Rebecca Budde de Cancino

I am driving to Mülheim towards the Thingstätte. My

grandfather with me. In thought. On my way there,

the sunlight flashes like volleys into the darkness of

my closed eyelids.

And there I am, on the stand, high above.

Out there. Majestic. Despite the wooden benches.

Above all.

Alone.

Hundreds of empty seats facing a common centre.

And facing me: the rock, that has always been there.

I get myself to ask him, back when he was still alive,

if I could take a picture of the tattoo he was given

during the war, which tells his blood type.

He gets up. Takes his pullover off. There he is in front of

me, in his vest.

I am 19 years old.

His arm hanging. I take the first shot.

I instruct him to raise his arm.

I see armpit hair and a faded and badly tattooed circle.

I take a second shot.

He sinks his arm. Gets dressed. Not a word. This was the

highest proof of love.

I don’t know how I knew about the tattoo. We never

talked about it again, as we had never talked about

it before.

Confinement. Remains. A space. An opening. Blackness.

And then words. A wall. Shadows.

And Silence.

My foot hits the cardboard.

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