For Martin
I am very pleased and honoured to be asked by Esther and Hanna to speak in memory of Martin.
I speak as an old friend. I first met Martin almost 40 years ago. In the days since his death, the sense of deep loss has been difficult to fathom.
I hope these thoughts and reflections connect with yours. I have been thinking of Martin’s walks and what walking meant for him; his journeys and journeying; his love of music and cinema; conversations with him and the last conversations.
* * *
Martin took me on a summer outing to Peacock Island – Pfaueninsel – not long after he had come to live in Berlin and when I was visiting him. It is a very strong memory for a number of reasons. It was such a hot day and in the city the heat hung in the air. It was so cool, by contrast, in the shadow of the large trees on the island. Martin told me of Walter Benjamin’s account of his childhood trip to Pfaueninsel: he had expected to find peacock feathers in the grass and never overcame his disappointment when there were none. We drank pink and green beers. We walked and talked. Time stood still.
You will all know how much of a walker Martin was. An urban walker and observer; walking as a counterpoint and antidote to a sedentary life among books; walking as a way of getting to know – places, people, books; walking with Esther; walking as a way of being in the world.
* * *
About three years ago I think it was, Martin and Esther went to Angerburgh.
At Angerburgh, deep in the countryside of what is now Poland and was Eastern Prussia, they found the farmhouse where Martin’s grandmother – oma – worked as a serving maid. The journey was part of Martin’s long quest to find out about his history. Oma was the person who looked after him most as a young boy. She only spoke German. At the cinema in Glasgow where they lived with Martin’s mother, he sat next to oma and translated the English dialogue of the films for her.
In different ways different cities have been home to Martin – Glasgow, Birmingham, London, Berlin. But perhaps Glasgow and Berlin more so.
He has written beautiful lines of recollection and observation about both these cities. Many of Martin’s finest qualities as a translator and writer come from a sense of the particular in things and people – the significant detail, the smallest gesture, the use of that word or phrase. A great capacity for empathy – for the exile, for those without a home, for the defenceless.
My thoughts go back to oma.
To little Joey, Martin is opa. Hanna was telling us yesterday about how they walked in the summer holding hands and talking about history – the ancient Egyptians and Vikings, pyramids and longboats. A proud grandfather to Joey and Gabriel, Martin took great delight in the home made by Hanna and Malcolm. He was always devoted to Hanna and I remember how often he used to talk about her, and more recently about ‘the boys’.
* * *
The venue: The Bull pub, Kentish Town, London
The period: Late punk
The band: The Headless Nuns
A night of high decibel music, high energy dancing, by some, considerable heat and little air, many people and little space.
A typical night out with Martin.
A great love of music of many traditions and types characterised Martin’s open and experimental taste. He shared music with Angela in the Glasgow and Birmingham days, and their house was always the hub of new sounds. Hanna was born into this music-filled home, and in one of my first memories of her she is in a buggy at a Rock-Against-Racism event.
Martin was equally an aficionado of cinema. No surprise then that one of the first dates with Esther included seeing Godard’s Alphaville. Wim Wenders was a favourite, especially his Alice of the Cities – Alice in dem Stadten and his
Kings of the Road – Im Lauf der Zeit.
Not by chance they are city and road movies.
One of Martin’s many contributions to making known authors and filmmakers to English-speaking publics were his translation of Brecht’s stories and Alexander Kluge’s essays. It was a great moment when on a visit to San Francisco and to the City Lights Bookshop, there on the shelves was Stories of Mr. Keuner by Bertolt Brecht, translated by Martin Chalmers and in a City Lights Books edition.
Without Martin, we, his friends, are poorer but so are those parts of our culture that are opened up by translation and writing across borders.
* * *
The last conversations. We all remember Martin in our own ways and at different moments. I recently discovered a photo I took of Martin on a trip we made to Berlin. It is 1985 I think. How young we look!
At this time, it is the last memories that are most present and the conversations we have had recently.
Martin loved nothing more than to be with friends and to talk and listen, even when it was physically hard for him to keep going.
‘Yes but you must read Anton Reiser!’
He and Esther were still making plans for when Clare and I were coming – a visit to the Martin Gropius House was planned. We would have talked about the Grunewald altarpiece in Colmar.
Martin was constantly and wonderfully cared for by the paramedics and doctors but also by friends and loved ones. Esther was with him in truly every way possible. She and Hanna were with him at the very end.
It was August when I last saw Martin – a few days of relative relief from the worst afflictions. It was lovely to see the lighted candles on the table and to see Martin and Esther together.
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