Read the winning entries

Winning Entries
Translation Competition on
Annett Gröschner's novel
Walpurgistag, 2015
Preface
The German Academic Exchange Service (DAAD) and the Institute for Modern Languages Research (IMLR)
have had the great pleasure of organising the ‘Translation Competition on Annett Gröschner’s novel Walpurgistag’
this autumn. The competition aimed to encourage a deeper engagement with the German language and culture
through the complexities of the translation process, as well as to celebrate language work at school, undergraduate,
and postgraduate level and beyond. Contestants were asked to translate a set passage of Gröschner’s novel; each entry category was assigned a different passage, each with its own linguistic and contextual challenges.
With 205 entries from across the UK and beyond, the response was very strong. There were 39 entries in the Others
category, 54 from undergraduates, and 43 from postgraduates, whilst the number of entries in the Secondary Schools
category was particularly high at 69. The judges commended the quality of translations submitted by school students
and saw the responses as a positive reflection of the linguistic capabilities of students in this age group: ’The high
standard of submissions shows that working with literature at secondary school level is a welcome challenge. It
shows once again that high expectations lead to success, motivation and creativity’ commented Liz Black and René
Koglbauer, judges for the schools category.
The variety of responses was also impressive. The jury praised the creativity, humour, and ingenuity applied by contestants, as well as the incorporation of background information and contextual knowledge:
‘Our passage included spoken language in the Berlin vernacular. It was very good to see how many translators
seemed to have relished translating this using a range of different styles in English (and Scottish!). We could have
nominated 10 first prizes easily as the quality overall was very good.’ - Silke Mentchen and Fiona Rintoul (Judges,
Undergraduate category)
‘Our passage required translators not only to respond sensitively and creatively to poetic and colloquial language,
but also to do their homework on Leibnizian philosophy and the layout of Alexanderplatz in 1986 East Berlin. Our
prizewinners dealt with these demands magnificently, enlivening their careful observations with frequent touches of
inventiveness and humour.’ - Duncan Large and Paul Hoegger (Judges, Postgraduate category)
‘The quality of the entries was very impressive indeed - especially given the difficulty of the passage given to this
category. It required historical knowledge, understanding and rendering of GDR lingo, the translation of idiomatic
expressions and dealing with various shifts in style and register. Excellent work!’ - Godela Weiss-Sussex and Kate
Roy (Judges, Others category)
Winners and Runners-up will receive prizes ranging from invitations to attend translation workshops or panel discussions at the University of Cambridge to scholarships for language summer courses in Germany.
The competition would not have been possible without the generous support of the German Embassy, the Goethe
Institut London, the Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt, the Cambridge German Network, the Greater London German
Network, and the University of Nottingham. Special thanks also go to our panel of judges for their time and enthusiasm. We hope that this brochure of winning translations will give you a small insight into the wealth of creative
responses we have received this autumn.
Dr Godela Weiss-Sussex
Dr Georg Krawietz
Senior Lecturer in Modern German Literature
Institute of Modern Languages Research
Director, German Academic Exchange Service (DAAD), London
Competition Jury
Secondary schools category
Liz Black has taught German for over 30 years and is currently a PGCE tutor at York University. She is also an associate lecturer at Newcastle University and an active member of the ALL Council (Association for Language
Learning) and Primary Steering Group.
René Koglbauer is Acting Head of the School of Education, Communication and Language Sciences at Newcastle
University. Amongst other roles, René is currently also the President of the Association for Language Learning and
Director of Network for Languages North East. René is the UK representative on the International German Teacher
Association and the charity ‘Flame of Peace’
Undergraduates category
Silke Mentchen is one of two Senior Language Teaching Officers in the Department of German and Dutch at the
University of Cambridge, as well as a Fellow of Magdalene College, Cambridge. She is currently establishing a German network for schools in the East Anglia region.
Fiona Rintoul is a writer, journalist and translator. Her first novel, The Leipzig Affair, was published in November
2014 and was the winner of the 2013 Virginia prize for the best new fiction by a woman writing in English. Fiona’s
writing has previously appeared in anthologies and magazines, and she is a past winner of the Gillian Purvis new
writing award and the Sceptre prize. Outside Verdun, her new translation of Arnold Zweig’s first world war classic,
Erziehung vor Verdun, was published in May 2014.
