lights fly by. dark outside. driving back from a sunday’s visit with my maternal grandmother in konstanz. 1972. my father, hands on the wheel, eyes on the road. my mother turns around addressing her three children in the back: “listen carefully. should anyone of you ever become a soldier, you would not be part of my family anymore.” turning back. facing the road. no further comment.

my mother, born 1938 in striegau, silesia (now stzegom, poland), was a child refugee during the last three years of ww2. her father was a senior lieutenant in the german wehrmacht and a nazi and his wife, my grandmother was an enthusiastic follower.

kurt tucholsky died from an overdose of sleeping pills in 1936. “soldaten sind mörder”, he famously wrote, reflecting on his experiences as a soldier during ww1. “for four years there were whole square miles of land where murder was obligatory, while half an hour away it was just as strictly forbidden. did I say murder? of course, murder. soldiers are murderers” he wrote, using the pseudonym ignaz wrobel in 1931 for “die weltbühne”, which he published together with carl von ossiezky.

my mother, evelina, died from an overdose of sleeping pills in 2024, feeling deeply betrayed by the circularity of life’s events and all the broken promises of progress. “it is all a loop. worldwide wars never end. humans are stupid. men are monsters. who lies wins. soldiers are murderers.”