Rüdiger english
Rüdiger is one of 45 000 Germans without a permanent residence, one of 1500 in Kiel who are unhoused, maybe one of roughly 45 who are labeled homeless by the authorities. He was brought in a few days ago.
Condition after a fall, is the official diagnosis for someone like him. Nothing is broken and yet every move hurts when we provide care for him. His steel-blue eyes follow my every step while his mouth incessantly mumbles - and what all he shares! He implores me,”Can’t I have a beer?” When he sees my look, he continues to petition,”It’s good - it’s not an addiction, but a treat!” He certainly isn’t short on words, which he shows again as he listlessly takes a spoonful of yogurt. “I can’t be hungry if I only work mentally and watch TV, not like the guys who do hard physical labor.” When I ask him to help by pulling himself up, he indignantly says, ”I’m not Jesus Chirst, only Rüdiger Wachewski!“ Rüdiger is polite and grateful, apologizes when he can’t find the right words or they don’t seem fitting to him. When I ask him whether he’d like to get a shave, he accepts to my chagrin. Shaving has never been among my gifts. I shudder as I think back on my return to nursing. My esteemed colleague Hansi from the Hessian border sent me gleefully to pre-op shaving, preferable for patients with a lot of body hair. Drenched in sweat I fought through that task and regularly made phone calls to the OR to remorsefully report minimal skin lesions. Today, Rüdiger encourages me,”One can’t just say not to be able to do something. My boss at the gas installation used to read us the riot act when we refused to do something!” ‘So Rüdiger was a gas technician in a former life’, I think to myself with astonishment as I concentrate on whittling down his lush beard centimeter by centimeter and then go on to tend to tiny cuts with small pieces of toilet paper. I behold the freshly shaved and cleansed man before me and get a sense of what he must have looked like as a young man. Indiscreetly I ask, “Do you have children?” He dryly replies,”Not that I know of, but you never know.” Slightly embarrassed I change the subject, have him feel his bare chin and dispose of the sad remains of his beard. I secretly wonder which paths led him to the final destination of being on the street. I also remember the impressive work of a photographer who portrayed the faces of homeless people before and after amake-over. The change in the faces was astounding. Resigned eyes suddenly exuded hope, bent backs marked by a hard life straightened back up. The homeless people seemed like fighters, standing in the midst of life, as educators, secretaries and even a CEO.
During my secondary education I heard of the so-called “Klimt eye“. The famous painter Gustav Klimt painted a young, beautiful lady who at that moment was depressed and anything but beautiful. He captured in the painting what he saw IN this woman, an enchanting, attractive woman who respected herself and mastered her life. Legend has it that the young woman was deeply taken aback when she saw the painting and then went on over the next few years to develop into exactly this person whom Gustav Klimt had already discovered in her.
A giggle at the door pulls me out of my musings. Two of my colleagues peek into the room and ask at the sight of Rüdiger’s new look,”What have you done, Anja?” I wave them out of the room as I answer their question in my mind: ”I’m practicing the Klimt eye.”
Translation: Karin Allison