Postgraduates category
Paul Hoegger is co-ordinator and teacher of German at the Cambridge University Language Centre, and is supervisor of German for several Cambridge Colleges. He teaches literary seminars at the University of Cambridge Institute
of Continuing Education (Madingley Hall) and also works at University of Cambridge International Examinations
where he is setter and principal examiner for the German Pre-U Exams.
Duncan Large received his BA, MA and DPhil in Modern Languages (French and German) from Oxford University. He worked at the University of Paris III, Trinity College Dublin and Swansea University before joining UEA as
Academic Director of the British Centre for Literary Translation in 2014
Others category
Godela Weiss-Sussex is a Senior Lecturer in German Literature at the Institute of Modern Languages Research
(IMLR), University of London. Her responsibilities include facilitating and supporting research in German Studies
across the UK, and her own research is focused on 19th- and 20th-century literature. She is also a Fellow of King’s
College, Cambridge.
Kate Roy is a post-doctoral researcher of German and translator. She has been a lecturer of German at the University of Leeds and she held a Research Fellowship at the Research Centre for Austrian and German Exile Studies at the
Institute of Modern Languages Research in 2014. Her translation of Sudabeh Mohafez’s short story ‘Desert Sky,
Land of Stars’ won joint first prize in the John Dryden Translation Competition in 2011.
Winning Entries
Secondary school pupils
1st Prize
Libby Beckett, Kesteven and Sleaford High School, Lincolnshire
2nd Prize
Jason Graham, Portora Royal School, Enniskillen, Northern Ireland
Undergraduates
1st Prize
Rachael Hodgson, University of Nottingham (English and German)
2nd Prize
Clara Valentine, Heriot-Watt University (Applied Languages and Translation, German/Spanish)
Postgraduates
1st Prize
Richard Marsh, Berlin
2nd Prize
Rachel Harland, Hawaii
Others
1st Prize
Tony Crawford, Berlin
2nd Prize
Aubrey Botsford, London
TEXT FOR TRANSLATION
Secondary school pupils category:
Zigeunerin’, pp. 329-30
Paul beobachtet eine Frau mit bunten Röcken und einem Kopftuch, die sich dem
Rotkreuzcontainer an der Ecke nähert. Im Arm hat sie ein kleines Kind. Kurz vor dem
Container lässt sie es herunter. Es ist ein Junge. Er hüpft herum, während die Frau die
Klappe auf- und zumacht, ohne einen Sack mit Kleidung hineinzuwerfen. Pauls Neugier ist
jetzt geweckt. Die Frau beugt sich nach unten, fängt den hüpfenden Jungen ein, hebt ihn
hoch, sagt ihm etwas ins Ohr, legt ihn dann in die Ablage und schiebt den Hebel
blitzschnell nach oben. Der Junge verschwindet im Rotkreuzcontainer.
Paul möchte hinrennen und der Frau einen Faustschlag verpassen, aber er ist wie erstarrt.
Die Frau hat das Ohr an den Kasten gelegt und spricht mit dem Blech in einer fremden
Sprache, Sätze, die in Fetzen zu Paul herüberfliegen. Aus dem Container kommt ein
Geräusch, das Paul an den Märchenfilm erinnert, in dem in einer Szene ein Kind aus einem
Brunnen spricht. Die Frau betätigt erneut den Hebel, um die Ablage verschwinden zu
lassen, innen brummt es erst und klappert dann, sie betätigt den Hebel, was ihr jetzt
schwerer fällt, und der Junge erscheint in der Ablage, einen Sack eng an den Bauch
gepresst.
Die Frau hebt den Jungen herunter, nimmt den Sack und kippt ihn auf dem Gehweg aus.
Sie wühlt in den Sachen, greift nach einer Bluse, hält eine Hose ans Licht. Schließlich
nimmt sie einen pinkfarbenen Kinderanorak und steckt ihn in ihre Umhängetasche. Den
Rest lässt sie auf der Straße liegen. Sie hebt ihr Kind auf den Arm und geht bei Rot über
die Straße in Richtung S-Bahnhof Frankfurter Allee. Ein alter Mann schüttelt seine Faust
und schreit hinter ihnen her: „Scheißzigeuner“. Dann beugt er vorsichtig den Rücken, bis
seine Fingerspitzen an die Sachen reichen, räumt den Beutel wieder ein und schiebt ihn in
die Ablage, wo eben noch das Kind war. Der Sack verschwindet. Paul holt tief Atem.
