Roland Schimmelpfennig

It has to be really dark when children and their parents go out into the night with their lanterns. And, just like every year, there are lots of pairs of children and halves of parents. They drag the little ones, shove the big ones, follow the light. And, just like every year, the halves chat with the other halves. So, unfortunately, no one notices when the little one quickly ducks back because he left his car somewhere. Out of the light and into the dark. Across the street. Dangerous. Especially the father who gets to his car much too late after mass. Much too late to get to the next one on time. Much too late to calmly get comfortable. It’s new, after all, the big, black car. Much too late, and the car is still stubborn and the music is too loud and his nerves are frayed and his thoughts far away. And the black monster only feels a slight resistance. Under the wheels. On the street. Barely discernible. Was that something? A flying child?
Roland Schimmelpfennig drives the tragic death of a child into your flesh like a thorn. Right from the beginning, he leaves no shadow of a doubt that the lantern procession will end badly. The women pronounce bleak prophecies. The sewerage workers beneath the street are unsettled. Like harassing fire, the moral failures of the parents flicker through the funeral song. Because as if the loss of the child weren’t bad enough, a friendly father caught the attention of the mother during the procession and furtively caught her hand. And as if the guilt over the death of the child weren’t bad enough, the father was driving not only in an unfamiliar car but also in eager anticipation of an auspicious encounter with a beautiful stranger. Guilt is flying around with the dead child. And settles on the shoulders of those who have lost. No ifs or buts. Because ifs and buts don’t exist any more.