In his text Die Erfindung der Currywurst, which sadly (like so much else) hasn’t been translated into two billion world languages, author Uwe Timm, who is very dear to me, doesn’t only explain how this culinary disaster came to be, no, he also introduces a love story to this venial anecdote; and you can always rely on captivating me – and everyone else, surely? – with love stories that also have something to do with sausages.
She’s drawn the nylon tights onto her calves, because she couldn’t afford to buy them.
So, after the incident of the broken ketchup bottle and the spices, that all still remain in the bag that fell on the ground, we are taken to a bombed flat in a house in a German city. The house probably stands like the last remaining tooth in a black abyss of a smile, and there you see (I’ve forgotten the names, the book has been given away), a woman and a man – and I can only remember that he has seen terrible things; and that she’s drawn the nylon tights onto her calves, because she couldn’t afford to buy them. And then Uwe Timm finds this picture: he writes of the “mattress raft”. It’s taken me years to catch on, or shall I say: to fully understand what he earnestly meant (in all his life’s wisdom, with everything he has seen): he who’s never loved, and by that I mean: come hell or high water, won’t completely grasp the nightingale sequence in Romeo and Juliet either.
They exist, however, those shields from fear, they can give you a bed and even donate it. One moment, it sounds short, and that’s exactly what it is: far away from the world affairs, endangered, entirely together.