SECONDARY SCHOOL PUPILS - 1ST PRIZE
Libby Beckett
Paul notices a woman, with colourful skirts and a headscarf, approach the Red Cross clothes bank on the corner.
She's carrying a small child, whom she lowers to the ground just in front of the charity container. It is a boy. He hops
about, whilst the woman opens and closes the container's hatch, but without throwing any clothes into it. Paul stares,
his curiosity roused by this. The woman bends down, catches hold of the energetic boy bouncing around and lifts
him high to whisper something into his ear. Then she sits him on the shelf and, as quick as a wink, slides the lever
upwards. The boy disappears from view into the clothes bank.
Paul itches to run over and punch the woman for this, but finds his body is frozen, rigid with shock. The woman has
held her ear to the container and is speaking through the metal in a foreign language. Bits and pieces drift over to
Paul. A sound emanates from within it, and Paul is reminded of a fairytale scene in which a child speaks out of a
well. The woman pulls the lever again, allowing the tray to disappear into the box, creating a resonant drone and then
rattling noises. Another pull on the lever, which she seems to find more difficult, and the boy resurfaces in the tray, a
sack of clothes clutched to his stomach.
The woman lifts the small boy down from the hatch and takes the sack from him, tipping him out onto the pavement.
She rummages through the clothes, grasping at a blouse and holding a pair of trousers up to the light. Eventually she
takes a pink child's raincoat and stashes it in her satchel. Leaving the rest of the clothes scattered on the street, she
picks up her child and cuts across the road, heading towards Frankfurter Allee train station. An old man shakes his
fist and shouts "Filthy gypsy!" after her. Then he bends over cautiously until his fingers can just reach the clothes
strewn on the pavement, clears them up into the sack once more and replaces it into the hatch, where the child had
also been just before. The sack disappears; Paul takes a deep breath.
SECONDARY SCHOOL PUPILS - 2ND PRIZE
Jason Graham
Paul observes a woman with colourful skirts and a headscarf, who is heading towards the Red Cross container on the
corner. In her arms she has a small child. Shortly before the container, she puts him down. It is a boy. He hops
around, whilst the woman opens and closes the hatch, without throwing in a bag of clothes. Paul’s curiosity is now
awoken. The woman bends down, picks up the jumping boy, lifts him high, says something in his ear, then places
him on the tray and pushes the lever up in a flash. The boy disappears into the Red Cross container.
Paul would like to dash over and give her a punch, but it is like he is numb. The woman has put her ear to the box
and speaks to the tin in a foreign language, sentences, which Paul just catches snippets of. A noise comes from the
container, which reminds Paul of the film of a fairy tale, in which there is a scene that a child talks out of a well. The
woman operates the lever again, in order to make the tray disappear, at first it only grumbles inside and then it rattles, she operates the lever, which she now finds more difficult and the boy appears in the tray, a bag tightly pressed
to his stomach.
The woman lifts the boy down, takes the bag and empties it out on to the footpath. She rummages through the things,
reaches for a blouse, holds a pair of trousers up to the light. Finally she takes a pink child’s anorak and puts it in her
shoulder bag. She leaves the rest lying on the street. She lifts her child by the arm and crosses the street on a red light
in the direction of the ‘Frankfurter Allee’ tram station. An old man shakes his fist and yells after them: “Bloody gypsies“. Then he cautiously bends over until his fingertips reach the bag, puts everything back in the bag and shoves it
in the tray, just where the child was. The bag disappears. Paul takes a deep breath.
TEXT FOR TRANSLATION
Undergraduates category: ,Trude
Menzinger und ihr Hund’
pp. 251-52
Intro: The scene introduces three old ladies who have recently moved into a house providing flats for old people on Kollwitzplatz in Berlin Mitte (formerly in East Berlin). Frau
Menzinger has invited Frau Schweickert to join her and Frau Köhnke in her flat. They
speak in broad Berlin accents.
(Frau Menzinger öffnet die Tür und horcht ins Treppenhaus).
Frau Menzinger: Wat bringen Sie denn da mit?
Frau Schweickert (von draußen): Na, meinen Stuhl. Brauch ja oben was zum Sitzen.
