RAŠA TODOSJEVIĆ

Gott liebt die

Serben, 1997

Für Inge Hartmann

ANGY

Vor einigen Tagen besuchte ich Angy – so nennen Marinela und ich
meine Mutter, meine Andjelka. Kaum war ich angekommen, da gab mir
Angy ohne Umschweife zu verstehen, sie hätte keinen Pfennig im
Haus, was wohl, so denke ich, heißen sollte, es wäre nicht schlecht,
wenn ich ihr – ohne Rückgabe – ein paar Tausend leihe, „natürlich, bis
sie Rente bekommt“.

Ich sagte ihr, sie solle sich keine Sorgen machen, ich hätte etwas Geld
bei mir, aber ich frage mich doch, wie sie es geschafft habe, die
siebzig Mark klein zu kriegen, die ich ihr vor zwei oder drei Tagen
geliehen hatte. Angy gab notgedrungen zu, sie hätte diese siebzig
„Doitschmark“ eigentlich nicht angerührt, sondern gedächte sie morgen
zur Bank zu bringen und dort in Euro umzutauschen.

Mir war wirklich nicht klar, was meine gute Angy, dieses winzige und
außerdem gänzlich kahlköpfige arme Geschöpf – mit der geringen
Summe paneuropäischen Gelds anfangen wollte. Während ich mich im
Zimmer umsah und darüber nachdachte, wie ich ihr auf anständige Art
diese unangenehme Frage betreffs der Finanzen stellen sollte, sagte
Angy, sie werde ernsthaft damit beginnen, ausländische Valuta zu
sparen, weil sie vorhabe, sich ein Grab zu kaufen. Es falle ihr gar nicht
ein, zu enden wie Mozart, dass die Leute sie begraben wie den letzten
Dreck, recht und schlecht, auf Staatskosten – egal wo. Sie sei keine
Katze, dass sich die Schinder um ihre irdischen Überreste kümmerten.
Sie wolle keinen Sack und keinen Kalk; sie wünsche sich ein
bescheidenes, aber anständiges Begräbnis. Außerdem sei wohl auch
mir bekannt, Avram habe um keinen Preis eingewilligt, dass ihm dieser
Zar, dieser Efron, die Wiese und die Höhle schenkt, sondern er habe
immer wieder aufdringlich vor Zeugen beteuert, er werde selber, aus
eigener Tasche, wie es sich gehört, die dreißig Silberlinge für die
Grabstelle bezahlen, in der er und Sara begraben werden sollten. Sie
sei eine alte Frau, und es sei wohl verständlich, dass sie an die letzten
Dinge denke, besonders jetzt, da in Serbien die „Trichinellose“
herrsche. Morgens verzehrst du eine schöne Schweinswurst, und am
Nachmittag ist´ s mit dir aus und vorbei.

Ich versuchte ihr zu erklären, eine gewöhnliche Grabstelle in Belgrad

koste fünftausend DM. Vielleicht auch mehr. Das seien etwa
zweieinhalbtausend Euro oder hundertfünfzigtausend Dinar. Wenn sie
beispielsweise anfinge, jeden Monat fünfundzwanzig Euro auf die hohe
Kante zu legen, dann brauche sie acht Jahre, um dieses Geld zu
sparen. Sie solle mir zuliebe davon ablassen, denn wenn sie sterbe,
dann kümmere es sie sicherlich nicht so sehr, wer das Geld für ihr
Grab ausspuckt. Ich oder dieser Staat oder die norwegische
Regierung, das werde ihr dann ganz egal sein.

Angy meinte, ihr ginge etwas Ähnliches durch den Kopf, aber sie wollte
trotzdem, dass wir beide wie vernünftige Leute im Familienkreis die
Sache mit dem Grab irgendwie ins Reine bringen.

