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Within the week I was ready to go, and I set off through Bulgaria on a train to Berlin. I did not speak the language at all. Thanks to the five or ten words I learned out of a conversation book during my four-day train ride, I was able to make it to a pension, a word I had jotted down in my notebook back in Istanbul. I spent the first weeks trying to learn the language at a survival level, wandering the city and admiring it. Ultimately, this was just another city.
An old, formerly wealthy lady was bitter at the officer corps, though she had lost her fortune due to her own sheer avarice. The officers found fault with the striking workers and with soldiers who were no longer willing to keep up the fight. And totally out of the blue, the colonial tradesman cursed the emperor for starting a war in the first place. Even the maid who cleaned my room in the mornings tried to drum up political conversations with me, and she would read her newspaper whenever she had a spare moment.
She had her own ardent opinions, and while talking about them, her face would flush red and she would swing her fist in the air. I almost forgot why I had come to Germany.
Whenever I got a letter from my father the soap business came back to mind, and I would assuage him and myself by claiming that I was still learning the language, and that I would be applying to an establishment of that sort very soon.
I had seen the entire city, the zoo, and the museums. It almost brought me to despair to think that I had consumed this city of millions within a few months. So what? So as not to lie to my father outright, I applied to a couple of luxury soap companies with the help of some Turkish friends. The German employees of one originally Swedish company gave me a very warm welcome, probably due to our not-yet-forgotten alliance of recent years.
However, they declined to teach me anything more than what I had already learned through passive observation in our own soap workshop back in Havran. They were most likely keeping the company secrets to themselves. I gradually stopped going to the factory. They did not ask where I had been, my father wrote less frequently, and I—here in the city of Berlin—continued living, without quite remembering why I had come here or what I had come to do.
I was taking German lessons three evenings a week from the ex-officer. In the morning, I went out to view the paintings in the newly opened galleries, and I could smell the cabbage paces away from the pension upon returning.
Now that the first months had passed, I was no longer as disposed to boredom as I had been before. I slowly endeavored to read books, and with time, this brought me more and more pleasure. After a while, it almost became a passion.
I would open a book as I lay on my chest in bed and stay there for hours with the thick, old dictionary beside me. Frequently I could not bear looking up something in the dictionary, and I would try guessing the meanings of sentences based on clues. It was as if a new world were opening in front of my eyes. This time my books were not talking solely about the heroes, like the original or translated books of my childhood and adolescence.
In almost every one, I now found something of myself, my surroundings, what I saw and heard. I came to think that now I was giving real meaning to the episodes I had experienced previously but had not been able to see and understand. The Russian authors were the most influential for me. I could read the vast stories of Turgenev to the end in one sitting.
One of them actually had me shaken for days. The protagonist of the story, a girl named Klara Milic, falls in love with a rather simple student, but without breathing a word of it to anyone, she falls victim to her astonishing obsession, merely out of the shame of loving such a simpleton.
I considered this girl to be an intimate of mine, whatever the reason was. Not being able to say what is transpiring inside you; hiding the strongest, deepest, and most beautiful aspects of the self beneath tremendous jealousy and vulnerability—with this I could certainly identify. But now, here in the museums, it was the old masters of painting that were granting me the chance to live free of my troubles.
There were times when I would look at a painting in the National Gallery for hours on end and then envision the same countenance and landscape for days afterward. I did not really understand these up-and-coming painters. Maybe I disliked them because the haughty pretension of their works, the inclination to be eye-catching at whatever expense, the showiness, was against my nature in some way….
That being the case, I did not even read the article. A couple of hours later, while I was wandering the streets, doing my daily promenades, I realized I was in front of the building where the exhibition mentioned in the newspaper was opening.
If only to honor the coincidence, I decided to enter, and I walked around for a while, looking at the various small and large paintings on the walls.
Most of the paintings were the sort that made one smirk. Angular knees and shoulders, disproportionate heads and breasts, landscapes designed in bright colors, as if composed of crepe paper.
Crystal vases, unshapely as a piece of broken brick, dead flowers that looked as if they had been kept in books for ages, and finally, portraits that seemed to have been taken out of an album of mug shots… To be sure, there was something to entertain everyone. Maybe I ought to have resented the fact that these people had accomplished so much with so little effort. But I could do nothing but pity them with almost a morbid pleasure—considering how they would reap ridicule from all, and understanding from none.
I stopped suddenly along one wall of the great hall, near the door. He visits him at home, as Raif is often sick. At home too, Raif lives in crowded conditions without a chance of creativity.
He is surrounded and tyrannised by a large family, which he cares for with great self-sacrifice. At some point the narrator gets behind Raif's secret, hidden inside a black school exercise book in his desk. It contains the notes he took ten years previously about his life in Berlin.
Shortly before Raif dies, the book ends up in the hands of the narrator, who reads it during a single night. Yet he is more interested in the German language and culture than his work in the factory. He learns German from an army officer and lives in a pension that houses a colourful mixture of international guests.
Post-World War I Berlin is a place of inflation and shortages, but as a national of a country allied to Germany during the war, Raif is welcomed with respect.
Yet he is overly shy. His obsessive reserve, from which he has suffered since childhood, makes it even more difficult for him to make contact and open up to other people far from home. It is only via the detour of culture, through literature and art, that he comes closer to Berlin and its inhabitants.
Almost a happy ending On one of his long walks through the city, he comes across Maria Puder's self-portrait "Madonna in a fur coat" in a gallery. Raif is virtually struck down, instantly bewitched by the portrait of a melancholy young woman.
He feels he knows the subject, and he could not be happier when he one day meets the artist herself and she seems open to his cautious advances. The self. New York: McGraw-Hill. From the top down: Self-esteem and self- Evaluation. Cognition and Emotion, 15, Self-esteem and emotion: Some thoughts about Feelings. Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin, 5, — Bushman B.
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