Did you enjoy Rachel Farmer’s translation of francophone Swiss writer Catherine Safonoff in our most recent issue? If so, you’d be excited to learn that we are bringing you another of Farmer’s work in this week’s Translation Tuesdays showcase. Dagmar Schifferli, a writer who is also trained in psychology and social pedagogy, maps the shape-shifting and exacting interiority of an adolescent protagonist who speaks to her psychiatrist. In between fiction and dramatic monologue, here is a narrator’s voice that is unforgettable in her ability to speak plainly and potently.
“Translating Dagmar Schifferli’s enigmatic novella Meinetwegen certainly came with its own set of challenges. For starters, how should I choose just a short extract of a work whose unique genius comes from the way it gradually, insidiously makes you question its narrator, then fall for her, then question her all over again? The novella, set in the early 1970s, consists entirely of a series of one-sided conversations between the 17-year-old protagonist and her psychiatrist. At several points, the young girl hints at her own untrustworthiness, insisting she would not tell a “deliberate lie”, challenging her psychiatrist to decide whether or not to believe her, and alluding to a lack of free will. The duplicity of her narration is reflected in the language, where dual meanings abound: for example, a clock “strikes” and another is “beating time”, a reference to the beatings she allegedly received.
Even the German title, Meinetwegen, has a double meaning (and translating it was a bit of a head-scratcher). On the one hand, it can mean something like “I don’t care”—an attitude expressed about the narrator’s actions by an adult in her life. But later, another meaning is unveiled. The protagonist realises she can do things meinetwegen: “on my own account”, “for my own benefit”, “for my sake”. Finally, she allows herself to think about the future and takes back her own agency. This is why, after much deliberation, I chose Feel Free as the novella’s English title, as it captures this double meaning and also weaves in a reference to the protagonist’s enforced state of captivity. These layers of meaning mirror the narrator herself, and her singular ability to inspire both sympathy and distrust.”
—Rachel Farmer
I like to talk.
But don’t expect too much. Once a week, they said. Or rather, ordered. Because nowhere is less free than here. Once a week—at least. I’ll make notes in between. I want you to hear everything. You will have to decide for yourself whether it’s true or not. If I were to tell you a story that wasn’t exactly how I really experienced it or that someone else told me, it would not be a deliberate lie. Having your ears boxed hard enough can damage the brain. And mine were boxed hard.
That’s why I’m not sure whether I’m remembering everything correctly. Even though I want to.
But there is one thing you should know: you must never interrupt me, never ever. And don’t ask any questions either—don’t make a sound, not a peep. Don’t go hm or clear your throat. That would get my thoughts all jumbled. It would immediately lead me astray; make me refer to you and phrase things for your benefit. To make you understand, above all else. It would take me away from myself and perhaps from the truth too, a truth I want to get to the bottom of at all costs. It’s not because I’m hoping to lessen my punishment. No, I’m ready for anything. Braced for anything.
I will accept any judgement.
A judgement would create clarity, would be a direct response to what I did.
Had to do.
I’m sure you know that humans don’t really possess free will. In school, I learnt that some people don’t even commit suicide of their own free will. Because, my teacher told me, their thoughts grow increasingly narrow, focusing more and more on what they intend to do. Until, in the end, all other alternatives dwindle to nothing, drift away, can no longer be imagined, the teacher explained. Despite the billions of brain cells ticking away inside the skull of every human being, connected to one another in I-don’t-know-how-many ways.
You just coughed. You shouldn’t do that.
Now I need to have a short break. Don’t say anything; just wait.
So—. You have a right to know. I’m here for observation, after all.
Locked up.
Against my will.
At the end of my—uh—stay, you and the others will have to decide what will happen to me.
Where I’m to go.
I’m not going to bring the notes I take in between our sessions. I’d rather leave those in my room. I want to say what I have to say without a piece of paper in my hand, so I can look at your face,
perhaps even your eyes.
To see if you believe what I say. I haven’t often been believed before.
My father didn’t
my foster mother didn’t
to say nothing of those ridiculous nuns.
They’re the biggest liars themselves.
There were two, three exceptions though. I’ll tell you about them later.
I want to make the most of these sessions, but I can’t promise there won’t be long pauses now and again. Then, I’ll just say nothing, and I ask you to leave me alone. Things will get going again eventually.
That’s exactly what happened just now. You didn’t force me to keep talking. Good.
I don’t mind it here. The people are nice, or at least they pretend to be. Once, I even felt as though someone really cared if I was okay or not. I don’t care about that much myself right now. At least no harm can come to me here. From the outside.
No beatings.
No being deprived of food, which often happened before. Punishing children by refusing to give them any food. Great idea. What lesson is that supposed to teach a child, particularly if they’re convinced they’ve done nothing wrong? In their view. But that hardly ever seems to match the adults’ view anyway.
[…]
I’ve just seen the little alarm clock on the desk behind you. It’s actually good for me to know what time it is.
It’s beating time.
As my father used to say.
I can hear the church bells from my room. Midnight is the worst—they strike twenty times. Twice for each quarter hour, then twelve times for midnight. I’d like to stop being scared with every strike. Not sure how, though.
