THE BALLAD OF BRUNHILDE SCHMIDT (FRANKFURT a.m.)

(Around the early nineteen eighties I met a young woman in Frankfurt a.m. who argued against group control in the leftist communal houses where I stayed during my visits to that city. As a result, I wrote the following story, which is dedicated to her and all of those who refuse to be controlled by the significant others.) 

Brunhilde was a girl, a very lonely girl, the village of her childhood, already very small reminds her of a jail, and pushes her to escape. Her mother is too strict. Her father is long gone, Brunhilde would prefer to have a better choice. One day she leaves the land, her pretty squared land, a suitcase in her hand In Frankfurt she arrives, her braided hair shining under a cloudy sky, Brunhilde is overwhelmed unable to realize her world will fall apart.

The buildings are so tall, the people are so fast, the boys are sweet and nice, the girls so sisterly Brunhilde is very happy under her city crowd. Brunhilde is overwhelmed, she doesn’t realize, her feet are already marching to get some lesbian rights.

They offer her a room. The house is occupied. Brunhilde is overwhelmed, unable to realize she is already cooking for the entire pack. They take her everywhere, “Brunhilde let’s go there, Brunhilde let’s come back”, Brunhilde is getting tired of following the pack.

One day she leaves the house, the full of conscience house. A suitcase in her hand, she goes to a cafe, the future to be explored Brunhilde contemplates. In front of a trinkhalle a foreigner she meets, as tall and dark and handsome, she wishes him to be. A guest worker he is.

He talks about the west, he cries about the east. They dream of the casbah. They dream of magic rugs. Brunhilde is overwhelmed, she doesn’t realize, there were eastern bells around her Teutonic feet.

He works long days and nights, unhappy to leave the house, the pretty lovely house. Brunhilde gets upset. He never will be back. She goes to the police. The papers to fill out. The ballad about the lover she hears on the tv, “The worker, our guest, was killed by a skin head.”