Farewell, Hans! (a Christmas story)

dear hans,

i still remember exactly how we celebrated christmas together five years ago. i was enthusiastically in love and you were profoundly calm as always. we just had a joint project “in progress”, as it happened so often. it was the project “recipes and animals – a book for childless fathers.”

in this book, we wanted to present simple cooking recipes for divorced fathers, in order to make it easier for our fellow sufferers to meet their children on weekends every 14 days. there were very simple recipes, such as “rice with sour cream” and “soft egg”, but also relatively complicated dishes such as “spaghetti bolognese” and “pizza”.

on the other hand, we wanted to introduce animals. not just animals, but pairs of animals, i.e. mr. and ms. elephant, kangaroo, seahorse, as well as cat and dog. in the course of extensive research on this project, we found out that ms. elephant is called “cow”, ms. dog “bitch” and ms. cat “cat”. we did not succeed to research about ms. seahorse, because we were both, as you aptly called it, “refusers of success”. we consistently refused any success at the price of secretly taking the greatest pleasure in our never realized projects.

every wednesday morning we sat together at your place to hold our “wednesday breakfast”. bert langsteiner was always there, affectionately called “long” by both of us. we both looked up to him, not only because of his size, but because he could be called quite successful. he was and is a successful bicycle messenger, as you were years ago. “long” always kept wednesday mornings free to have breakfast with you, like me. the two of you always talked about your photography, your bicycles and healthy eating. i mostly just sat there in silence and quietly enjoyed your enthusiasm. bianca and peter usually made our “wednesday breakfast” complete.

so we spent christmas 2016 together, me intoxicated with love, you disenchanted and sober. like everyone else, most childless fathers spent christmas eve with their families. the two of us were left over.

so we put on our best clothes for the celebration of the day – me certainly my dark blue suit, you certainly didn’t – and were ready to set off in your old little military bus to the “cemetery of the nameless”. we had already been to romania together in this little gray-green volkswagen bus to photograph projects for caritas timisoara and the german salvatorians there.

with you in the bus it was more pleasant than with most others. hundreds of kilometers for two can be exhausting. usually one talks too much and the other too little. we both talked just right for each other, rather less than more. finally we’d both rather listened, even if it was to silence.

so we did not only arrive in romania together, but also at the “cemetery of the nameless” on christmas eve. this tiny cemetery is located in the south-east of vienna at the alberner harbor. everything was dark, everything was silent. only a few candles were burning in the small cemetery. we both sat in the back of your bus, i had brought beer, you tea and soup. it was the best christmas of my life.

afterwards we went to the mass of caritas community of the homeless. as every year the cardinal also took part. we both stood in the back in the dark. in the middle of the mass i went forward to read my intercession:

“dear god, please help all abused boys and girls like maria to say ‘yes to life anyway’.” then i went back to you and asked you: “did you understand me?” you looked at me and said, “you were the only one i understood.”

that’s how you were, dear hans. never a word too many. but also seldom a word too few. my christmas rush of love faded away, your mischievous sobriety remained. the wednesday breakfasts moved further on until we fell out last year. i broke up with my girlfriend, which you got angry about. the brief argument that followed ended in a long, icy silence. i thank god that this icy silence wasn’t the last thing that united us. eleven days before you died we became friends again.

in this early december morning it had begun snowing. i was just coming around the corner and heard you shoveling snow in front of your house. it was still dark, and nobody was around yet. i went to you, we both greeted, and were talking for a short while. after i had left i turned around and went back to you: “you know, i can be an asshole sometimes. i’m sorry.” and you smiled and answered: “oh, this is already long gone…” i continued: “and i want us to be still friends.” you nodded and said: “yes, sure.” then we smiled and said goodbye.

eleven days later, on monday, december 20th, 2021, you passed away. after you hadn’t shown up for a meeting with your children, your three daughters went to search for you. they opened the door of your flat and found you straight behind. you were dead.

our photo book for childless fathers, as befits our projects, has not yet come to anything. i’ll continue writing down here, please take the photos from above. we could continue with the seahorse. i think ms. seahorse is called “mare”. and her children are carried by their father.

thank you, hans! for everything. farewell, over there in bicycle land!

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