(Der Hund von Frau Menzinger, ein Spitz, bellt in den Hausflur)
Frau Menzinger: Still, Stalin. Hältst du mal die Fresse? Det is Gerda, die lernste ooch bald
kennen. Schnupper mal, und denn aber jut, husch ins Körbchen. Komm Se doch kurz mal
rein, den Stuhl könn Se stehen lassen, hier klaut keener.
Frau Schweickert: Heißt Ihr Hund wirklich Stalin?
Frau Menzinger: Ja, weil er so kleen ist. Am Anfang hieß er Schnuppi, aber Stalin klingt
besser. Kann man die Westler schön ärgern auf’m Kollwitzplatz, wenn ick schreie: ‚Stalin,
bei Fuß!‘, und det Würstchen denn anjetrottelt kommt, denn kriejen die Angst.
Frau Schweickert: Hm.
Frau Menzinger: Vor mir, nich vor’m Hund. Aber nich, dass Se denken, ick wär
Kommissarin oder so wat jewesen.
Frau Schweickert: Was war’n Sie denn von Beruf?
Frau Menzinger: Hortnerin. Aber zu einer Zeit, als die Jungs noch nicht mit Pumpguns
bewaffnet in die Schule jekommen sind, um Angestellte der Volksbildung über’n Haufen
zu schießen.
Frau Köhnke: Hör’n Sie nur auf davon, schreckliches Thema.
Frau Schweickert: Spitzbart wär aber besser gewesen für einen Spitz.
Frau Menzinger: Det verstehn die Westler nich, det is wie Perlen vor die Säue. Herzlich
willkommen erstmal.
UNDERGRADUATES - 1ST PRIZE
Rachael Hodgson
(Frau Menzinger opens the door and listens into the stairwell).
Frau Menzinger: What avyer got there?
Frau Schweickert (from outside): Well, me chair o’course. Gotta have somethin’ to sit on upstairs.
(Frau Menzinger’s dog, a Spitz, barks into the hallway)
Frau Menzinger: Shush, Stalin. Won’t ye shuddup? That’s Gerda, you’ll get to know her soon enough. Take a sniff,
that’s it. And now shoo, in your basket. Won’t yer come in for a moment, ye can leave yer chair there, they don’t
nick stuff ‘ere.
Frau Schweickert: Is your dog really called Stalin?
Frau Menzinger: Yeah, ‘cos he’s so diddy. He used ter be called Schnuppi, but Stalin has a better ring to it. Ye can
really bug the Westerners on the Kollwitzplatz when ye shout, ‘Stalin, ‘eel!’ and the little pipsqueak comes waddlin’
along. Then they’re all brickin’ it.
Frau Schweickert: Hm.
Frau Menzinger: ‘Cos of me, not because o’the dog. But dun be think’n I was a commissioner or somethin’.
Frau Schweickert: So what were you by profession?
Frau Menzinger: Matron. But atta time when lads weren’t comin’ to school armed with pumpguns to gun down the
Officials of National Education.
Frau Köhnke: Give it a rest, will yous. Awful subject.
Frau Schweickert: Spitzbart would‘uv been better for a Spitz.
Frau Menzinger: The Westerners dun get it, it’s like pearls cast before swine. Anyway, welcome.
UNDERGRADUATES - 2ND PRIZE
Clara Valentine
(Mrs Menzinger opens the door and cocks her ear into the stairwell)
Mrs Menzinger: Whit's that ye've got wi ye?
Mrs Schweickert (from outside): Whit does it look like? Ma seat. I need somethin tae sit on up there.
(Mrs Menzinger's dog, a Spitz, can be heard barking in the hall)
Mrs Menzinger: Wheesht, Stalin. Will ye shut yer trap? This is Gerda, ye'll get tae ken her soon enough. Have a
wee sniff, but then it's back tae yer basket. Come away inside a minute, you can leave yer seat here, naebody will
steal it.
Mrs Schweickert: Is yer dog really called Stalin?
Mrs Menzinger: Aye, because he's so wee. At first I called him Snuffles, but Stalin's got a better ring to it. It's good
for teasin all the Westies doon at Kollwitz Square, so it is, if I shout oot "Heel, Stalin!" and then that wee sausage
comes trottin up, they fair get a fleg.
Mrs Schweickert: Oh aye.
Mrs Menzinger: I gie them a fleg, no the dog. But dinnae be thinkin I was ane o thae commissars or anything.
Mrs Schweickert: What kind o a job did ye have?
