Herta’s Work
My interests vary widely. In my short stories I tend to incorporate political themes- prejudices, fears, and contemporary anxieties. As mentioned in the Ghostwriting section I'm working on a novel set in South America, titled In Search of Che. The book explores idealism and the revolutionary movement in the early 1970s. (See excerpt below.) I'm also digging around in my past and have begun writing a memoir, How German Am I?, two pieces of which have appeared in literary journals.
I was born in former Yugoslavia, then emigrated to Germany, and eventually landed on the shores of the U.S. I grew up during the politically charged 60s, came of age in the turbulent 70s, and gained perspective in the 80s and 90s. The themes in my writing reflects my experiences.
I have to thank Richard Peabody for publishing my first story in his anthology Enhanced Gravity. See excerpt below:
Enhanced Gravity
(An anthology of fiction by Washington area women)
"Perfection"
People had said it so often that Susan finally came to believe it herself. Her hands were the most perfect part of her anatomy. Of course her friends hadn't said it exactly that way, but that's what they'd meant. Now she glanced at her hands. Her nails needed a good polishing. She needed it. About to step inside Nail Spa, her neighborhood manicure salon - though it was more shop than salon - she heard her cell phone release its Mozart Sonata chime. Should she answer? She didn't much feel like it. When she saw that the caller was her teenage daughter, she snapped the phone open.
Hurricane Review
"War on Terror" (short fiction)
I glance around Gate 30's waiting area at Reagan National Airport, assessing each passenger, the likelihood that he or she may be, well, a terrorist. This is not a game. I would prefer to be doing something else. Like reading a novel, trashy or literary, or catching up on yesterday's news. But no, it's the news - ever since 9/11 - that has reduced me to this ridiculous, nail-biting activity each time I fly.
Potomac Review
"A Child's Christmas" (memoir)
Hechendorf am Pilsensee, a Bavarian village
Christmas Eve, December 24, 1957
Another heavy snow storm had descended on our town. Snowflakes the size of my mother's hazelnut cookies spun to earth. As I peered out, I could barely discern the town's narrow streets, the rooftops of the old houses, the forest of evergreens in the distance, all hidden beneath pillows and blankets of white. Although our village was steeped in snow, other years had seen worse. As the snowflakes swirled about all I could think of was Christkindl's arrival that evening.
As frightening as St. Nicholas was, Christkindl was the opposite. And even more mysterious, because children weren't allowed to see the angel. Only adults. And then only certain adults. I wondered what Christkindl would bring. No one in our village received much. A few oranges, walnuts, a bar of chocolate, a toy.
The Trials of Serra Blue
Winner - 2006 James Jones First Novel Fellowship
An excerpt from the first chapter which appeared in Provincetown Arts, July 2007.
Chapter One
Bogota, El Dorado Airport-Customs
Friday, July 13, 1973
Tilting the Panama hat low over his eyes, James pivots away from the customs table, away from me, moving toward a set of large glass doors. Golden sunlight cascades into the building, landing in bright patches on the floor. No matter how hard I wish he would glance back, he doesn't. I watch his tall lanky figure disappear. Moments later, after the agent discovers the cocaine in my suitcase, I too am traveling toward those doors, frantic to find him. With each step I expect the hands of the police to stop me, to grab me by the shoulder and swing me around. But I don't look back. You can never look back; it's one of the edicts of running. Of escaping.
In that moment of failure, everything familiar, everything I'd counted on and hoped for falls away. The notion is stripped bare and with sudden startling clarity I see the idea for what it is - stupid, misguided, pathetic. For James, smuggling had become a vocation; for me it had been a symbol of hope, an act of desperation. And now, I know that all is lost. It's not an immediate knowing; nevertheless it registers somewhere deep in my mind.
In the next moment, my instincts take over and my entire being is caught up in escaping. There's no time for self-pity or regretful rumination. It's a matter of now, now, now…adrenalin pumping through my veins.
Outside the terminal, I glance right then left, searching for James, but knots of people obstruct my view. Where is he? I want deperately to hide, to jump in a cab, but first I have to find him. He left only a few minutes ago. Why didn't he wait? Maybe he did.
