Featured below is my full translation of Wolfgang Borchert’s (1921-1947) short story Nachts schlafen die Ratten doch (1947). If you would like access to non-literary samples of my work, please feel free to reach out!
Even Rats Sleep at Night
The gaping window in the lonely wall let out a yawn, revealing the blue-red of the evening sun. Clouds of dust shimmered in the remains of the steep chimney. The desert of rubble was dozing.
He had his eyes closed. Suddenly, it got even darker. He realized someone had come and was now standing right in front of him, dark, silent. Now they’ve got me! He thought. But when he blinked a little, all he saw were a couple of legs, barely covered by shabby pants. They were a little crooked; he could see right through them. He dared to peek up above the legs and saw it was an older man. He had a knife and a basket in his hand. And some dirt on his fingertips.
I suppose you’re sleeping here? asked the man as he looked down at the tangled mass of hair. Jürgen squinted from the sun shining between the man’s legs and said: No, I’m not sleeping. I have to keep watch. The man nodded: Ah, that’s why you’ve got that big stick? Yes, answered Jürgen bravely as he tightly clutched his stick.
What are you guarding?
I can’t say. He tightly gripped the stick. It’s money, eh? The man set his basket down and wiped his knife clean against the seat of his pants.
Absolutely not! said Jürgen with contempt.
It’s for something completely different.
Well, what then?
I can’t say. Something else, that’s all.
Well, in that case, I won’t tell you what’s in my basket. The man nudged the basket with his foot and snapped his knife shut.
Ha, I can guess what’s in your basket, Jürgen sneered; rabbit food.
Wow — you’ve got it! said the man in amazement. You’re a sharp one. How old are you?
Nine.
Nine years old, eh? So then you know how much three times nine is, right?
Sure, said Jürgen, and to buy himself some time he added: That’s easy. And he stared through the man’s legs. Three times nine, right? he asked again, twenty-seven. I knew that right away.
Of course, said the man, and that’s exactly how many rabbits I’ve got.
Jürgen’s mouth dropped open: Twenty-seven?
You can come see them. A lot of them are still really young. Do you want to?
I can’t. I have to keep watch, said Jürgen uncertainly.
All the time? asked the man, Even at night?
Even at night. All the time. Always. Jürgen looked up at the crooked legs. Since Saturday, he whispered.
But don’t you ever go home? Surely you have to eat.
Jürgen lifted up a stone. It revealed a half loaf of bread. And a tin box.
You smoke? asked the man, Do you have a pipe?
Jürgen tightly gripped his stick and timidly said: I roll. I don’t like pipes.
It’s too bad, the man bent down to his basket, you could’ve seen the rabbits. Especially the young ones. Maybe you could’ve picked one out for yourself. But you can’t leave, right?
No, said Jürgen sadly, no no.
The man took up his basket and stood up straight. Well, if you have to stay here — damn. And he turned to go. If you won’t betray me, said Jürgen quickly, it’s because of the rats.
The crooked legs took a step back: Because of the rats?
Yes. They’re eating the dead. People. That’s what they live off of.
Who told you that?
Our teacher.
And you’re looking after the rats now? asked the man.
No, not them! And then he said quite softly: My brother, he’s down there. There. Jürgen pointed at the broken walls with his stick. Our house got bombed. All at once the light went out in the cellar. And he did too. We shouted. He was so much smaller than me. Only four. It has to still be there. He’s so much smaller than me. The man looked down at the tangled mass of hair. But then he suddenly said: Well, didn’t your teacher ever tell you that rats go to sleep at night?
No, Jürgen whispered and suddenly looked very tired. He never told me that.
Well, said the man, he’s quite the teacher not knowing that! Even rats sleep at night. You can go home at night. They always sleep at night. As soon as it gets dark.
Jürgen was digging little holes in the rubble with his stick. Nothing but little beds, he thought. Little beds all around. Then the man said (and his crooked legs were quite restless as he did so): You know what? I’m going to go feed my rabbits quick, and once it gets dark, I’ll come get you. Maybe I can bring one with me. A little one, what do you think?
Jürgen dug little holes in the rubble. Nothing but little bunnies. White, gray, white-gray. I don’t know, he said softly and looked at the crooked legs, if they really sleep at night.
The man climbed over what was left of the wall and onto the street. Of course they do, he said from there, your teacher should pack it in if he doesn’t even know that.
Then Jürgen stood up and asked: If I can get one — maybe a white one?
I’ll do my best, called the man, already on his way, but you’ll have to wait here a long time. Then I’ll go home with you, okay? I’ll have to tell your father how to make a rabbit hutch. You’ll have to know how to do that.
Yes, called Jürgen, I’ll wait. I have to keep watch until it gets dark. I will definitely wait.
And he cried out: We still have boards at home, box boards! he cried.
But the man didn’t hear anything else. He was running at the sun with his crooked legs. It was already evening red, and his legs were so crooked that Jürgen could see how it shone right through them. And the basket was swaying back and forth in the excitement. Rabbit food was inside. Green rabbit food that was a little gray from the rubble.
Literary Translator of German, Brian Donarski 