Mahler in love with Monroe?. C.-A. Rebaf

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      "That's pretty close here, that's what I've taken care of," Steffen told the stranger." By the way, we got visitors. May I introduce? This is Maria-Luise. We call her Mary Lou here. They had seen her once before. She is the mother of the little Golie and has certainly been worried about why he has not come home." "Oh, my mother certainly has understanding ", suddenly remembered Golie, who had emerged from the back of the organ box when the Music had stopped. He beamed all over his face.

      Now finally Steffen introduced the stranger officially to me. He should have done this last time, but Steffen was crazy: "This is Mr. Grinder. Imagine that he came here from Vienna. This long distance - and only because of the organ. It has probably already spread in professional circles that we have here in our small Polling still one or, better said, again a functioning organ. Mr. Grinder is a musician." The stranger approached me a bit dominant and shook my hand in an in a noble way. "Nice to make your acquaintance," he said quite and seductive. "You played wonderfully. Could it be that my dad played this music before the disaster? "

      He responded with a surprised gesture and gave me a pull up of one of his eyes: "Oh, I just improvised a bit and I'm so happy to be here. This organ is wonderful. But you seem to be a music expert!"

      Now it reminded me again: This music was Mahler's Symphony No. 8, my father's favorite piece. That sounded like in the old times but now played on an organ instead of an orchestra. Performed by a fascinating fellow, whom I estimated slightly younger than me, but by far more predominant in all his being. But I did not want to state with my music knowledge to much and said nothing. Do I intended to be obsequious?

      "Do you want to stay here for a long time?" I asked, just so as not to break the conversation. I felt very bivalent towards this stranger. On the one hand I was alienated from his dominant behavior and is horsewhip; on the other hand I felt also attracted to his person. Only by his music? I never experienced my feelings to an younger man, who floats above me.

      "If it were possible, I would like to stay with this magnificent instrument. As far as I know, there is no better instrument between Vienna and Munich." I saw Steffen smile, and his figure became bigger and bigger. After all, it was his modest merit that he, who had dealt with organs before the catastrophe, especially the tuning of these instruments, had seized the opportunity to restore their playability.

      "Where did you find yourself?" I asked in a logical sequence. "My driver, whom I had rented only with his Paco, drove back to Munich this morning and then to Vienna. I stayed with Steffen, but his bed for both of us ... It was already a difficult night. My back is not the best either. You are not angry with me because of my openness, Steffen?"

      He slowly came down from ‘Cloud Seven’ of his music. "Can you help us with accommodation for him?" Steffen flinched from embarrassment. "That's difficult here in the village. I would like to have a listen. What could you compensate for?" I asked. Compensate, in former times one had said to "pay", and it had been easy at that time: One gave away his credit card or had a sum of cash, which was accepted in exchange for achievements of all, especially if the money from the USA or came from Europe. But today, when money was worthless, people preferred to rely on real value.

      The stranger blushed suddenly, "Yes, I can compensate, but my compensation units are ...", he hesitated and coughed, "... let's say for the moment: ... delicate! But available. I may be able to tell you more about it tomorrow. We should all go home now."

      "Home? You are funny! Do you really think we should expose ourselves to the fall-out that is just coming to an end? That's half a death sentence! I'm afraid we'll have to stay together for a while, until we can venture outside again. Please play something else! ", I asked the stranger, and Golie interrupted me immediately: "Oh yes, Mr. Grinder, that would be very nice. I enjoyed your music so much!"

      The stranger was surprised, but realized that we better not go outside now. Steffen tried to save the situation, and turned to a pile of notes. "Here, Mr. Grinder, I have something we could possibly play together. I have another edition of Mozart's "Jeunehomme Concerto" here. Let's try it together. I have practiced the piano part, but try to play the orchestral part on the other manuals. "The two musicians made themselves as comfortable as possible on the narrow organ bench, placed the notes on the desk and looked at each other.

      Meanwhile, Golie had dutifully crawled into the organ box to the bellows and stepped up vigorously. I followed him unobtrusively and watched him. His reactions to music and especially in connection with Mr. Grinder interested me burning. Golie was quite enchanted. It could not only be the music, it was even more behind it; I felt that. Only dampened, the introductory orchestral beat indicated by an organ tutti came to me.

      Steffen in his piano part answered him much quieter, but almost boyish. Everything came in my position also because of the acoustic shifts as from another star. Golie listened attentively, but it was not until the two musicians began the second movement, which began with the long, mysterious orchestral introduction in abysmal C Minor, that Golie's face changed in a way that really scared me. It seemed to me as if he had left the earthly sphere and was now dreaming, but as naturally in a new, spiritual level. Grinder was borne on the set, slowly approached, and Steffen followed him with the piano part. They had tried to imitate the mood of the piano concerto on the organ through a mysterious registration, which they had succeeded in doing.

      Suddenly the music broke off abruptly. Golie was so moved by the music that he stopped kicking, and when he saw me, he stormed toward me, hiding his tears in my apron. I took him in my arms, tried to comfort him, and asked him what was wrong with him. As I noticed, he had no right words to describe his condition. He just stammered almost incomprehensibly: "It is so sad!" Then I understood the word "awesome" out of his sobs. I soberly assumed that he, a particularly sensitive young man, had been so overwhelmed by the emotions of the music that he had to give in to his mood and discharge his feelings in a tear-burst. Steffen just came crawling into the organ box from the front to see what was going on. He understood the situation quite well, after I had started an explanation that Golie nodded or shook his head. He had always covered his eyes with his hands.

      Suddenly Grinder said: “I would like to play specially for you” and again his eyes disoriented me. I was so ruptured: as a mother, as a women in love, as a lover of music...

      A letter from Marietta

      From time to time it happened that communication as in the Middle Ages was possible via letters or, better said, a kind of message in a bottle. There was a mail center in every major city, where the few strangers who had embarked on an arduous journey brought messages with them and left notes with them. Thus, a ruin on the Marienplatz in Weilheim, which had subsequently been equipped with an oblique weather protection, was marked for news. Anyone who happened to be around looked from time to time to see if there was something for themselves or their neighbors there. Anyone who went on a journey took with them what pointed in his direction. So one day I was very surprised that a nice neighbor, just the one with the tractor Paco, brought me a letter from the city. I opened the brown cardboard lid: Marietta had signed it. I sat down at the window, as it gradually became dark in the room, and heard in the spirit of Marietta's deep voice:

      Dear Mary Lou, I only hope that my letter reaches you. It's all so different and yet so similar to yours in Polling. The radiation damage is exactly the same here. We found shelter in an old school outbuilding in a beautiful valley, through which flows a stream called "Orla". The Orla is like our Tiefenbach and flows in Orlamünde in the Saale as our brook in the bunting. The school stands on a hill and you can look over the whole valley. It had been a beautiful property before the disaster, and Langenorla was certainly no less sleepy than our poll. But the destruction caused by a bomb attack in Jena is similar to yours around Munich. Jena is only about 30 km north of us. The way here in many stages had been very, very difficult. Everywhere the same need. The impact in Ingolstadt, Nuremberg and Bamberg, we had to migrate widely. We were specifically warned against the lethal radiation dose in these centers. It was a bit easier over the Thuringian Forest. The deep valleys shield the radiation slightly. That's why more people have fled here than elsewhere. I think overpopulation is the right word for it, and the crime rate is immense. We were promptly robbed; and though Hannes bravely resisted,