The forest, the song and the returning wolf
A melody, barely audible, drifting through the snowy landscape. Hummed, whispered, shaped by the cold. The icy wind carries it, scatters it, only to deposit it elsewhere. A song that has survived—through the camps, through the war, through time. A song that was not forgotten because people sang it when they had nothing else left.
The forest takes it in, swallows it, passes it on. Up here, where the mountain park begins, where the trees stretch towards the sky, another fairy tale unfolds. Kassel, Acity that almost ceased to exist, ninety percent destroyed, forced to reinvent itself. But the forest, the mountain park, the hills around the Hercules—they remained.
The German forest.
It has always been more than just a forest. A space for thought, a symbol, a refuge, a promise. The Romantics searched for their images here, sought themselves in the tangled roots, in the shadows between the trunks. For the philosophers, it was a place of contemplation, of solitude, of purity. But also a place of deception.
Because the forest follows an order that remains unseen. And now, the wolf returns. For a long time, he was gone. Banished, hunted, erased from the landscapes, from the stories. In fairy tales, he remained—a threat, a warning. But now, in reality, he is coming back. Not loudly. But silently, almost invisibly, moving between the shadows of the trees. They say he belongs to this landscape, like the seasons, like the old oaks, like the morning mist. Others fear him. Not because they see him, but because they know he is there. Perhaps that is the real fear: that he has long been among us. Not the wolf that roams the forests. But the one who has changed his form. The one who has learned to move unnoticed. The one who blends into the herd, adapts—until the moment comes when he no longer needs to hide.Not between the trees, not as a shadow in the undergrowth, but right among us. He no longer wears fur. He moves differently, speaks differently. He disguises himself in the voices of the reasonable. He talks of security, of homeland, of identity. He has understood that he no longer needs to hunt. The herd comes willingly.
SONG for Gerti DEUTSCH project
Gleis 13 – Verwaltung eines Endes
9. Dezember. Kassel.
1000 Namen, reduziert auf Zahlen.
463 aus der Stadt,
die anderen aus den Landkreisen,
zugewiesen, transportiert, verwaltet.
Der Bahnhof als Mechanismus,
Gleis 13 Protokoll.
Kein Chaos, kein Zufall –
ein System, das sich selbst erhalten will.
Die Räder rollen,
der Stempel fällt.
Riga erwartet,
niemand fragt,
niemand hält an.
das Unvermeidliche der Logik
Im Sommer dann:
neue Listen, neue Transporte.
Juni nach Majdanek,
September nach Theresienstadt.
Einer nach dem anderen,
ohne Unterbrechung,
ohne Rückkehr.
Der Mensch verschwindet nicht im Feuer,
sondern im Aktenschrank.
Die Behörde kennt keine Namen,
nur die Nummern auf dem Papier.
Es war nicht persönlich,
es war nur logisch.
Gleis 13,
nicht Vergangenheit, sondern Gegenwart.
Das Gedächtnis der Gleise
ist keine Erinnerung,
sondern ein Beweis.