My Neigbour, Mr. Winter

Although all outside light is blocked by the two roller shutters and the room is pitch black, I can tell it’s snowing. Perhaps it’s the soft rustling of the snowflakes, creating such a satisfying, gentle sound as they touch the withered, brown leaves on the ground. Or perhaps, just maybe, it’s the scraping of the snow shovel being pressed against, or apparently into, the concrete in the backyard. Every five seconds, the soothing rustling of the snowflakes is interrupted by the incessant scraping, making me jump in bed like a cat at the click of a metronome. Tiredly, I glance at the alarm clock: 4:14 a.m. Mr. Winter. It must be Mr. Winter. I already know the others in this building and what they’re like. But I can’t be sure, because then I’d have to raise my roller shutters, and that would make the same groaning noises as that old codger with his snow shovel. And if I did it, just to satisfy my cheap curiosity, we’d probably look at each other in surprise, maybe quickly look away in confusion, and as a result, our relationship would be guaranteed to be over. In particular, he’d think I was complaining. Unfortunately, he can’t guess that I just wanted to know if it REALLY was HIM. Even if I were to run into him in the hallway—though I consider that extremely unlikely—how am I supposed to explain the situation sensibly so it doesn’t become incredibly awkward? “Excuse me, Mr. Winter, for raising my blinds the other night. I didn’t mean to join in your cacophony, I just wanted to see if it was YOU.” Sounds pointless. So it would end in disaster anyway, and that’s certainly not how I imagined our first encounter. I absolutely cannot afford a bad neighborly relationship. The logical conclusion, therefore, is simply to stay put and, well, wait until Mr. Winter has finished shoveling snow.

Mr. Winter, or J. Winter according to the doorbell, is my neighbor who lives directly above me. I haven’t seen him since I moved in three months ago. The management only told me not to be surprised if I hear him outside at night. I heard noises in the courtyard, and that was Mr. Winter. Everyone laughed at that. So far, I haven’t found anything Mr. Winter has done that I find funny. Shoveling snow at 4:14 a.m. certainly doesn’t qualify. And that’s how our intimate relationship has been going so far. Mr. Winter makes noise, and I’m powerless. Anyone who thinks that’s a bit of an exaggeration should be assured that this neighbor, this very particular, nocturnal neighbor, is truly the best advertisement for earplugs. The mere thought of it makes my pulse race, and I’m startled, because this time I didn’t want to upset any neighbors; after all, that was the reason for my last eviction notice. Mind you, my old neighbors made a constant, deafening noise, like a construction site. It was maddening! So, for my own sake, for the sake of my furniture, and for the sake of the movers, who were already at their wits’ end when they had to lug my heavy mahogany wardrobe upstairs, I surrender. For the sake of all, I succumb to sleepless nights, listening to my very own, human-like tinnitus.

And during the next nocturnal acoustic encounter, I must again rely on the inner peace I acquired as an adult with increasing age and hard-won life experience, lest I completely devastate my mental Zen garden in the neighborhood dispute. But it seems he is devastateing his physical Zen garden above me. There is incessant clattering, occasionally interrupted by brief silences, only to be countered immediately with the next violent crescendo. Something must be falling over, right? A chair, or even a cabinet? Perhaps alternating between them? Does Mr. Winter repeatedly set the chair and the cabinet up in rapid succession, meticulously arranging them in their original positions, only to topple them again in his clumsy manner?My thoughts are interrupted by the clinking of several bottles. Surely one or two fragile glass bottles broke. Is Mr. Winter a drinker? That would explain his nightly excursions and his noise, but I was assured by the management that all the neighbors are fine. Perhaps they don’t know anything about it. And None of the other neighbors either. Nonsense! Mr. Winter isn’t a drinker; that’s not how I imagined him. Rather, he’s refined and well-read. And if he drinks, it’s purely for enjoyment. Not some poor madman pedantically keeping his neighbors awake and wandering around at night because daytime life has nothing left for him. No, that’s not my Mr. Winter.

