In the past you knew your postman personally, and he knew how it was. But that’s over – and with that an entire culture is lost.
© Oscar Poss/Ullstein picture
Yesterday I happened to meet my postman, no, a postman who is currently filling the mailbox from time to time. “Oh, you are, with the many mail,” he said. It sounded like a reproach. “My” postman has not existed for a long time. It was there when I was a child. He came twice a day and he climbed up the stairs in the house to throw the mail through the slot at every apartment door. When you heard him, you sometimes asked him for a coffee or a schnapps or even a chat, and he said: Unfortunately, nothing of Elke’s penalty. Or: unfortunately only one invoice today. Or: Ms. Wiedemann is sick, do I hear? Then I prefer to notify her of the death notice until tomorrow.