Again, I scan the crowd, searching for the lean would-be architect wtih the Panama hat and cream-colored suit. He knows this city. What's the name of the hotel he mentioned earlier? Tequendama. An Indian name. Poor Indians. Fucked over Indians. Now I'm fucked, too. Damn it, where is he?
In the street, I wave for a cab. A battered old car pulls up. No time to be picky. Get in, get in. "Hotel Tequendama," I shout. "Andale, andale, por favor." Hurry up, buddy. And with that we're underway. No time to look back. There's always time. Don't look back.
**
Prologue
It would be quite a while before young Jesus’s path crossed Serra Blue’s, but like the tightening of a noose destiny would draw them together. Fate has its intentions, Che might say, both in life and in death. The following is what happened in the time before Jesus and Serra met, and in the time after. (Jesus is pronounced Hay-soos.)
Chapter 1
The first thing to establish is this: Who are the combatants in guerrilla warfare? On one side there is the group of oppressors and their agent, the professional army (well armed and disciplined), who in many cases can count on support from abroad and from small groups of bureaucrats, servants of that group of oppressors.
On the other side is the population of the nation or region involved. It is important to emphasize that the guerrilla struggle is a struggle of a people. The guerrillas, as an armed nucleus, are the fighting vanguard of the people, and their great strength is rooted in the mass of the population.
The guerrillas should not be considered numerically inferior to the army against which it fights, although its fire power may be inferior. That is precisely why guerrilla warfare is turned to when you have majority support but possess an infinitely smaller number of arms with which to defend yourselves against oppression.
Che Guevara, La Guerra de Guerrillas
Rural village in Colombia (Friday, July 13, 1973)
The Massacre
Moments before dawn, wrapped in a torn blanket, thirteen-year old Jesus awakened, hunger gnawing at his stomach. He was used to the feeling. Still he hoped his grandmother would wake up soon to make coffee.
His cousin Humberto was snoring. Beneath lay his muddied boots.
A sound outside caught his attention. The loud squawking of a bird. Maybe it’s the special bird, the one that his mother had pointed out because of its colorful plumage before she’d left for Bogotá. To attend university and to do “important” work. He missed her. He grew intensely quiet, listening with every ounce of his thin frame, for often the bird transmitted his mother’s messages. He was sure of it.
This morning, the birds made such a racket that the boy rose and went to the flimsy curtain hung across the doorway. It failed to keep out the night’s chill and the dust of the village path traveling past his abuela’s two-room sloping shack.
Then a stick broke. Something else crunched underfoot. Yes, he was sure of it, someone was walking not too far away. He pulled back the curtain, enough to see outside, still thinking of his mother and hoping it was her. Maybe she planned to surprise him, sometimes she did that.
What appeared to be a few men emerged from a grove of trees. He thought he might be imagining things, that they were only morning shadows cast across the field. The sun straddled the horizon making it hard to see. He squinted. On closer inspection, he felt certain that they were men, that they only appeared to be shadows. He heard the faint stamp of their footsteps on the dew-moistened earth. It was early but maybe they had gone to work in the fields before breakfast and were returning home for coffee and bread. Clutching the curtain, he glanced over his shoulder at Humberto who still slumbered, his breath even.
He’d been gone for several days. After such forays he often returned looking haggard and spent. When Jesus asked abuela about it, she said, “Young men will be young men. You will see when you grow older.”
But he wasn’t sure she was telling the truth, or at least not the whole truth. Humberto too was prone to brush him off at the mention of it. “Don’t worry, little cousin,” he liked to say, “it is a man’s thing I do,” and then he’d blandish a grin, refusing to say more. Jesus grew irritated when he treated him like a child. Because he wasn’t a child, he was almost 13, and soon he would be a man.
The shrill crow of a rooster startled him and the men, one of whom he though glanced his way. He dropped the curtain so that he was no longer exposed. Determined to follow their movements, the boy ran to one of the small windows, really just a square opening in the wall, and peered out. They drew closer and were now in plain sight. Scarves and kerchiefs hid all but their eyes. Rifles were slung over their shoulders. They communicated with silent nods and hand gestures. Then Ignacio, his friend’s older brother, aimed a single finger at his grandmother’s home.
Jesus rushed to wake Humberto. In a whisper he revealed what he’d seen. Humberto bolted upright, still clad in tattered t-shirt and dark pants, and glanced around in confusion. He grabbed a gun from beneath his pillow.
