Alma english

Once again I’m puzzled as she directs her alert gray eyes at me from her wrinkled face. Eyes which mirror the bundled wisdom of a whole lifetime yet contain childlike innocence. The blanket envelops her old body in the fetal position like a cocoon and tries unsuccessfully to trap the escaping warmth. Alma is always cold, no matter how many blankets are on her, as any warmth escapes like from a rusty cooking pot. She demonstratively closes her eyes and pulls the blanket tighter around her ash-gray hair, so that I let her sleep another half hour. A little while later I again peek under the covers and ask tentatively,”Would you like to get up now and eat at the table?” An impish smile spreads across her wrinkly face. She definitely doesn’t belong to the species of joyfully jubilant early birds but only awakens as the day wears on. As she peels herself out of her multi-layered protective shell, I calculate quietly what this 100 year old lady might have experienced. During the legendary golden 20s, when women provocatively wore men’s clothing, danced the Charleston and the first silent movies flickered across the screen, she spent her childhood, and as World War II broke out, she matured into a young woman.

One evening she walks toward the bathroom using a rollator, accompanied by a pretty intern, and proclaims upon her return,” Back when I was still sinning I sometimes danced the waltz and even the tango!”, and proceeds to try a few waltz-like steps, stabilizing herself with the rollator. Alma laughs as she manages a considerable hip roll, “With humor everything goes better!” Awestruck I stand with the intern in the presence of this tiny bundle of energy, whose sense of direction isn’t always operating adequately but who nevertheless infects me with her pure joy of living. “My father was Swedish and my mother Ukrainian, and they met in Kiel!”, she muses, almost triumphantly. “My father had so much heart! You know what I mean?” As she is lost in loving memories of her father, her eyes travel dreamily into the distance. "Ugh, he was just…” underscoring this particular trait of her father, she blows a kiss and travels back to her favorite spot with the orange blanket.

As I leave the hospital, I see Alma’s gray eyes in my mind and how she cuts a rug with her dance moves. It feels like Alma’s love tank was filled to the brim during her childhood and is not used up even now after a hundred years. If I know Alma, she’ll joyfully dance through her remaining days with this implanted love and master the last stretch with flying colors.

Translation: Karin Allison

Photo: Steffi Gaul