He sat at the kitchen table, coffee cup between his hands, reading the headlines on his tablet. Outside, a winter morning was dawning, gray and unremarkable. Martin Berger was fifty-two years old, a retired engineer since a slipped disc, and he had developed the habit of observing the world like a man sitting by a river, watching the water flow by.
The news had changed this winter. He could feel it. It was no longer the usual din of economic data and political pronouncements. It was something else. Something contracting.
In Ukraine, some fronts had fallen silent, while others had become loud. Commentators spoke of exhaustion on both sides, but their voices had an undertone that Martin couldn't quite place. No one knew how it would end there. No one even knew what an end might mean anymore.
He scrolled on. The Americans had increased their military budget to a sum he read three times, thinking he must have misread it. A senator from Texas spoke of Greenland as part of America's security architecture. Martin remembered his school days, the maps on the wall, the clear borders. He remembered how self-evident those borders had been.
Now they were shifting. You could see it in the faces of the news anchors as they reported on the tensions with Mexico, the new tariffs, the troops on the southern border.
His wife, Helga, came into the kitchen and poured herself some tea. She looked at the tablet and sighed softly.
"The news again?"
"You have to know what's going on."
"You have to live, too," she said, sitting down opposite him. "The tomatoes in the greenhouse need fertilizer."
He nodded, but his gaze remained on the screen. In Iran, the streets were full of people. Women without headscarves, men with signs. The images reminded him of something long ago, a November day when walls fell. But this time, no one knew whether the walls would fall or merely wobble.
A week later, the rhythm had changed. Martin got up earlier. He turned on the radio even before his coffee had finished brewing. The announcers' voices had changed. They read faster. They took shorter pauses.
Russia had redeployed troops. That's what the analysts said on the morning news programs. Where to was unclear. Why was even less clear. China remained silent on everything. A Chinese diplomat had cut short a press conference after three minutes. That had been news. The silence was news.
Martin bought canned goods. He didn't tell Helga why. He put them in the cellar, behind his mother's old preserving jars, and felt both silly and sensible at the same time.
The Iranians had occupied a government building. The Revolutionary Guards were in the streets, but the people didn't back down. The images showed smoke and running figures and sometimes something that looked like hope.
It was a Tuesday, shortly after lunch, when the breaking news came through. Martin was sitting in the living room, his tablet on his lap. Helga was at a friend's house. The house was quiet.
The report was brief. Chinese forces had begun bombing the Taiwanese coast. Landing craft had been sighted. The Taiwanese president had declared a state of emergency.
Martin read the words and read them again. They were clear and simple and utterly incomprehensible.
He turned on the television. All the channels were showing the same thing: maps with red arrows and experts speaking rapidly. Politicians who said nothing but used a great many words.
That evening, he called his daughter. She lived in Hamburg with her husband and two children. Her voice was calm, but he knew it. He knew the undertone.
"Take care of yourself," he said.
"You too, Dad."
There was nothing more to say.
The days that followed blurred together. Martin slept poorly. He dreamed of things he couldn't remember in the morning, things that left a metallic, cold aftertaste.
The Americans had deployed their Pacific Fleet. Three aircraft carrier groups. That was more than in any exercise in decades. The images showed gray ships on a gray sea, and Martin thought of his father, who had been in the war and had never spoken about it.
In Europe, there were crisis meetings. NATO countries activated reservists. The German Ministry of Defense published lists. Martin didn't see his name on them. He was too old. But he saw the names of his neighbors. From the sons of acquaintances.
Helga cried one evening when she thought he was already asleep. He was lying in the dark and heard her, but he didn't know what to say. So he said nothing.
The diplomatic channels collapsed. That was the word the news anchors used. Collapse. China withdrew its embassy staff from Europe. From America. From everywhere. The Russians did the same. Convoys of black limousines left embassy compoundes in Berlin, in London, in Washington.
The Western nations responded. Diplomats were recalled. Consulates closed. The last planes took off.
