Marzahn, Mon Amour by Katja Oskamp (tr. Jo Heinrich)

Review by Eleanor Updegraff

It is unusual to encounter a chiropodist in fiction – much less one who is the narrator of a novel. Yet nothing at all is particularly usual about Katja Oskamp’s Marzahn, Mon Amour, a jewel-like slice of fiction that appears this month in a brilliant debut translation by Jo Heinrich. A series of sharply observed vignettes that tread the fine line between humorous and heart-rending, it is a portrait of a community, an homage to life’s curveballs, and a sensitive exploration of how it is possible both to be deeply embedded in one’s environment and stand on the outside looking in.

At the opening of the novel – which also functions as a collection of linked short stories – we are introduced to our narrator, a woman in her ‘middle years’ who has grown-up children, an ailing partner and a writing career that is, as she puts it, ‘more than a little iffy’. In an effort to counteract the sense of drowning in her own life, of being one of countless women forced to become ‘nameless players in a nameless midfield, relegated to the footnotes of our own lives’, she embarks on a chiropody course, packing a bag to attend the first session in a scene that reads very much as though she is about to do a runner. And it is, in a sense, a runner – though, as it turns out, one towards something rather than away from it. Course completed, she takes a job as a chiropodist at a small beauty salon in the Berlin district of Marzahn, embarking on what she feels ‘will have been good years’.

This sense of nostalgia for a life not yet concluded is one of the most striking and compelling aspects of Marzahn, Mon Amour. It is drawn from our narrator’s clientele – largely ageing, often physically or mentally fragile – and from the run-down surroundings of Marzahn, which is known for vast plattenbau housing estates and an unforgiving nature (an internet search autocompletes ‘Marzahn Berlin’ with ‘dangerous’ and is quick to make reference to Neo-Nazi associations). Both the district and its residents seem often unwanted, dismissed by outsiders, and yet, as our narrator goes on to show us, they are full to the brim with life. ‘They say Marzahn is a concrete wasteland,’ she writes, ‘but in reality it is exceptionally green’ – or, in what can be seen as a striking metaphor for the book’s central message, ‘The seasons have more of a smell about them [here].’ In Marzahn, if you dig beneath the unappealing surface, life is lived just as intensely as anywhere else.

Hence, too, the chiropody element of the novel – feet being an overused and much underappreciated body part, accustomed to doing the daily grind for us and getting little by way of return. Oskamp has her narrator both literally and figuratively elevate her clients, devoting a chapter to each man, woman or couple in which she relates what she has learned about them in the course of their appointments. Some of these stories are sad, some comic, some involve characters unsavoury of both foot and temperament. They are all united in their tendency to be unshowy (though a few, happily, do stray towards the everyday absurd) and the deeply anchored sympathy with which they are presented. Whether writing about a former party functionary, a bullying daughter, a beloved colleague or a woman caring for her desperately sick husband, Oskamp’s narrator never judges her clients. At foot level, everyone is equal.

In fact, it is only in one of the final chapters, ‘Gerlinde Bonkat’, that a hint of judgement may creep in – and this directed at the reader, or society, rather than any figure in the novel. The eponymous character is an elderly woman who fled the exclave of Kaliningrad (then Königsberg) at the end of World War Two. Treated as an outsider for almost her entire life, Gerlinde Bonkat walks on crippled feet, a continual reminder of her troubled past, yet is one of Marzahn’s quietest, most unassuming residents. Unsung bravery is at the core of this story – Oskamp makes no bones about it – along with an unvoiced plea that we think more about the people around us, wonder what stories may be concealed.

Jo Heinrich, whose first book-length literary translation this is, cannot be praised highly enough for her deft handling of voice. The steady, gentle, clear-sighted narration is an ongoing joy to read – not only is our narrator engaging, but there is also a precise quality to Heinrich’s choice of words, a care that seeps into the overall tone. This, too, compounds the aforementioned sense of nostalgia: Marzahn, Mon Amour is heavy (though not unpleasantly so) with the sense that life could slip away at any moment, that even the most ordinary, seemingly unremarkable events are something to be held close, regarded as precious. Far more a sense than a statement, this is the quiet wonder behind Katja Oskamp’s wise and empathetic novel, which does with apparent ease what so many others have tried and failed to do: reflect a life lived quietly and honestly, give up the search for hidden meanings and accept that, when all is said and done, it is enough, simply, to exist.

Marzahn, Mon Amour is published by Peirene Press, 17th February 2022