Mrs Menzinger: Looked after bairns. That was before the laddies started coming into school wi pump guns, shooting doon the folk who were supposed to be educating them.
Mrs Köhnke: Dinnae speak aboot that, dreadful topic, so it is.
Mrs Schweickert: The Auld Goatee would have been a better name fir yer dog.
Mrs Menzinger: Och, the Westies wouldnae get it, that'd be like casting pearls afore swine. Come away in, hen.
TEXT FOR TRANSLATION
Postgraduates category:
,Alexanderplatz, Weltzeituhr’
pp. 13-14
Der Alexanderplatz ist ein Kältepol. Nur Herumlaufen wärmt. Schon zehnmal habe ich den
Weg vom Brunnen bis zur Weltzeituhr zurückgelegt. Ich weiß jetzt, wie spät es in Phnom
Penh ist und welche Zeit die Armbanduhren der Moskauer anzeigen.
Mich befällt der Wunsch, in das Zeitgefüge der Welt einzugreifen. Mit großer Geste die
Planeten anzuhalten und die Uhren um einen Tag vorzustellen. Vielleicht würde ich mich
daran aufwärmen können. Den ganzen Winter über habe ich nicht so gefroren wie heute
Nacht. Also wieder von vorn. Der Weg ist das Ziel, der Weg ist ein Spiel. Ich achte dieses
Mal streng darauf, beim Gehen nicht auf die Ritzen der Gehwegplatten zu treten. Und
suche dabei nach Sätzen, die rhytmisch zu meinen Schritten passen. Lie-ber A-lex-an-derplatz, schenk mir ei-nen gu-ten Satz. Der Alexanderplatz schweigt. Ich blicke mich um und
finde „Richtig leben. Ab jetzt können Sie es!“ am Schaufenster der Sparkasse. Richtig
leben. Ausgerechnet die müssen mir das sagen. Dieser Satz lässt sich nicht gut erlaufen.
Zwischen „Leben“ und „Jetzt“ stockt der Schritt. Wahrscheinlich sehe ich bei diesem Satz
aus wie ein Storch, der durch den Salat stakst.
Ich probiere es mit: Mo-na-den ha-ben kei-ne Fen-ster. Ich weiß nicht, warum ich beim
Wort Monade automatisch den Alexanderplatz sehe, egal, wo ich bin. Und zwar den von
1986. Blick von der Selbstbedienungsgaststätte im Sockelgeschoss des Interhotels Stadt
Berlin in Richtung Alexanderhaus, noch mit den gestreiften Markisen über den Fenstern
des Berliner Kaffeehauses, das schon lange nicht mehr existiert.
Kurz vor der Weltzeituhr machen die Gehwegplatten schwarzen Basaltköpfen Platz. Der
gepflasterte Kreis um die Uhr ist drei Männerschritte breit und beim besten Willen nicht
mit einem Satz zu überspringen, nicht einmal mit Anlauf. Ich bräuchte jemanden, der mich
durch das Basaltmeer bis zum kreisrunden Mosaikboden unter der Weltzeituhr trägt. Aber
es ist kein Mensch in der Nähe, nur hinten am Eingang des Kaufhauses am anderen Ende
des Platzes sitzen ein paar Punks mit ihren Hunden. Auch wenn sie in meiner Nähe wären,
würden sie mir wohl den Vogel zeigen.
POSTGRADUATES - 1ST PRIZE
Richard Marsh
Alexanderplatz is a centre of cold. Wandering around is the only thing that will keep you warm. I’ve covered the
route from the fountain to the Weltzeituhr clock ten times already. I now know what time it is in Phnom Penh and
the time displayed on the wristwatches of the citizens of Moscow.
I am overcome with a desire to interfere with the fabric of the world’s time. Bringing the planets to a standstill with
one grand gesture and setting the clocks forward by a day. Maybe that would warm me up. I haven’t felt cold like
tonight all winter. Back to the beginning, then. The goal is the way, a journey to play. This time I make a concerted
effort not to step on the gaps between the paving slabs. I try to come up with phrases with syllables that match my
paces. Dear-est A-lex-an-der-platz, give me a phrase my foot-steps match. Alexanderplatz remains silent. I look
around and see ‘Live right! From now on, you can achieve anything!’ on the window of the Sparkasse bank. Live
right. Trust them to be the ones to tell me that. This is not a good phrase to walk to. My paces get out of sync between ‘can’ and ‘achieve.’ I probably look like a stork wading through pond weed when I try this one.
