Now that I’m sitting down here by the left pillar of the bridge with this large, smooth sheet of packing paper at my feet, I feel joy for the first time in years. It’s no coincidence that fate has brought me this paper – I’ve been chosen to write. I’ve been put on this earth for no other purpose than to tell the story of my life, and today I will begin.

Up on the bridge it’s hot, a once-in-a-century July day. Air shimmers over the asphalt. Squinting up, I see silver and grey, car tyres, women’s legs, men’s legs, children, dogs. Up on the bridge life is sweating, the city is baking. Here, where I’m sitting, it’s cool. The canal drifts serenely by. It’s so hot that from time to time the water stops flowing, or changes direction, or becomes a thick mush. But it’s cool under my bridge. I squat against the damp stone wall, my hair sticking to the back of my neck, water from the bridge soaking into my shirt. Dripstones and moss lurk in the dark vaults above me. Drops quiver on the tips of stalactites and don’t fall for a long, long time, and then they splash onto the stony embankment, or onto my knees. Sometimes it can take days for a drop to fall from the deck of the bridge. The bridge is always damp, water is constantly seeping from its old stones. It’s a good thing that I don’t have to sweat like the people up in the city, it’s a good thing that I’m not radiating heat like a car tyre, or having to rush to work, or hurry home thirsty.

I found a big sheet of blue packing paper and stole a dozen wooden pencils. It’s pleasantly shady here, on this once-in-a-century July day in 1994 in the city of Leibnitz, where I’ll begin to write the story of my life. A task I once hated and was coerced into doing has now become a need.

This desire to write has come from sitting under my bridge, the last free bridge in Leibnitz, the bridge I conquered. It’s a desire that comes from having a place of my own. I make myself comfortable. My old jeans are protected by the three sheets of honeycomb board I’m sitting on. I don’t have anything else, and this is as good a place as any to begin.

I’m writing under my real name: Gabriela von Haßlau. They used to call me Binka when they thought I was being stupid or silly, and Ehlchen when I was being a good girl. Gabriela only when they hated me. My earliest memory is of a violin case. I got it for my fifth birthday. Brown leather on the outside, green silk on the inside. I opened it and looked at the instrument and I thought it was an animal, an enchanted dachshund. I began to wail and my father pulled my braids.

– It’s a violin!

Uncle Schorsch was visiting us from Saxony. He laughed.

– What a silly little Binka your daughter is!

Mother blushed. Father chanted in my face:

– Repeat after me! Vi-o-lin! Vi-o-lin!

I cried over the bewitched dachshund. Mother took it out of its case and placed it in my hands.

– Careful! said Father, and the violin bow stroked the dachshund’s fur, which Father called strings.

– Repeat after me! Str-ings! he said.

As the dachshund whimpered, I cried like never before. Uncle Schorsch roared with laughter and sloshed cognac over his shirt.

– Let Ernst be earnest! Mother pleaded, trying to hush her brother.

Uncle Schorsch snorted behind his handkerchief.

On the evening of my fifth birthday, I held the violin in my left hand and the bow in my right. I scratched away and the violin made the sound of a cat screeching.

– F sharp! Father commanded, and: D sharp!

I curtsied, just like I’d been taught to. There was goose liver pâté on the table and Mozart on the record player. The villa rang out with music and smelled of birthdays. Uncle Schorsch was laughing and spilling whatever he could find on the dinner table down his shirt: cognac and Russian sparkling wine, pâté and salad. I learned to tell the difference between a dachshund and a violin. My father was a vascular surgeon. And even though it was my birthday, he still talked about varicosis. It was his favourite word, and I listened carefully whenever he pronounced it. I loved this word because I never had to repeat it. Va-ri-co-sis! was never asked of me.

It was my father’s word. Mine were words like violin, pâté, Mozart. Uncle Schorsch’s words were mine too: beddy-byes, stroppy madam, in a huff. Father forbade Uncle Schorsch’s words.

– It’s bad German, he said, and really, unless Uncle Schorsch can find something better than being deputy director of the Consumers’ Cooperative Union in Grimma soon, then…

Mother tried to soothe her husband:

– Well, you can’t choose your family.

– You can! Father said, and: Diction matters. Repeat after me, diction, Christiane!

Uncle Schorsch would leave of his own accord once his supply of laughter and jokes had run out. It was usually after the Sandman show. We owned a television and the time with the Sandman was mine. Ten minutes, and then I had sleeping sand in my eyes and Uncle Schorsch declared:

– Your peepers are teeny and your doggy is sleepy.

– Violin! Father shouted.

Uncle Schorsch said goodbye. And while I tried to sleep, Father and Mother argued in the living room. I pulled the bedcovers over my ears and whispered: Violin, violin, violin. The next morning Father had already left for work at the clinic. The sun was shining through the villa’s old, large windows. Mother dashed around trying to mop up dust. A dirty tablecloth and the last of the pâté were the only visible remains from the birthday party. The violin case lay brown and menacing on the cabinet in the living room.

– You ought to take lessons, Ehlchen, Mother said.

I couldn’t go to kindergarten because Father was the chief vascular surgeon and Mother was a housewife. I couldn’t play in the street either because there wasn’t anything to do on our street. And anyway, the villa had a garden where I was allowed to draw a hopscotch court in the gravel with a stick. Father called it Heaven and Hell, Uncle Schorsch called it Hop Score. Bad German. I hopped from hell into heaven on my own, my left leg hitched up, my jumping leg too shaky to reach heaven unpunished: it landed on the dangerous lines, or next to the box, or would buckle completely. I fell by the wayside. I had no one to play against. Father made sure I didn’t fall in with bad company. But I didn’t have any company, good or bad. Underneath the stairs that led to the laundry room in the cellar at the back of the villa, spiders had spun their webs. They stayed hidden in the back part of their den, black and skulking. I collected ants and beetles for them, and sometimes, as a special treat, earthworms. I would place the tiny creatures on the edge of the web and the spider would pounce from its hiding place, killing the victims with a single bite before sucking them dry. I fed the spiders every day until Mother caught me, shredded the webs with the mop, and squashed each and every one of the little beasts.

I wore patent-leather shoes, tights, a petticoat, a cotton vest and a green and red crocheted dress. Or a blue and white crocheted dress. Mother plaited my black hair into French braids, which were held in place with golden bands. Before bed she would tear tangles out of my hair with a brush, pulling them out until I whimpered with pain.

– Think of all the people with varicose veins, Father would say, you don’t see them crying.

Mother cried. She was sitting on the red plush sofa with a bottle of cognac in front of her, Father’s favourite drink. Mother drank two or three cognacs and a siren wailed from inside her. She was like a stranger. I felt frightened and wanted to call Father at the clinic, but then the siren stopped and Mother said very quietly:

– They’ve shot your Uncle Schorsch.

The word shot wasn’t one of my words, or Mother’s, or Father’s. It didn’t belong to Uncle Schorsch either. It simply appeared, conjured out of nowhere. It sounded like bad German. I shook my head and whispered