Yesterday I got some post from my grandpa. He told me he might not be writing so many letters anymore because he’s finally got a telephone line and a telephone. A black one, screwed onto the wall in the hallway. After months of waiting. Lots of people he knows are still waiting. It’s been months for them too. He asked me if I knew how to use the telephone properly, and whether I could tell the difference between the dialling tone, ring tone and engaged signal. Soon it would be possible to call America directly without going via the switchboard. But that would be far too expensive for him either way.
I can’t call him from here. Not possible. Write letters, yes—but they check them all. Even the ones we receive. It’s like a prison here, though our minders say it isn’t one. I’m still too young for that. Seventeen—you can’t go to prison at that age. Only at twenty, when you’re an adult. If you look at it like that, maybe I’ve been lucky. Maybe. You’ll have to decide. Perhaps it will help if I tell you as much as I can about myself. I like to talk. I already told you that. You’re free to do with that whatever you think is right.
Right, all right, in the right and dead to rights. I’ve been thinking about this again and again over the last few days. Most people here think they shouldn’t be here, that it’s wrong. They think the others are the ones who belong behind bars, the ones who have done terrible things to them but hid it so well that nobody noticed. Bluff it out, blame it on the kids—because they’re always being stubborn and acting out anyway. Many of them ran away from home but were immediately brought back by the police. I think the police are always on the side of adults. All
all adults ever. They gang up amongst themselves. Against the kids.
Their own kids.
Even against their own kids.
And they always think they’re in the right.
And they’ve got us dead to rights.
Most people here think that’s totally wrong.
So do I.
Do you have a tape running? I can’t see one. How will you remember what I say? You aren’t making notes either. That’s good. It would bother me, the constant scratching of a pen on paper. It would make me feel much more like I’m being studied.
I was hesitant to tell you this. But I’ll try all the same.
Today
is the day
my mother died.
Five years ago, it was. Do you know what it’s like to lose your mother when you’re only twelve years old? She had MS, so I had to live with a foster mother most of the time. But I loved her so much—not the foster mother, my mum. And she loved me too. I know she did. I never thought the reason I had to live with someone else was because she didn’t love me. Lots of children think that. I never did. She was just weak because of her illness and was convinced I’d be better off with a foster mother. I wasn’t. But I never told her.
I didn’t want to make her even sadder.
As sad as I was—all the time.
And angry.
Most of all when I had to help my foster mother on wash day and I just knew my father’s underwear was in amongst the laundry. Of course, she never admitted it. She thought kids were stupid. Lots of adults think kids are stupid and that they don’t catch on to things. If they don’t tell kids the things they want to keep quiet, kids have other ways of finding out. From other kids in the neighbourhood. Or from overhearing a conversation in the kitchen that was supposed to be kept secret.
Did I just see that? Did you dab your eyes with a handkerchief? Was I not supposed to see that? That’s kind of thrown me off.
A cloth handkerchief. Almost the same pattern as the ones my father had that sometimes ended up in the wash too. You resemble him in other ways, I think. That thin ring of hair around your head, bald everywhere else, thick eyebrows, brown eyes, pot belly
Sorry.
I probably shouldn’t have said that. But you remind me of my father. I can’t help it. And I can’t help having a father like mine either. I can’t get him out of my head. I think
I think
no, I know it was his fault
is his fault
that my mother died. Don’t give me that look. It’s true. He didn’t lock her wheelchair in position, she was in it, the wheelchair rolled faster and faster,
toppled over.
My mother didn’t survive her internal injuries.
Especially with her MS.
It’s sunnier today than it was last time. The weather is always a good topic of conversation. My mother could predict the weather, particularly when there was going to be a big change from sun to rain or snow. Her legs would start hurting even worse than usual. It was funny, she had almost no feeling in her legs anymore, but they still hurt. Particularly if there was going to be a big change in the weather. From sun to rain or snow.
Translated from the German by Rachel Farmer
Dagmar Schifferli was born in Zurich and studied social education, special education and psychology at the University of Zurich, with postgraduate studies in gerontology. Her first novel Anna Pestalozzi-Schulthess. Ihr Leben mit Heinrich Pestalozzi was published in 1996 and became a bestseller, with numerous readings being held in Switzerland, Germany and the US. This was followed by another historical novel (Wiborada), two epistolary editions, and two longer stories (Verwandte Gefühle / Leben im Quadrat). In May 2018, her novel Wegen Wersai was published by Rüffer & Rub. Schifferli is an experienced lecturer in social pedagogy, gerontology, and special education at universities of applied sciences, colleges of higher education, and in the training of caregivers for the elderly.
Rachel Farmer lives in Bristol, UK, and works as a translator, conference interpreter and editor. Her literary translations have been published in No Man’s Land and SAND literary journals, and in the anthology Elemental from Two Lines Press. Her translation of an extract of In Foreign Lands, Trees Speak Arabic by Usama Al Shahmani will be published in 2022 as part of the +SVIZRA series from Strangers Press. She also writes book reviews for Lunate magazine.
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