My Pale Brother (Mein Bleicher Bruder)
                                      by Wolfgang Borchert
                            Translated from the German into English by 
                                      Ben Snyder 
                    Project of the GER 403 History of German Literature class 
                          Ball State University - Spring Semester 2003 
                                               

 
 
Never was anything as white as this snow.  It was almost blue from it.
Bluish-green.  So terribly white.  The sun hardly dared to be yellow 
with this snow.  No Sunday morning had ever been as clear 
as this.  Only a dark blue forest stood in the back ground.  But the 
snow was new and clean like the white of an animal's eye.  No snow 
was ever as white as the snow on this Sunday morning.  No Sunday 
morning was ever so clean.  The world, this snowy, Sunday world, 
laughed.
	
But somewhere there was still a spot.  That was a person, who lay 
in the snow, bent, belly down, uniformed.  A bundle of rags.  A 
paltry bundle of skin scraps and bone bits and leather and cloth.  
Covered over black-red from dried blood.  Very dead hair, dead 
like a wig.  Bent out of shape, his last cry screamed, bellowed, 
or perhaps prayed into the snow: A soldier.  A spot in the never 
before seen whiteness of the cleanest of all Sunday mornings.  An 
atmospheric war painting, full of nuance, a tempting reproach for 
watercolors, blood and snow and sun.  Cold, cold snow with warm, 
steaming blood within.  And over all, the dear sun.  Our dear sun.  
All the children in the world say, "the dear, dear sun."  And it 
shines on the dead, who cried the unheard cry of all dead puppets: 
the silent, terribly silent scream!  Who among us, stands up, pale 
brother, oh who among us can stand the silent cry of the puppets, 
when they are torn from their strings and lie around on the stage 
so stupidly contorted?  Who, oh who among us can put up with the 
silent screams of the dead?  Only the icy snow can bear it.  And 
the sun.  Our dear sun.
	
In front of the cutoff one stood a puppet that was still intact.  
One that still worked.  In front of the dead soldier stood a living 
one.  On this clean Sunday morning in the never before seen, white 
snow, the one who was standing addressed the one who was lying with 
the following terribly silent speech:  

Ya. Ya, ya.  Ya, ya, ya.  Your good mood is gone now, my dear 
friend.  Your eternally good mood.  Now you're definitely not 
saying anything more, right?  Now you'll probably not laugh 
anymore, right?  If your women knew how pitiful you looked now, 
my dear friend.  You look awfully pitiful without your good mood.  
And in this silly position.  Why did you pull your legs up to 
your stomach so fearfully?  Ah, I see, you took one in the intes-
tines.  You've soiled yourself with blood.  It looks terribly 
unappetizing, my dear friend.  You've spotted your entire uniform 
with it.    It looks like black ink spots.  Man, it's a good thing 
that your women can't see that.  You always kept yourself just so 
in uniform.  Your waistline was most important.  When you became 
a corporal, you would only go around in patent-leather boots.  
And you'd polish them for hours, if you were going to the city 
that evening.  But now you won't be going to the city anymore.  
Your women are leaving you now for others.  Because now you 
can't go anymore at all, understand?  Never again, my dear 
friend.  Never, never again.  Now you can't laugh anymore 
with your eternally good mood, either.  Now you lie there, 
as if you couldn't count to three.  And you can't, either.  
You can't count to three anymore.  That's weak, my friend, 
extremely weak.  But that's good, real good.  Because you'll 
never again say to me "my pale brother with the hanging 
eyelid."  Not anymore, friend.  From now on no more.  Never 
again, friend.  And the others won't applaud you for that 
anymore.  The others will never again laugh at me when you 
say, "my pale brother with the hanging eyelid."  That means 
a lot to me, you know?  That means a whole heap of a lot to 
me, I can assure you about that.  You really tortured me in 
school.  You sat around on top of me like lice.  Because 
my eye had a little defect and my eyelid hung down.  And 
because my skin is so white.  So pasty.  Our pale little 
friend here looks so tired again, they always said.  And 
the girls always asked if I was already asleep.  My one eye 
was already half-closed.  Sleepy, they said.  I had to have 
been sleepy.  I'd like to know, which of us is sleepy now?  
You or me, hmm?  You or me?  Who is "my pale brother with 
the hanging eyelid" now?  Hmm?  Who, my dear friend, you 
or me?  Me?
	
As he closed the bunker door behind him, a dozen gray faces 
came around the corner toward him.  One of them belonged to 
the sergeant.  "Did you find him, Lieutenant?" asked the gray 
face and was really gray is so doing.
	
Yes.  By the fir trees.  A stomach shot
	
Should we go get him?          
	
Yes.  By the fir trees.  Yes, of course.  He has to be 
brought in.  By the fir trees.
	
The dozen gray faces disappeared.  The lieutenant sat at 
the tin stove and deloused himself.  Just like yesterday.  
Yesterday he deloused himself as well.  Then someone was 
supposed to report to battalion headquarters. Preferably
the Lieutenant, he himself.  While he was putting on his 
shirt, he heard it.  Shooting.  The shooting had never 
been like this before.  And as the runner again flung 
open the door, he saw the night.  Never before was a night 
so black, he thought.  Non-commissioned officer Heller, he 
was singing.  He was telling a story of a trip to see his 
women.  And then, with his eternally good mood, Heller said:  
Lieutenant, I wouldn't go to battalion.  I would first ask 
for double rations.  You can play the xylophone on your ribs.  
It's terrible, the way you look.  Heller had said that. And 
in the dark they had probably all grinned.  And someone had 
to go to battalion.  So he said:  Well, Heller, why don't 
you go cool off that good mood of yours a bit?"  And Heller 
said: Yes, sir.  That was all.  One never said more than 
that.  Simply:  Yes, sir.  And then Heller was gone.  And 
then Heller never came back.
	
The lieutenant pulled his shirt over his head.  He listened 
as the others came back from outside.  The others.  With 
Heller.  He will never say "my pale brother with the hanging 
eyelid" to me again, the lieutenant whispered.  He will never 
say that to me from now on.  
	
A louse appeared between his thumbnails.  There was a cracking
sound.  The louse was dead.  On his forehead - he had a tiny 
splash of blood.