Raša Todosijević

22.01.2002

Übersetzung aus dem Serbischen: Astrid Philippsen

RAŠA TODOSJEVIĆ

ANGIE

For Inge Hartmann

A few days ago I visited Angie – that’s how Marinela and I call my
mother, Andjelka. As soon as I arrived, Angie plainly informed me that
she had not a penny in the house, meaning; I supposed, that it would
come useful if I could lend here - irretrievably – a few thousand; «of
course, until the pension arrived». I told her not to worry, I had some
money on me, but was still wondering how on earth she had managed
to spend the seventy German marks I had lent her a couple of days
earlier. Angie unwillingly confessed she had not touched the seventy
Germans but planned to take them to the bank the next day and
exchange for euros.

I really could not understand what my dear Angie - the tiny and
completely bald old woman – could undertake with such a trivial
amount of pan-European money. While I was staring around trying to
think of a nice way to ask that unpleasant financial question, Angie said
she had seriously decided to start saving foreign currency and buy
herself a grave. She had no intention of ending up like Mozart, buried
by barbarians as a pauper, at the expense of the state – anywhere.
She is not a cat to be picked up by a dog-catcher, no bags or lime for
her, but a modest, decent burial. I should know myself how Abraham
would not let that emperor, Ephron, give him a field and a cave, but
insisted, in front of witnesses, that he should fairly pay the thirty silver
coins for the grave he intended for his Sarah and himself. She is an old
woman, said Angie, and it is all right for her to think of such ultimate
matters, particularly now, when trichinosis was raging throughout
Serbia. You eat a good pork sausage in the morning, and perish in the
afternoon.

I tried to explain that a simple grave in Belgrade cost five thousand

German marks. Probably more: Equaling twenty-five hundred euro or
one hundred and fifty thousand dinars. If, for example, she put aside
twenty-five euro each month, she would need eight years to collect the
sum. I advised her to forget about the saving, once dead she would
certainly not worry about who paid for her grave: Myself, this state, or
the government of Norway. It would be all the same to her then.

Angie admitted her thoughts were also moving in that direction, but
wanted the two of as to talk about it, as family, as reasonable people,
and somehow clear up the matter of the grave.

Raša Todosijević

January 22nd 2002

A few days ago I visited Angie – that’s how Marinela and I call my
mother, Andjelka. As soon as I arrived, Angie plainly informed me that
she had not a penny in the house, meaning; I supposed, that it would
come useful if I could lend here - irretrievably – a few thousand; «of
course, until the pension arrived». I told her not to worry, I had some
money on me, but was still wondering how on earth she had managed
to spend the seventy German marks I had lent her a couple of days
earlier. Angie unwillingly confessed she had not touched the seventy
Germans but planned to take them to the bank the next day and
exchange for euros.

I really could not understand what my dear Angie - the tiny and
completely bald old woman – could undertake with such a trivial
amount of pan-European money. While I was staring around trying to
think of a nice way to ask that unpleasant financial question, Angie said
she had seriously decided to start saving foreign currency and buy
herself a grave. She had no intention of ending up like Mozart, buried
by barbarians as a pauper, at the expense of the state – anywhere.
She is not a cat to be picked up by a dog-catcher, no bags or lime for
her, but a modest, decent burial. I should know myself how Abraham
would not let that emperor, Ephron, give him a field and a cave, but
insisted, in front of witnesses, that he should fairly pay the thirty silver
coins for the grave he intended for his Sarah and himself. She is an old
woman, said Angie, and it is all right for her to think of such ultimate
matters, particularly now, when trichinosis was raging throughout
Serbia. You eat a good pork sausage in the morning, and perish in the
afternoon.

I tried to explain that a simple grave in Belgrade cost five thousand

German marks. Probably more: Equaling twenty-five hundred euro or
one hundred and fifty thousand dinars. If, for example, she put aside
twenty-five euro each month, she would need eight years to collect the
sum. I advised her to forget about the saving, once dead she would
certainly not worry about who paid for her grave: Myself, this state, or
the government of Norway. It would be all the same to her then.

Angie admitted her thoughts were also moving in that direction, but
wanted the two of as to talk about it, as family, as reasonable people,
and somehow clear up the matter of the grave.

Raša Todosijević

January 22nd 2002