Back at the window Jesus whispered, “They’ve stopped. They're waiting for something.” Humberto first ran to the doorway, then joined Jesus and stared outside.
The soldiers’ heads were fixed on a man who differed from the others in size, taller and more substantial, and the red color of his kerchief. He gazed at each man in turn, as if making sure their eyes were on him. He raised his arm, then chopping at the air, brought it down.
The soldiers’ fluid movements became a macabre synchronized dance. Arms gripping handguns and rifles, legs wheeling, they loped toward the doorways. Jesus abandoned his lookout. His heart thumped loudly against his bony chest and his breath came fast.
Abuela had risen with a queer look on her face. “Vaya con Dios,” she said. Her words wer aimed at Humberto, who tried in vain to force his bulk through the window. To Jesus she said, “Calmate.” But her words lacked conviction.
The quiet had given way to a din of noise—doors splintering, curtains ripping; shouts, shrieks, and the clatter and crash of dishes and furniture, and then the rat-a-tat of gunfire.
Before Jesus understood what was happening, one of the men flung open the curtain and yelled, “Shut up!” despite the fact that no one had said a word.
His grandmother whispered, “Dios mio! Humberto! Jesus!”
Humberto lifted his gun and sprang in front of Jesus and his abuela, then lunged at the soldier, who made a swift evasive move and shoved his rifle into skinny Jesus’ stomach. “I’ll kill him,” he threatened. “I’ll kill her too!”
Humberto came to a halt.
“Then do it!” la abuela shouted. Her eyes stared menacingly at the soldier.
There was a moment’s hesitation before the kerchiefed man aimed his gun at Humberto. “Drop the gun, you filthy communista!” Spittle flew into the air. “Or I’ll shoot all of you.”
Humberto did as he was told. Jesus took a step forward, but his grandmother drew him back. The soldier’s dark eyes took stock of the room, landing on a pack of Pielrojas. He swiped the cigarettes off the table and with his gun at Humberto’s back nudged him outside.
A collective gasp punctuated the stillness that had descended over the town. A dozen or so men and a few teenage boys exited their shacks, arms raised into the air. They weren’t fully dressed, they hardly seemed awake. Even among the bravest miedo was etched into their faces; fear flashed in their eyes. The men in kerchiefs prodded the reluctant captives forward.
Jesus and his grandmother watched, her arms clutching his waist. Not far away some of his friends stood as they did, beside torn curtains and broken down doors. One of the men being herded away was Ignacio. Jesus tried to make sense of it all.
One by one the kerchiefed soldiers and the captive men disappeared into the distant grove of trees, not far from the coffee plantation. Silence was shattered by gunfire. A monkey howled. Men’s curses and shouts rent the air. Women wept.
Jesus fought to peel off his grandmother’s tight grip, but she took him by the shoulder and turned him into the kitchen where she told him to sit down. At the stove she began making coffee. “Jesus, if they come back, you say nothing. If they ask, I will tell them the truth. Humberto left a few days ago for a neighboring village to see a girlfriend and to find work. That’s all.”
Just then, motors burst to life. They were gunned and revved; tires spun before gaining purchase on the dirt road. The vehicles rumbled down the dusty rutted lane. The sound dwindled. As quickly as they’d appeared in the grayness of dawn, the masked killers had vanished. For an instant it was again quiet, as though the violence had sucked all sound from the village.
People moved haltingly out of their hovels onto the dirt paths, then more quickly. Jesus and his grandmother joined them. He had known fear, but he’d never witnessed death and wanted to see it.
He slipped between the villagers and was among the first to arrive at the site of the massacre. Limbs were thrown at odd angles, heads twisted, blank eyes searching the sky. He surveyed the bodies trying to locate Humberto, but couldn’t find him. This at least was good, he thought. Nor was Ignacio among the dead.
When the others had identified husbands, sons, brothers, uncles, and cousins, wailing and crying and screaming lifted into the morning air. Birds joined them, releasing resentful shrieks and indignant caws.
Behind a shimmer of heat, the sun rose shamelessly, early morning rays tingeing the scene bright red, like the blood leaking from the men’s heads and bodies.
***