Nevertheless, the one-sidedness of this argument completely frustrates me. Mr. Winter is completely unaware of his good fortune, that he’s currently in one corner of the boxing ring, while I’m staggering slightly in the other, but certainly not ready to give up. I could just go upstairs, knock on the door, and ring the bell for the next round, but we all know that’s not going to happen. Now that he’s up there raging like a rabid boar, turning his apartment into a dump, I’m certainly not going to get caught in his crossfire. To introduce myself at night, and then with such a request, is terribly disrespectful. I’m simply too good for that. Another meteorite impact hits my ceiling, sending a bit of dust tumbling down. I find it remarkable that, despite his possibly considerable intellect, he’s unaware of how noisy he is. You could almost say ANNOYING. Or, and this hits me like a ton of bricks, he doesn’t care at all! Or even worse: he’s doing it on purpose! Then, as a consequence, I’d have to call the police immediately, and I’ve truly NEVER done that with ANY neighbor, no matter how loud they were. That would be the height of insolence if Mr. Winter dared to do something like that. Is that even a possibility? I exhale deeply, look up at the ceiling, and listen to the footsteps, the stomping, that reverberates throughout his entire apartment. “For the good of all, for the good of all,” I whisper, pushing my earplugs further into my ears.

The next morning, my thoughts revolved around Mr. Winter, the noise, and our strange relationship, and I replayed everything in my mind. When I moved in, I rang every doorbell in the building. Mr. Winter didn’t answer. On my second attempt, a few weeks later, no one answered again. So I let it pass for the time being; after all, back then, I still thought, in my naive way, that I might run into him in the hallway sometime. Like every other one of my neighbors. I had no idea how violent this would become. I was already fantasizing about Mr. Winter and me in the boxing ring, good grief! With sheer willpower, I heave my exhausted body out of bed, pull on my plaid dressing gown and matching slippers, rush to the front door, press down the handle, and…pause. Should I really dare? I cautiously peek between the banisters at the floor above. The next best thing would be moving—I have no other choice! I scamper straight up the stairs, my eyes fixed on Mr. Winter’s front door. A quick clearing of my throat to mask my nervousness. Then I knock. A brief wait, then I knock again. Nothing. It’s deathly quiet. No clinking, no banging, not a single sound. Disappointed, I glance to the side, where the sun’s rays are blinding me through the 1960s glass blocks. Of course, it’s broad daylight. What was I thinking? The last attempts to ring the doorbell were also made in bright sunshine. During the day, Mr. Winter hibernates—how fitting—or wanders around somewhere else, or is dead and then awakens in the evening like a vampire or one of the terrible actors in Michael Jackson’s Thriller. Almost ashamed that I actually wanted to introduce myself during the day, I creep back into my apartment.

Once there, I drink my coffee and, to calm my stomach, which is quite upset from the strong coffee, I follow it with a chamomile tea. While I’m reading the newspaper, I see in the weather forecast that it’s supposed to snow again in two days. Of course! That’s it! If it snows, Mr. Winter will, without a doubt, be shoveling snow at night again. I could leave the blinds slightly open, check if it’s him, and then bump into him outside, purely by chance. A clarifying conversation would smooth things over, and maybe I’d even end up shoveling snow with him. Overjoyed by this brilliant plan, I giggle a little. That’s it—perfect!

The time until the big day passes slowly. I ponder moderately difficult crossword puzzles, take long walks, explore new routes through the adjacent forest, and watch the cats playing while relaxing on a park bench. Twiddling my thumbs, night approaches. As leisurely as time passed, so too did the snow drift down. The weather forecast was right after all. Now the time has come, the plan is being put into action. In the bedroom, I lay out my clothes for the brief nighttime rendezvous in the courtyard. Luckily, I had these two days off, so I was able to wash the clothes I needed. Thanks to the long break, I even washed and ironed my gloves and hat. I was meticulous about not getting any burn marks or anything like that on the clothes, and if I’d had a few more days, I would have washed each item individually to avoid any potential discoloration, but that seemed excessive for such a casual encounter. At the window, I pull the blinds, adjust them, step back a bit, and look around. The gap has to be big enough for me to see something, and more importantly, to recognize HIM, but at the same time not so big that it’s noticeable. Where would we end up if he could see my fixed, staring eyes through the gap? Amateurish! Then, as I suspected, our relationship would be ruined and the move again practically a done deal! Accordingly, I’m taking extra care to ensure that this doesn’t happen. Since I’m happy with the inside and the gap is now exactly 2.5 centimeters, I assess the situation again from the courtyard to make sure it’s not too noticeable from Mr. Winter’s perspective. I’m relieved to find that it isn’t. I carefully close the door to the courtyard, then quietly my front door, and exhale sharply, rubbing my hands together, as if I’m about to score a winning penalty kick.

