then claim
that we’re the cult of shame.