By Wolfgang Borchert · View Translated Work ↑. Das hohle Fenster in der Da lag ein halbes Brot. Und eine Blechschachtel. Du rauchst? fragte der Mann. Europe Germany Hamburg. Wolfgang Borchert () is a German short-story writer and playwright. He is considered to be the. Die klassischen Kurzgeschichten “Das Brot” von Wolfgang Borchert und ” Saisonbeginn” von Elisabeth Langgässer: Kompetenzorientierter Unterricht, Analyse.
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They saw him from far off, coming towards him, because he stuck out. He had a very old face, but as he approached, it was noticeable that he was actually only about twenty. He sat down with his old face beside them on the bench. And then he showed them what was in his hand. He held up a round, china-white kitchen clock, and dabbed the blue painted numbers with his fingers. It is just like a plate, with its plain white lacquer. But the blue numbers still look very pretty, I think.
The hands are naturally only rough bits of tin. But it still looks like it always did. With the tip of his finger he traced a careful circle around the edge of the plate clock. And he said, slowly: They sat on the bench in the sun, not looking at him. Only this here, only this is left. But otherwise it is still entirely as it always was, white and blue.
The best thing is namely: Of all times, just think, at half past two! When the bomb goes down, the clocks stop.
The kitchen clock
Borcchert comes from the pressure. He looked at his clock and shook his head in wonder. This has nothing to do with the bombs.
That is to say, I always came home at half past two. At night, I mean. Almost always at half two. He looked at the others, but they had directed their eyes away from him. So he nodded at his clock: And I always went straight into the kitchen.
There it was almost always half two. And then, then, fact is, my mother came in. I would open the door ever so quietly, but she always heard me. And as I looked for something to eat in the dark kitchen, suddenly the light would flick on. Then she stood in her wool jacket and with a red shawl. And barefoot — always barefoot. And bear in mind our kitchen was tiled. And she would make her eyes very small, because the light was znalyse bright.
She had just been asleep. It was, ras all, nighttime. She never said anything more, wolfgzng And then she made me a bit of warm supper and watched as I ate. As she did, she would always rub her feet against each other, because the tiles were so cold. She never wore shoes at night. And she sat for such a long time with me, until I was full. And then I heard her putting the plates away again, when I had already gone to my room and turned out the light.
Every night that happened. And mostly, always at half past two. That was completely matter of course, I found, that she made me food at half past two at night in the kitchen. I took that completely for granted. She always did that. But she said that every time. And I thought, this could never end.
It was so obvious, normal to me. All this had always been analysse. For a long moment it was entirely silent on the bench. Then he said slowly: Then he said slowly to the clock, into the white and blue round face: Now I know that that was paradise.
That fas really paradise.
Rats Sleep at Night – Exchanges: Journal of Literary Translation
When he raised his clock up high again, he laughed. And the finest thing is, that it stopped, of all times, at half past two. Half past two, of all times. But he had a very old face.
„Das Brot” by halil aksu on Prezi
And the man who sat next wolfgant him looked at his shoes. He just kept thinking of the word — the word paradise. You are commenting using your WordPress. You are commenting using your Twitter account. You are commenting using your Facebook account. Notify me of new comments via email. Then the woman asked: Leave a Reply Cancel reply Enter your comment here Fill in your details below or click an icon to owlfgang in: Email required Address never made public.