I lie awake in bed that night. For once, it’s not Mr. Winter’s fault, although in a way, it is. Many tiny snowflakes whiz past the crack, and the thought that my neighbor might come out any minute makes me linger under my duvet like a child, filled with anticipation for Santa Claus. I hear footsteps in the stairwell, relatively quiet by his standards, and the front door clicks shut. The crunching sounds of the snow bring a smile to my face. It’s finally here. Finally. I slowly creep towards the roller shutter and peer eagerly through the crack. To my disappointment, however, I realize that all I can see is the silhouette of Mr. Winter. Of course, I only tested this during the day. How careless of me! During the day, which Mr. Winter has absolutely nothing to do with. I feel stupid. All that effort, the constant back and forth, and the final result is THIS. I could have just given up, saved myself all the worry and trouble, and stayed in bed with my earplugs pushed in as far as they would go.

My self-inflicted rant is interrupted by a childish giggle, and I stare back out into the yard. Mr. Winter is lying on the ground, making a snow angel and laughing merrily to himself. Every now and then, he pauses, apparently sticking out his tongue—or so I assume, based on my limited understanding—to catch snowflakes. Then he laboriously gets up and starts shoveling with his old, rusty snow shovel. A soft chuckle interrupts his work every now and then. I’m confused. Is he crazy? My utopian image of Mr. Winter, the intellectual hedonist, shatters into a thousand pieces. This is all so strange; something must be wrong! I’m starting to question our relationship. If he is crazy, then all this fuss is pointless. He’ll continue to be awake at night, making noise in all sorts of ways, and I, poor wretch, will lie awake at night. Helpless, powerless, hunched over, hoping that this little problem will magically resolve itself. In that brief, careless moment, I lose my balance in my bent-over position and lightly touch the roller shutter, which makes a soft creaking sound. Oh God, Mayday, Mayday, retreat! Startled, I back away a bit. He must have heard that. I hold my breath in suspense; outside, it’s silent. Then, after about a minute—and I’m pretty sure I’ve never held my breath for that long in my life—I slowly move forward to look through the crack. The courtyard is empty. Then the door slams, and I emphasize slams because this time it was noticeably louder than before. There we go. “Well done, you old goat,” I think to myself. Now I’m the weird one. The one who seriously stays up at night spying on strangers in true Stasi fashion. Me, the obvious psycho.

The next morning, I’m more nervous than usual. Even the extra-strong coffee and the extra-calming chamomile tea don’t help. I have to get up and sort this out, otherwise, I’ll be in a bad light forever. So, coat on, slippers on, I zip upstairs, and knock. Nothing. Of course, nothing! Nothing, nothing, and still nothing! I knock energetically on the door again, ring the bell, but of course, no one answers. NO ONE! Who would? Mr. Winter? As if! Laughing, I run downstairs, back into my apartment, and slam the door behind me so hard the sound echoes through the entire stairwell. Fine, then! Fine, Mr. Winter!A soft sob above me wakes me up. Is Mr. Winter crying? I’m unsettled. More sobbing, wailing, and sniffling into tissues. Yes, Mr. Winter is crying. Just what I needed. Now we’ve completed our sound bingo. Why is he crying? Because of me? You don’t cry for that, do you? Or do you? I mean, the whole situation in the courtyard was rather strange. And yes, I may have banged a bit forcefully on his door, but ultimately, I just wanted to introduce myself. That can’t be the reason. In my last apartment, there was a similar situation. I knocked and rang the neighbor’s doorbell, and they even opened it, and we chatted briefly, like perfectly normal people. Even if those neighbors continued to be loud afterward. Surely you can expect someone to open the door after months in this apartment building?

