Man Into Woman - Chapter 17 by Lili Elbe Lyrics
On the sleeping car to Copenhagen, Grete lay in the deepest, calmest sleep, Lili woke from the most terrible nightmare. She did not know what she had dreamed. But she felt as if she had been close to suffocating. She opened the window carefully. The ferry was in the middle of the ocean. It was a starless, grey August night. And as she stared out, she saw a picture of herself in front of her.
The Copеnhagen main station was full of people, and all callеd out: "Lili Elbe," and all pointed at her with their fingers. And nameless terror gripped her. She could no longer stand staying in the sleeping compartment. She dressed herself, found her fur coat in the dusk, which she had received as a gift an eternity ago, though it had just been this spring, in Berlin. She snuck out of the car, down the long, dimly lit ship's corridor, up the wet steps of the ferry, onto the deck. Not a creature was in sight. Everyone seemed to be asleep. Only the pounding of the ship's propeller and the impact of the wake could be heard. The ship's lanterns shimmered wearily. Black smoke rose from the chimneys of the steamer. The reflection of electric light escaped the dining rooms of the ship. Some passengers were sitting there. She ducked past them, afraid to encounter familiar faces, to be recognized by someone here. She snuck into a dark corner away from the shining lights, like a woman hunted. A chill came over her. "No, no," she screamed, "I cannot go to Copenhagen." And the vision she had had down in the sleeping car compartment would not let her go. Her imagination painted a picture ever more vivid, and finally she heard out of the rhythm of the pounding ship engines again and again the call: there she is, there she is, there she is ...
Suddenly she heard footsteps. She did not dare look up. She ducked even deeper into her hiding place. She sees a man stomp by like a black shadow. But his steps resonating all over the deck, sounding like he is moving away, then coming closer again, are very close and the man trudges closer, and stops, right in front her hiding place, lights a match to light a cigarette, and in the shine of the match's flame the face of the man flashes brightly lit. Without her wanting to, she had looked into the flame. She pressed both her hands over her mouth so as not to scream. As in a fever the thought flashes through her: that person has recognized you, and you know that person. And she presses her eyes shut, and it is as if she were praying, begging to the grey sky above: let me die. And now that cry of fear, that accompanies the ship machinery's rhythm like an eternal scream: let me die, let me die.
And when finally the man has gone from the deck, and she stands there alone in the dawning morning under the grey ocean sky, a metallic reflection of the rising sun trickles through the bleak, lead heavy cloud cover, then her lips twitch that cry of fear: let me die. And tired she drags herself along the railing, so exhausted that she can barely stand up right. And she stares into the dark, here and there flickering sea water, without solace, with completely dull eyes and too feeble to run away. Run away from home, from herself, - from the terror that she could not lose as long as she stayed in Copenhagen.
Finally she sneaks back into the sleeping compartment. Grete is still asleep, and she has not noticed anything. And she would never know this, Lili swears to herself. And she disrobes quietly and slips back into her bed and cries the most helpless tears.
As Grete wakes, Lili has long since finished crying, but her face is stiff like a mask. Grete has to assist her getting dressed. The lights of Copenhagen already flicker and Grete caresses her and speaks many kind words. And Lili listens quietly and just nods and only has her feverish image in front of her eyes: the station hall with a thousand fingers pointing, with the cry from a thousand throats; there she is, there she is.
And there was nobody in the great station's hall calling her name. And there was nobody looking for her.
