Writers 1-2: Hertha Mueller: Freedom and Poverty

A wisp of cloud. Hertha could not remember the second line. She was unsure why she forgot. Was it the presence of the only two friends she could trust that could not be her friends. Was it the admission of their false friendship that she could not bear. She felt tears wanted to flow out of her, but her eyes remained dry. Tears of what, she couldn't decide. The soot mascara. The belt-less dress. The patent stocking. The Swabian smile of an SS man. The wind was dry like her eyes. Her lips did not move, perhaps out of fear of admission. Three men smoked a cigarette on the corner of the street. Hertha did not know if constant fear was terrifying. Words. Her tongue could not even move on the sound of words any more, yet the words existed. Hertha recited the poem to herself in silence. Perhaps it was the poverty that depressed her. The lack of meat. A belt. A belt to hang her self in the closet, like Lola. But all she had were words. Words like a wisp of cloud. Lola had had men like words, but men were like friends you could not have. She turned the corner, entered a court yard. Windows without eyes, only curtains like souls. Hertha sat down on a bench under the plum tree. She looked up at the square of sky above her. It was Spring, but Hertha was cold without a coat, like windows without eyes. She clasped a key in her hand, a key without a home. She missed a home, a home with a plume tree, a closet with dresses, a belt like Lola.