Book Report: Gehen, ging, gegangen

27. Jenny Erpenbeck, Gehen, ging, gegangen (2015) (10/16/2020)

I decided to brave this, the fourth book in the "Border Crossings" seminar that I'm participating in with Peter Turchi, in its original German--which, gratifyingly, proved to be much easier than my struggles with Norwegian, even though I haven't really spoken or read German in, oh, fifty years. But I learned it at an age—fourteen—and in an immersive experience—boarding school—that apparently allowed it to burrow deeply into my brain cells. Certainly, I didn't know all the words, so I did have the English translation, Go, Went, Gone, as well as a dictionary at the ready. But it was a pleasure to be able, for the most part, to simply sit and read, and appreciate the economy of the German language in contrast to the more inflected English.

The story concerns Richard, a widower and recently retired classics scholar who lives in what until 1989 was East Berlin. One day he sees an evening news report about a hunger strike being waged by ten African refugees who, with others, have been camped for a year and a half on a central square in the city. Just that day, he had passed through the same square, and hadn't even noticed the occupiers. Within days, the migrants have been moved to several facilities around the city, one of which is very close by Richard's home. He decides to go there and, perhaps, learn more about them. It is a project.

The book is very much about the migrants, their origin stories and the many stumbling blocks they encounter in their adoptive home, but even more, arguably, it is a story of Richard and his emotional awakening. He is an orderly man, set in his ways, and somewhat stuck since his wife died five years ago, though he still had his work. Now, he doesn't even have that. He is crossing borders of his own.

The book examines the passage of time—the title refers to the migrants' language lessons, learning how to conjugate irregular verbs, but the stories they tell also reflect their constant state of waiting, of being caught in between one real, productive life and another. As Richard learns more about these men, he reflects on everything that he takes for granted or considers "normal," which he now realizes is all superficial. And yet to go below the surface can be a recipe for pain—as well as, perhaps, joy. Or both.

As always, I flagged many passages. Here's one:

War destroys everything, Awad says: your family, your friends, the place where you lived, your work, your life. When you become foreign, Awad says, you don't have a choice. You don't know where to go. You don't know anything. I can't see myself anymore, can't see the child I used to be. I don't have a picture of myself anymore.
 My father is dead, he says.
 And me—I don't know who I am anymore.
 Becoming foreign. To yourself and others. So that's what a transition looks like.
 What's the sense of all of this? he asks, looking back at Richard again.
 Now Richard is the one who's supposed to answer, but he doesn't know how.
 Isn't it like this, Awad says: every adult human being—man or woman, rich or poor, if he has work or not, if he lives in a house or is homeless, it doesn't matter—every human being has his few years to live, and then he dies?
 Yes, that's how it is, Richard says.

If I reread this book (which I might), I will do so in English, which will, I'm sure, serve up much crisper images, since I will understand every word. But I am glad I read it in German for the first go-round. It feels somehow more "authentic."

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Today's Covid-19 numbers for Monterey County: 10,943 cases, 643 hospitalizations, 82 deaths—a change of 56, 1, and 0 since yesterday.