Homemade pizza

She stares at me and then I remember again how intense sadness looks like. She is not that old.. At most sixty years. If you look closely you will find in her face, her tanned arms, her sturdy legs the tender beauty of her youth. She is sitting on a double sofa. There is a thin layer of dust on the upholstery. As everything is covered in the same fine grit. The broken paving stones, the felled trees, the burnt-out cars, the smashed computers, the discarded bicycles.

I sit across from her on an overturned dumpster. What time of day is it? Afternoon? Tomorrow? Evening? I have no clue. And I also don't dare to ask her why the houses are maimed, the streets are broken, the sky and horizon are covered with black smoke. Never mind that I want to know about the blood, the mud. It could be war, an earthquake, a volcanic eruption, a revolution, an apocalypse.

“At first you're glad you have survived everything,” she says in a hoarse voice. Like she is a heavy smoker, a whiskey lover. “You are still breathing, your fingers can still move, you are thirsty. That is all you care about. You are still alive. You even feel a certain relief, a little joy. That is what humanity is doing, huh? We want to survive. That is deep within us. That instinct, that willpower.”

We hear the shrill sound of sirens. Two police cars speed past us. We look at each other. Distraught, indifferent, anxious.

“But after that initial relief, the realization of the days to come follows soon. The devastation, the havoc, the destruction. And you do not know where you are anymore. Everything you knew is gone. Or irreparably changed. Everyone you knew is dead, fled or in hiding. And at the same time, you know very well that you yourself have changed. You will never again be who you were in the past.”

On the corner of the street – in the shadow of a destroyed apartment building – three children are playing. They have found a bicycle and take turns riding it. They push each other, they fall over, they swear, they grumble, they laugh, they scramble to their feet.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asks. As if the sound of the children playing reminds her of former domesticity.

She gets up and then disappears into the silent house. Where once was a kitchen door, there is now a dirty piece of curtain fabric. The windows on the ground floor are broken. For better or worse the cracks and openings have been plugged with newspaper.

Faster than expected, the woman returns from the mutilated house and offers me the hot drink. She even offers me some cookies.

We wait in silence for the tea to cool down. Then I take a sip. The drink tastes surprisingly good. Aromatic, warm-hearted.

“They can take a lot from you,” she sighs. She caresses the swollen veins on her hand. She smiles. “They can take everything from you. Your property, your family, your friends, your past. They can make your life whole a hell. They can make it seem like there is nothing left to live for. Because so much has disappeared.”

For a moment I feel the urge to comfort her with the obvious clichés. Throughout history humanity has come up with a handful of platitudes that can act as a disguise to cover up your guilt and shame. But which one shall I choose? That there is a god who sees everything and who continues to love you despite everything? That you must take life as it is because there is nothing else to do?

The woman makes a gesture that I should not bother her with sweet talk. Is she able to read my unoriginal  mind?

“They can take a lot from you,” she repeats firmly, “but not your confidence in the future. Not the belief that you can make the world a better place. Not the idea that despite the damage, the evil, the injustice you can start building it up again.”

Then she beckons me and asks me to lift the sofa together. The piece of furniture is much heavier than anticipated. But we persevere. At the same time, she mentions what she has in mind to do today. Replacing the windows, dusting the rooms, installing a new kitchen door, getting wood for the stove, repairing the oven.

"With a bit of luck, we'll eat homemade pizza tonight.”