Martin saw the images and thought about the silence that arises when people stop talking to each other. He thought of married couples he knew who had separated. It had always started with them ceasing to speak.
One morning, he couldn't remember what day it was, he turned on the television and saw the anchor's face. It was a different face than usual. The mask had slipped. Behind it was fear.
The Russian forces on NATO's eastern flank had begun to move. That was all the anchor said. Moved to move. Three words. They were enough.
Martin stood at the window, looking out into the garden. The roses Helga had pruned back in the fall were now brown stumps. The sky was cloudless and a deep blue. An airplane trailed a white line across the horizon.
In Europe, there was a general mobilization. The word sounded foreign, like something from another century. But it was this century. It was this day.
He stopped counting. The hours. The news reports. It had become a constant stream. Radio and television and tablets and phones. Everything was talking. Everything was broadcasting. The world was full of words, and none of them helped.
The American Pacific Fleet was within range of Taiwanese waters. The Chinese had warned them. The Americans had ignored the warning. There were skirmishes. Destroyers. Missiles. Debris on the water.
And then, on an afternoon that felt like any other, came the news that no one had been waiting for, and that everyone had been waiting for.
Russia had placed its strategic nuclear forces on high alert. The Americans responded within an hour. The Minuteman silos in Wyoming and Montana had been opened. The crews were at their consoles. The keys had been turned. Only one more order was needed.
Martin sat in front of the television. He could feel his heart beating. He felt time changing, slowing down and speeding up at the same time, like an animal caught in a trap.
The news anchor read a statement. His voice no longer trembled. It was completely flat. That was worse.
The presidents were no longer speaking to each other. The red telephones were silent. The world had reached a point from which there seemed to be no turning back.
Martin reached for Helga's hand. She was sitting next to him. He didn't know when she had arrived. Her hand was cold.
The television showed maps. Red circles. Ranges. Flight times. Eighteen minutes until impact.
He closed his eyes.
The phone rang.
It was an old-fashioned ring, the telephone on the dresser in the hallway, which they hadn't used since they'd had cell phones. It rang and rang, and Martin opened his eyes and saw that the television screen was black.
He stood up. His legs were heavy. The telephone continued to ring.
He picked up the receiver.
"Mr. Berger?" A woman's voice. Young. Friendly. Businesslike.
"Yes?"
"This is Dr. Weimann's office. I wanted to remind you about your appointment tomorrow. The blood test. Fasting, please."
He stood in the hallway. Light filtered through the small window above the door. It was afternoon light. Ordinary light.
"Mr. Berger? Are you still there?"
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I am. Tomorrow. Fasting. I'll be there."
He hung up and remained standing. In the living room, Helga had fallen asleep on the sofa, a book open on her chest. The television was off. It had always been off. He remembered now. He hadn't turned it on today. He hadn't touched the tablet. He had just sat and waited, and at some point, everything had blurred.
He went to the window. In the garden stood the old birdhouse he had built years ago. A sparrow sat on it. Then two. They were fighting over a sunflower seed.
The world hadn't stopped turning. It never had.
He took a deep breath and went into the kitchen to make coffee. This time he wouldn't turn on the news. This time he would wake Helga and tell her they should go into the garden. The roses needed to be prepared for spring. There was always something that needed to be prepared for spring.
Outside, the first snow of the year was falling. Quietly. Insignificantly. And yet, Martin thought, and yet.
S.
Your support keeps ideas alive — and stories in motion. 👉 https://www.paypal.com/donate/?hosted_button_id=5NGG6XB67BZ4N 🙏
🇩🇪 My lyrical thoughts between two book covers: blau pause zimmerlautstärke - lyrik über die zeit - zurzeit
BoD Bookshop: https://buchshop.bod.de/blau-pause-zimmerlautstaerke-stefan-noir-9783695118779
Amazon-Shop: https://amzn.eu/d/1TvOBUO
🇺🇸 / 🏴 / 🏴 My lyrical thoughts between two book covers: blue pause room volume: poetry about time – currently
Amazon (English edition): https://amzn.eu/d/3b3GUF4