I try ‘mo-nads have no win-dows.’ I don’t know why, but the word monad always makes me think of Alexanderplatz. Specifically, how it was in 1986. The view from the self-service restaurant at the base of the Stadt Berlin
Interhotel towards the Alexanderhaus, with the striped awnings still shielding the windows of the Berliner Kaffeehaus, which ceased to exist long ago.
Just in front of the Weltzeituhr clock, the paving slabs make way for black basalt cobblestones. The paved circle at
the base of the clock would take a man three strides to cross. You wouldn’t be able to jump over it in one go no matter how hard you tried, not even with a run-up. I’d need somebody to carry me across the sea of basalt to the circular
mosaic underneath the Weltzeituhr. But there’s nobody around, save for a few punks at the entrance of the shopping
centre on the other side of the square, sitting with their dogs. Even if they were nearby, I’m sure they wouldn’t even
give me the time of day.
POSTGRADUATES - 2ND PRIZE
Rachel Harland
Alexanderplatz is a pole of cold. You have to keep moving to stay warm. I’ve already walked from the fountain to
the World Clock ten times. Now I know how late it is in Phnom Penh and what time wristwatches in Moscow are
displaying at this moment.
All of a sudden I’m taken by a desire to intervene in the temporal fabric of the world. To halt the planets with a
flourish and put the clocks forward a day. Maybe that would warm me up. I haven’t been as cold all winter as I am
tonight. But anyway, here I go again. The journey’s the aim, the journey’s a game. This time I take great care not to
tread on the cracks between the paving stones. And as I walk I try to think of sentences that match the rhythm of my
steps. In this square and on this day, send a fit-ting phrase my way. The square remains still. I look around and come
across ‘Live right. This is where it starts!’ in the window of a nearby bank. Live right. Coming from them of all people. The sentence doesn’t make for a good accompaniment. My gait falters between ‘right’ and ‘is’. It probably
makes me look like a stork as I pick my way from one stone to the next.
I try out: mo-nads don’t have a-ny win-dows. I don’t know why the word monad automatically makes me think of
Alexanderplatz, no matter where I am. And the Alexanderplatz of 1986 in particular. Looking from the self-service
cafeteria in the base building of the Interhotel tower towards the Alexanderhaus, striped awnings still adorning the
windows of the old coffee house that hasn’t been there for years.
Just before you get to the World Clock the paving stones give way to black basalt cobbles. The cobbled ring around
the clock is three big strides in width and with the best will in the world can’t be cleared in one jump, not even with a
run-up. I would need someone to carry me through the sea of basalt to the circular mosaic on the ground beneath the
clock. But there’s no one around, just a few punks sitting with their dogs over by the entrance to the department store
at the other end of the square. Even if they were closer they’d no doubt dismiss me as crazy.
TEXT FOR TRANSLATION
Others category: ,Kaffeemaschine’
pp. 108-110
6.20 Uhr Eine Kaffeemaschine erweckt Aso Aksoy und ihre Tochter Emine zu neuem
Leben und hat selber schon sechs gehabt.
So eine Kaffeemaschine hat gut reden. Sie räuspert, röchelt eine Weile ohne Auswurf,
spuckt schließlich das heiße Wasser in einen Filter, ungebleicht, mit locker darin verteiltem
Kaffee, zwischen dessen Krümeln das Wasser seinen Weg nach unten sucht und sich dabei
braun färbt, schließlich in den drei Löchern am Grund des Filtergefäßes verschwindet, um
sich endlich im weiten Rund der gläsernen Kanne als Kaffee zu sammeln. Die
Kaffeemaschine ist die Domina der Küche. Sie lässt nicht zu, dass noch irgendetwas
andere zu hören ist, bis sie sich ausgeröchelt hat. Danach pufft sie nur noch leise vor sich
hin, als sei sie beleidigt, weil niemand die schwere Arbeit, die sie vollbracht hat, würdigen
will. […]
Die Kaffeemaschine war für den Export ins nichtsozialistische Wirtschaftsgebiet
vorgesehen, der Weg in den Westen dauerte dann etwas länger und verlief im Zickzack
und ohne dem Staat die dringend notwendigen Devisen zu sichern. Der Export fand aus im
Folgenden dargelegten Gründen etliche Jahre später statt, zu einem Zeitpunkt allerdings,
wo man von Export nicht mehr reden kann.