Her coat's collar flipped up and a dense veil around her hat, that was how Lili entered Copenhagen. Like a helpless child she clung on to Grete for the short way through the hall and up the stair into the waiting room. And she did not dare to look up. And she started at every group of people they had to move through like one who had committed a crime and feels persecuted from all sides. Only a very few guests were in the waiting room. They sat down in the furthest corner of the waiting room. Grete had a porter drop their suitcases off at the station's cloakroom. Suddenly one of Grete's cousins stands before them. He was the only one Grete told about their arrival. Lili had pleaded for them to meet in the waiting room. Andreas had barely known the cousin, and now Lili was scared of the curious eyes of this half-stranger ... but the cousin greeted both of them with very simple words. Being of the opinion that Grete and Lili would immediately go to Lili's married sister, who lived in a suburb of Copenhagen, he had not reserved a hotel room. But suddenly Lili refused to go out to the sister. Andreas had last seen her two years ago, and Lili had not the strength, had not the courage to step under the sister's gaze now.
"All right," Grete exclaimed, "then let me see if we can find a hotel." And she went to telephone. Wherever she asked, she was told all rooms were occupied. It was August and Copenhagen was chock full of summer travelers. Lili was desperate. Finally, after having been denied half a dozen times, Grete found a hotel in which they were offered a room on the highest floor. And a quarter of an hour later Lili sat in the room and did not dare to go out all day. That night Grete informed Lili's brother-in-law of their arrival, without asking Lili.
He immediately came to the hotel and wanted to take Lili along.
"Just give me a few days. I have to get used to the thought of seeing my sister again. I don't have the strength yet. I can't see anyone yet. Least of all - - Andreas' family." Thus Lili begged, and all consolation was without effect.
"I am scared," Lili stammered again and again. "I am so scared of people Andreas belonged to, who loved Andreas and whom he loved, so that I feel as if I had murdered him. I know it is madness what I'm saying. But where does it come from then that I feel like an outlaw, a hunted woman?" And again and again she said, "I want to die."
And Grete did not leave Lili's side during that first night in Copenhagen. And it was a night with no end. And it was a night full of helplessness. Nothing was left of the being that had so confidently left the "Women's Clinic." All serenity and all hope had gone out of her. "I have to go back to the "Women's Clinic." That is where I belong. I have nobody else, who likes me, who takes me the way I am. Who does not ask, who does not know anything else about me. Thus she silently implored. "I have to go back to the white nurses, and to the other women in the garden, to whom I am nothing but what they are themselves: women who need help and who are being helped."
But they would not let her back to D. yet. They did not leave her in the small hotel room. They took her the next morning – to Andreas' sister.
The Copеnhagen main station was full of people, and all callеd out: "Lili Elbe," and all pointed at her with their fingers. And nameless terror gripped her. She could no longer stand staying in the sleeping compartment. She dressed herself, found her fur coat in the dusk, which she had received as a gift an eternity ago, though it had just been this spring, in Berlin. She snuck out of the car, down the long, dimly lit ship's corridor, up the wet steps of the ferry, onto the deck. Not a creature was in sight. Everyone seemed to be asleep. Only the pounding of the ship's propeller and the impact of the wake could be heard. The ship's lanterns shimmered wearily. Black smoke rose from the chimneys of the steamer. The reflection of electric light escaped the dining rooms of the ship. Some passengers were sitting there. She ducked past them, afraid to encounter familiar faces, to be recognized by someone here. She snuck into a dark corner away from the shining lights, like a woman hunted. A chill came over her. "No, no," she screamed, "I cannot go to Copenhagen." And the vision she had had down in the sleeping car compartment would not let her go. Her imagination painted a picture ever more vivid, and finally she heard out of the rhythm of the pounding ship engines again and again the call: there she is, there she is, there she is ...
Suddenly she heard footsteps. She did not dare look up. She ducked even deeper into her hiding place. She sees a man stomp by like a black shadow. But his steps resonating all over the deck, sounding like he is moving away, then coming closer again, are very close and the man trudges closer, and stops, right in front her hiding place, lights a match to light a cigarette, and in the shine of the match's flame the face of the man flashes brightly lit. Without her wanting to, she had looked into the flame. She pressed both her hands over her mouth so as not to scream. As in a fever the thought flashes through her: that person has recognized you, and you know that person. And she presses her eyes shut, and it is as if she were praying, begging to the grey sky above: let me die. And now that cry of fear, that accompanies the ship machinery's rhythm like an eternal scream: let me die, let me die.
