Read Online Europe Central by William Vollmann - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Vollmann
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Historical, War & Military, Germany, Soviet Union, Germany - Social Life and Customs, Soviet Union - Social Life and Customs
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superimposed the living body’s almost reptilian grossness, combine into something quite simply horrifying. Soon enough she etched another version of “Mother and Dead Child,” this time entitled “Tod und Frau um das Kind ringend” (1911), the child’s mouth blackly gaping in a face gone slightly darker, the mother’s correspondingly lighter so that the two black slits of her clenched mouth and eye leap out at us; here too is death, a white skeleton whose round eye-socket gazes at the pair with something between curiosity and glee; shreds of flesh, perhaps hiding ribs, join it to the two forms which it has now begun to sever. We’ll ignore such variations as “Death and Woman,” in which the little child fights with all its feeble strength to save Mother from being raped away by death; I suppose you get the picture.
Four years before the World War and two years before the Kaiser ordered the removal of her poster demanding playgrounds in tenement housing (a sad girl stands by a wall, clasping a sick baby; behind them, the sign reads PLAYING FORBIDDEN ) we find her writing in her daybook: Today started work on the sculpture “Woman with Dead Child.”
8
For years she looked out her window at the same gaunt man who grimaced under his tophat. She never learned his name, but she learned to recognize his footsteps on the cobblestones. For awhile he used to be accompanied by a little blond boy with sunken eyes, but the blond boy died of tuberculosis, and then the man came down with it, too; he was one of Karl’s patients, but he wouldn’t give his name; he felt very ashamed because he couldn’t pay. No doubt that was why he then stopped being Karl’s patient. Perhaps Karl had saved him; he lived on year after year. Käthe, newly a mother, was still at work on her Weavers’ Series when she first came to know him; she was still scratching the dark fine lines of anguish on brown paper, bringing to life the pale children, the weak figures in black, the death. Once, in about 1895 it must have been, the gaunt man removed his tophat to scratch at his hair, and then, right then, when his eyes almost met hers, she caught him, sketching his head for three or four seconds of passionate struggle; yes, she’d possessed him; now he was hers; his agony wasn’t in vain anymore; he became one of her weavers.
In 1921 she drew a poster for the Russenhilfe; she wanted to do what she could to help the Communists fight that terrible hunger in their country. But she didn’t care to join the Party, because their tactics didn’t suit her. She made two pairs of hands respectfully reaching to support the swaying head of someone Slavic, someone with dark hair whose eyes were closed in extreme weakness. All the sick proletarians Karl treated, whose stories were so sad and who all too often lived and died beyond anyone’s power to help, she remembered them when she made that Russian face.—No, not all of them. That man in the tophat, when he passed beneath her window he conveyed so dramatic an impression that she took up her graphite stick, but there was too much anger and not enough weakness in him. Frau Becker’s son, the dark one who’d died last year, she remembered his drooping eyes when he was dying. She worked him into the Slavic face. She looked it over and said to herself: It’s good, thank God.—Karl agreed, as he always did.
She sat herself down in Peter’s room and considered doing a series of very straightforward posters about Lenin. But when she and Hans came by some accident to be discussing politics, she said: There are other problems that interest me now, essential human problems like death.
But your woodcut about Liebknecht—
A little sternly, she said to him: I’m not the old hating, fighting Käthe Kollwitz.
In fact, she remained as unchanging as Berlin’s pale green summer weeds and trees along the water, because her anguish was as dependable as the ocherish brownstones.
9
In 1922 she rendered
Four years before the World War and two years before the Kaiser ordered the removal of her poster demanding playgrounds in tenement housing (a sad girl stands by a wall, clasping a sick baby; behind them, the sign reads PLAYING FORBIDDEN ) we find her writing in her daybook: Today started work on the sculpture “Woman with Dead Child.”
8
For years she looked out her window at the same gaunt man who grimaced under his tophat. She never learned his name, but she learned to recognize his footsteps on the cobblestones. For awhile he used to be accompanied by a little blond boy with sunken eyes, but the blond boy died of tuberculosis, and then the man came down with it, too; he was one of Karl’s patients, but he wouldn’t give his name; he felt very ashamed because he couldn’t pay. No doubt that was why he then stopped being Karl’s patient. Perhaps Karl had saved him; he lived on year after year. Käthe, newly a mother, was still at work on her Weavers’ Series when she first came to know him; she was still scratching the dark fine lines of anguish on brown paper, bringing to life the pale children, the weak figures in black, the death. Once, in about 1895 it must have been, the gaunt man removed his tophat to scratch at his hair, and then, right then, when his eyes almost met hers, she caught him, sketching his head for three or four seconds of passionate struggle; yes, she’d possessed him; now he was hers; his agony wasn’t in vain anymore; he became one of her weavers.
In 1921 she drew a poster for the Russenhilfe; she wanted to do what she could to help the Communists fight that terrible hunger in their country. But she didn’t care to join the Party, because their tactics didn’t suit her. She made two pairs of hands respectfully reaching to support the swaying head of someone Slavic, someone with dark hair whose eyes were closed in extreme weakness. All the sick proletarians Karl treated, whose stories were so sad and who all too often lived and died beyond anyone’s power to help, she remembered them when she made that Russian face.—No, not all of them. That man in the tophat, when he passed beneath her window he conveyed so dramatic an impression that she took up her graphite stick, but there was too much anger and not enough weakness in him. Frau Becker’s son, the dark one who’d died last year, she remembered his drooping eyes when he was dying. She worked him into the Slavic face. She looked it over and said to herself: It’s good, thank God.—Karl agreed, as he always did.
She sat herself down in Peter’s room and considered doing a series of very straightforward posters about Lenin. But when she and Hans came by some accident to be discussing politics, she said: There are other problems that interest me now, essential human problems like death.
But your woodcut about Liebknecht—
A little sternly, she said to him: I’m not the old hating, fighting Käthe Kollwitz.
In fact, she remained as unchanging as Berlin’s pale green summer weeds and trees along the water, because her anguish was as dependable as the ocherish brownstones.
9
In 1922 she rendered
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