An einem Maiabend des Jahres 1984 schlendert Uwe Peschel etwas nervös an der Mauer
des VEB Getränkeautomaten Berlin, Betrieb der VEB Handelstechnik, in der BrunoBürgel-Straße entlang. Es ist eine Stunde vor Ende der Spätschicht, draußen ist es lau, ein
leicht penetranter Geruch von Spreewasser liegt in der Luft. Plötzlich hört er einen kurzen
Pfiff, springt zur verabredeten Stelle, wo das kleine Loch in der Mauer ist. Ein kurzer
Blick, ein Pfiff zurück, und ein gepresstes „Achtung!“ von der anderen Seite, dann fliegt
ein Karton durch die Abenddämmerung von Schöneweide, wie ein Schatten, und
geradewegs in die Arme des Facharbeiters für Fleischerzeugnisse, Uwe Peschel. Das ist ein
Glück, nichts schlimmer, als wenn der Karton gefallen wäre. Jetzt hat er noch eine
Rechnung offen mit dem Uwe auf der anderen Seite (als hätten die Eltern sich damals
abgesprochen, ihre Jungen Uwe zu nennen). Am anderen Tag wirft Peschel zu Beginn der
Nachtschicht ein halbes Schwein in Portionen zu je zwei Kilo über die Mauer des VEB
Zentral-Vieh- und Schlachthofs an der Hausburgstraße, wo der Kaffeemaschinenmonteur
Uwe Franke die gekühlte Ware auffängt. Der feiert Hochzeit, zu kurzentschlossen, als dass
sich noch ein halbes Schwein auf legalem Weg bestellen ließe. Also wechseln Schwein und
Kaffeemaschine ihre illegitimen Besitzer. Haustrunk nennt sich das im Betriebsjargon des
VEB Getränkeautomaten, wenn man eine Maschine mitgehen lässt. (Im Fleischkombinat
heißen die Diebstähle Mundraub.) Die Stichproben bei Schichtende am Tor haben in letzter
Zeit zugenommen. Also gibt es nur noch den Weg über die Mauer oder seltener, weil man
dazu einen Kahn braucht, über die Spree. Das lohnt sich erst ab fünf Kaffeeautomaten und
wird nur von Arbeitern mit hoher krimineller Energie praktiziert, die sich vor allem auf die
großen Geräte für den Gesellschaftsbedarf spezialisiert haben.
OTHERS - 1ST PRIZE
Tony Crawford
6:20 a.m. A coffee maker awakens Aso Aksoy and her daughter Emine to new life, having had six itself.
It’s easy for a coffee maker to talk. It coughs and wheezes unproductively a while, then it spits hot water into a filter – unbleached – loosely filled with coffee grounds. The water finds its way downward between the crumbs of coffee, taking on a brown tint as it goes, and disappears down the three holes in the bottom of the filter holder, to collect
at last as coffee in the spacious circle of the glass jug. The coffee maker is the dominatrix of the kitchen. She forbids
all other noises to be heard until she has had her last gasp. Then she subsides, and puffs away softly to herself as if
offended that no one appreciates the hard work she has done.
[...]
The coffee maker was produced for export to the Non-Socialist Economic Zone, but its way westward turned out to
be a zigzag course, taking a good deal longer than anticipated, and failing to procure the hard currency that the state
urgently needed. Due to the circumstances described below, the export did not take place until a number of years
later – at which time, strictly speaking, it could no longer be called an export.
On a May evening in 1984, Uwe Peschel is strolling somewhat nervously along Bruno-Bürgel-Weg, in the Berlin
borough of Schöneweide, by the wall surrounding the People’s Beverage Dispenser Works, a unit in the People’s
Retail Equipment Conglomerate. It’s an hour before the end of the swing shift; it’s mild outside; the slightly acrid
smell of the river Spree is in the air. Suddenly, hearing an abrupt whistle, he jumps to his appointed place near a little
hole in the wall. A quick glance, a whistled reply, and a strained ‘Heads up!’ from the other side of the wall, and then
a cardboard box comes sailing through the dusky air of Schöneweide and into the arms of Specialist Worker for
Meat Products Uwe Peschel. Fortunately – what a disaster if the box had hit the ground. Now he owes a favour to the
Uwe on the other side (as if their respective parents had agreed to name their boys Uwe). The next day, at the start of
the night shift, Peschel tosses a side of pork, packed in two-kilo portions, over the wall of the People’s Central
Feedyard and Meat-Processing Plant on Hausburgstrasse, where Coffee Maker Assembler Uwe Franke catches the
cold goods. Franke is about to be married on short notice – too short to order a side of pork through legal channels.