And when finally the man has gone from the deck, and she stands there alone in the dawning morning under the grey ocean sky, a metallic reflection of the rising sun trickles through the bleak, lead heavy cloud cover, then her lips twitch that cry of fear: let me die. And tired she drags herself along the railing, so exhausted that she can barely stand up right. And she stares into the dark, here and there flickering sea water, without solace, with completely dull eyes and too feeble to run away. Run away from home, from herself, - from the terror that she could not lose as long as she stayed in Copenhagen.
Finally she sneaks back into the sleeping compartment. Grete is still asleep, and she has not noticed anything. And she would never know this, Lili swears to herself. And she disrobes quietly and slips back into her bed and cries the most helpless tears.
As Grete wakes, Lili has long since finished crying, but her face is stiff like a mask. Grete has to assist her getting dressed. The lights of Copenhagen already flicker and Grete caresses her and speaks many kind words. And Lili listens quietly and just nods and only has her feverish image in front of her eyes: the station hall with a thousand fingers pointing, with the cry from a thousand throats; there she is, there she is.
And there was nobody in the great station's hall calling her name. And there was nobody looking for her.
Her coat's collar flipped up and a dense veil around her hat, that was how Lili entered Copenhagen. Like a helpless child she clung on to Grete for the short way through the hall and up the stair into the waiting room. And she did not dare to look up. And she started at every group of people they had to move through like one who had committed a crime and feels persecuted from all sides. Only a very few guests were in the waiting room. They sat down in the furthest corner of the waiting room. Grete had a porter drop their suitcases off at the station's cloakroom. Suddenly one of Grete's cousins stands before them. He was the only one Grete told about their arrival. Lili had pleaded for them to meet in the waiting room. Andreas had barely known the cousin, and now Lili was scared of the curious eyes of this half-stranger ... but the cousin greeted both of them with very simple words. Being of the opinion that Grete and Lili would immediately go to Lili's married sister, who lived in a suburb of Copenhagen, he had not reserved a hotel room. But suddenly Lili refused to go out to the sister. Andreas had last seen her two years ago, and Lili had not the strength, had not the courage to step under the sister's gaze now.
"All right," Grete exclaimed, "then let me see if we can find a hotel." And she went to telephone. Wherever she asked, she was told all rooms were occupied. It was August and Copenhagen was chock full of summer travelers. Lili was desperate. Finally, after having been denied half a dozen times, Grete found a hotel in which they were offered a room on the highest floor. And a quarter of an hour later Lili sat in the room and did not dare to go out all day. That night Grete informed Lili's brother-in-law of their arrival, without asking Lili.
He immediately came to the hotel and wanted to take Lili along.
"Just give me a few days. I have to get used to the thought of seeing my sister again. I don't have the strength yet. I can't see anyone yet. Least of all - - Andreas' family." Thus Lili begged, and all consolation was without effect.
"I am scared," Lili stammered again and again. "I am so scared of people Andreas belonged to, who loved Andreas and whom he loved, so that I feel as if I had murdered him. I know it is madness what I'm saying. But where does it come from then that I feel like an outlaw, a hunted woman?" And again and again she said, "I want to die."
And Grete did not leave Lili's side during that first night in Copenhagen. And it was a night with no end. And it was a night full of helplessness. Nothing was left of the being that had so confidently left the "Women's Clinic." All serenity and all hope had gone out of her. "I have to go back to the "Women's Clinic." That is where I belong. I have nobody else, who likes me, who takes me the way I am. Who does not ask, who does not know anything else about me. Thus she silently implored. "I have to go back to the white nurses, and to the other women in the garden, to whom I am nothing but what they are themselves: women who need help and who are being helped."
But they would not let her back to D. yet. They did not leave her in the small hotel room. They took her the next morning – to Andreas' sister.