What am I supposed to do now? In this situation, it’s impossible to ring the doorbell again. “Hello Mr. Winter, we don’t really know each other, well, we do know each other a little, but I woke up because you were crying so terribly. Could you please stop? I’d like to be able to sleep without your constant whining. Thanks, bye!” This latest misery makes me break out in a cold sweat. Let him cry. I’ll stay in bed. As always.

The days are getting longer. The sunshine is increasing, the snow has melted. Winter was lovely, but the joy of no longer having to endure Mr. Winter’s miserable snow shoveling is far greater. Things have become quite quiet around him in general. Did I intimidate him? Well, that’s just how it is in an apartment building with so many units; not everyone can have their own space. And I much prefer how things are in our relationship right now. Quiet. Of course, sometimes the urge strikes, and I’d love to ring Mr. Winter’s doorbell and ask if he’d fancy a quick game of chess or backgammon, or if he could lend me one of his many books, but as they say, don’t wake sleeping giants, and playing at night doesn’t exactly entice me from the comfort of my own home. I sigh. At night, pah. But according to Murphy’s Law, things unfolded exactly as they had to. I lay awake the very night I’d been so happy about the new, quiet situation. The same thing happened again: Mr. Winter was crying. This time it sounded a bit more plaintive, more agonizing. And louder. Sleep was impossible; there was no point even thinking about it. But I was incredibly surprised. What normal adult cries with that regularity? I felt a bit sorry for Mr. Winter, but life is hard, as we’ve all experienced. I suffered under his reign of terror for a long time myself, and I certainly didn’t cry myself to sleep. Although, I thought to myself with a touch of irony, that might have been the solution. After a while, the wailing finally stopped, and a comforting silence returned. He must have run out of tears. Relieved, I straightened my pillow, snuggled under my cozy blanket, and slowly drifted off to sleep.

Waking up in the morning without any disturbing noises is truly liberating. No earplugs pressing into my ears, no forced coffee chugging to wake me up. I feel a surge of new energy finally coursing through me. Having cast off my earthly chains, I glide like an angel from my cloud realm, brimming with energy. What do I do with this newfound strength? Of course, it’s time for the weekly grocery shopping! I always enjoy this task. I browse the selection, spot special offers, and even treat myself to a little something now and then. Occasionally, when I actually have the time, I jot down the sale prices and dates so I can identify a pattern and know exactly when my desired product will be discounted again. You just have to know how. On my way home, I proudly present my overflowing shopping bag to the envious glances of my fellow citizens. Well, if you’ve got it, flaunt it.Arriving at my house, I reach for the second door to the side wing, but it swings open with a forceful motion, forcing me to step aside.

I freeze. Two men approach, carrying a black body bag on a stretcher. Desperately, I look at one of them: “Mr. Winter?” I ask, trembling as if I don’t want to hear the answer. He nods slowly. A moment usually only seen in melodramatic films. Everything spins inside me, my tunnel vision fixed on the pitch-black body bag. Thousands of thoughts race through my mind, but none seem even remotely tangible. “Do you know him?” – “I’m his neighbor,” I whisper. “Can I see him?” I ask, but the man shakes his head, explaining that I’m not a relative. I drop my shopping bag and run after them, shouting, “Mr. Winter! Mr. Winter!” The sound echoes through the entrance hall. I reach for the body bag, hoping to grab the zipper and catch one last glimpse of him, but one of the men skillfully deflects my attempt, and I sink to the floor, stunned. After some time of bitter solitude, I gather my shopping and drag myself into the apartment.

Tonight, it is silent. No snowflakes gently drifting to the ground, no rustling of leaves. No footsteps, no thumping. So mercilessly silent that I can hear my own blood rushing in my ears, and my thoughts cry out for attention like a newborn. I look out the window and see his old metal snow shovel standing by the small shed in the courtyard.

I’m sorry, Mr. Winter, that I didn’t say anything.