So the meat and the coffee maker change larcenous hands. In the jargon of the People’s Beverage Dispenser Conglomerate employees, stealing a machine is known as ‘sampling the private reserve’. (At the meat-processing plant,
they call such thefts ‘living from hand to mouth’.) The random searches of the leaving shift at the gate have become
more frequent these days, so the only way left to smuggle something out is over the wall – or, more rarely, across the
Spree. That requires a boat, which is not worth the trouble to organize for less than five coffee makers. Such undertakings are limited to those employees with greater criminal initiative, who mainly specialize in the big catering urns.
OTHERS - 2ND PRIZE
Aubrey Botsford
6.20 a.m. A coffee machine wakes Aso Aksoy and her daughter Emine to their new life, and has already had six of
its own.
A coffee machine like this one has a tale to tell. It clears its throat, hawks unproductively for a while, then at last
spits the hot water into a filter, unbleached and loosely filled with coffee, among the granules of which the water
makes its way downward, turning brown en route, disappears through the three holes at the bottom of the filter cone
and at last collects, as coffee, in the broad bowl of the glass jug. The coffee machine is the dominatrix of the kitchen.
She doesn’t consent to any other sound being heard until her hawking is over with. After that she just huffs away
quietly to herself, as if offended that nobody gives her credit for the difficult task she has completed. […]
The coffee machine was destined for export into the non-socialist economy, but its zig-zag route to the West took
rather a long time, and didn’t secure for the state the currency it urgently needed. Its export took place many years
later, for reasons explained below, but at a time when it can no longer be called export.
On an evening in May in the year 1984, a rather nervous Uwe Peschel is in Bruno-Bürgel-Strasse, strolling along the
wall of Automated Beverage Dispensers PE (People’s Enterprise), Berlin works, a Trade Technology PE operation.
It is an hour before the end of the late shift, it is mild out, a faint but penetrating scent of Spree water hangs in the air.
Suddenly, he hears a short whistle, jumps to the agreed spot, where he finds the small hole in the wall. A quick
glance, an answering whistle and a hissed “look out!” from the other side, and then a box flies through the Schöneweide dusk, like a shadow, straight into the arms of Skilled Meat Products Worker Uwe Peschel. Just as well: last
thing you want is for the box to fall on the ground. Now he owes the Uwe on the other side (as if, all those years ago,
both sets of parents had agreed to call their boys Uwe). The next day, at the beginning of the night shift, Peschel
tosses a side of pork, in two-kilo portions, over the wall of Central Cattle Pen and Abattoir PE on Hausburgstrasse,
and Coffee Machine Assembler Uwe Franke catches the chilled wares. He is celebrating a rushed marriage and cannot afford the time to order a side of pork through legal channels. Thus pork and coffee machine switch unlawful
owners. In the jargon of Automated Beverage Dispensers PE, allowing a machine to go walkies is called a house
special. (In the Meat Cooperative, thefts are called shrinkage.) End-of-shift spot checks at the gate have increased
recently. So what’s left is the over-the-wall route or, more rarely, because you need a boat, the across-the-Spree one.
It’s only worth it for five or more coffee machines, and is only carried out by workers with a high level of criminal
energy who have specialised in large appliances in order to meet market demand.
Prizes
A DAAD scholarship for a summer language course at a
German university in 2016
A year’s subscription to the German language youth magazine ‘Deutsch Perfekt’
Invitations to translation master classes at the University of
Cambridge in 2016
An invitation to a panel discussion or workshop on a translation topic at the University of Cambridge with dinner in
Magdalene College afterwards
Book prizes kindly donated by Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt
(including editions of Walpurgistag and Mit der Linie 4 um
die Welt, by Annett Gröschner) and the German Embassy
London
Further prizes (college bags, earphones and paper notebooks) kindly donated by the Goethe Institut London
WITH THE KIND SUPPORT OF TRANSLATOR
ANTHEA BELL