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Herta Müller

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The Hunger Angel: A Novel Kindle Edition

by Herta Müller (Author), Philip Boehm (Translator) Format: Kindle Edition

4.3 205 ratings

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A masterful new novel from the winner of the 2009 Nobel Prize, hailed for depicting the "landscape of the dispossessed" with "the concentration of poetry and the frankness of prose" (Nobel Prize Committee)

It was an icy morning in January 1945 when the patrol came for seventeen-year-old Leo Auberg to deport him to a camp in the Soviet Union. Leo would spend the next five years in a coke processing plant, shoveling coal, lugging bricks, mixing mortar, and battling the relentless calculus of hunger that governed the labor colony: one shovel load of coal is worth one gram of bread.

In her new novel, Nobel laureate Herta Müller calls upon her unique combination of poetic intensity and dispassionate precision to conjure the distorted world of the labor camp in all its physical and moral absurdity. She has given Leo the language to express the inexpressible, as hunger sharpens his senses into an acuity that is both hallucinatory and profound. In scene after disorienting scene, the most ordinary objects accrue tender poignancy as they acquire new purpose—a gramophone box serves as a suitcase, a handkerchief becomes a talisman, an enormous piece of casing pipe functions as a lovers' trysting place. The heart is reduced to a pump, the breath mechanized to the rhythm of a swinging shovel, and coal, sand, and snow have a will of their own. Hunger becomes an insatiable angel who haunts the camp, but also a bare-knuckled sparring partner, delivering blows that keep Leo feeling the rawest connection to life.
Müller has distilled Leo's struggle into words of breathtaking intensity that take us on a journey far beyond the Gulag and into the depths of one man's soul.

Editorial Reviews

Review

PRAISE FOR THE HUNGER ANGEL

“A wonderful, passionate, poetic work of literature...Herta Muller is a writer who releases great emotional power through a highly sophisticated, image studded, and often expressionistic prose.” –Neal Ascherson, The New York Review of Books

“This is not just a good novel, it is a great one… Müller is through and through a stylist. Her novel is written in a taut idiomatic German, which breaks into paragraphs of wrenching, Rilkean lyricism...A masterpiece.” –Financial Times

"Written in terse, hypnotic prose...exquisite." --New Yorker"Wry and poetic, and Müller's evocative language makes the abstract concrete as her narrator's sanity is stretched...Boehm's translation preserves the integrity of Müller's gorgeous prose, and Leo's despondent reveries are at once tragic and engrossing." --Publishers Weekly (Starred Review) "The stunning, exhilarating, heartbreaking culmination of Muller's work as a novelist...A 300-page prose poem of resistance to totalitarian repression, the book is a haunting paean to the human angel--the inventive, imaginative, invincible force that transcends suffering and absement, that defies depersonalization and deprivation to survive, and even thrive." --The Wichita Eagle “A work of rare force, a feat of sustained and overpowering poetry…Muller has the ability to distil concrete objects into language of the greatest intensity and to sear these objects on to the reader’s mind."—Times Literary Supplement "A phenomenal, moving and humbling novel."—Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung PRAISE FOR THE APPOINTMENT
“A taut and brilliant book.”—Chicago Tribune “A brooding, fog-shrouded allegory of life under the long oppression of the regime of Nicolae Ceausescu.”—The New York Times “Müller scatters narrative bombshells across a field of dreams.”—San Francisco Chronicle PRAISE FOR THE LAND OF GREEN PLUMS “Unflinching. . .Ms. Müller’s vision of a police state manned by plum thieves reads like a kind of fairy tale on the mingled evils of gluttony, stupidity, and brutality.”—The New York Times “Müller has triumphed in her honesty. . . . Describes in precisely hewn detail what it was like to live in Romania under communism.”—The Washington Post “This heartbreaking tale is bitter and dark, yet beautiful... stark and telling.”—The San Diego Union-Tribune “Ms. Müller’s rich, harsh, obsessive imagery captures the surreal beauty and the difficulty of Ceausescu-era Romania.”—The Boston Book Review “Impressive, wholly authentic . . .a bleak fable with the flickering intensity of a nightmare.”—International Herald Tribune

About the Author

Herta Müller is the winner of the 2009 Nobel Prize in Literature, as well as the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and the European Literature Prize. She is the author of, among other books, The Land of Green Plums and The Appointment. Born in Romania in 1953, Müller lost her job as a teacher and suffered repeated threats after refusing to cooperate with Ceausescu's secret police. She succeeded in emigrating in 1987 and now lives in Berlin.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

On packing suitcases

All that I have I carry on me.
Or: All that is mine I carry with me.
I carried all I had, but it wasn’t mine. Everything either came from someone else or wasn’t what it was supposed to be. A gramophone box served as a pigskin suitcase. The light overcoat came from my father. The fancy coat with the velvet collar from my grandfather. The knickers from Uncle Edwin. The leather gaiters came from our neighbor Herr Carp, the green woolen gloves from Aunt Fini. Only the burgundy silk scarf and the toilet kit belonged to me, presents from the previous Christmas.
The war was still on in January 1945. In their dismay at my being shipped off in the dead of winter to who knows where in Russia, everyone wanted to give me something that might be of use, even if it couldn’t help. Because nothing in the world could possibly help: I was on the Russians’ list, and that was that. So everyone gave me something, and kept their thoughts to themselves. And I took what they gave. I was seventeen years old, and in my mind this going away couldn’t have come at a better time. Not that I needed the Russians’ list, but if things didn’t turn out too badly, I thought, this leaving might even be a good thing. I wanted to get out of our thimble of a town, where every stone had eyes. Instead of fear I felt a secret impatience. And I had a bad conscience about it, because the same list that caused my relatives such despair was fine with me. They were afraid something might happen to me in a foreign country. I simply wanted to go to a place that didn’t know who I was.
Something had just happened to me. Something forbidden. Something strange, filthy, shameless, and beautiful. It happened in the Alder Park, far in the back, on the other side of the short-grass mounds. Afterward, on my way home, I went to the pavilion in the middle of the park where the bands played on holidays. I sat there a while. Sunlight came stabbing through the finely carved wood. I stared at the empty circles, squares, and trapezoids, held together by white tendrils with claws, and I saw their fear. This was the pattern of my aberration, of the horror on my mother’s face. In the pavilion I vowed: I’m never coming back to this park.
But the more I tried to stop myself, the faster I went back—after two days. For a rendezvous, as it was known in the park.
That next rendezvous was with the same first man. He was called THE SWALLOW. The second man was new, his name was THE FIR. The third was THE EAR. Then came THE THREAD. Then ORIOLE and CAP. Later HARE, CAT, GULL. Then THE PEARL. Only we knew which name belonged to whom. The park was a wild animal crossing, I let myself be passed from one man to the next. And it was summer with white skin on birch trees and shrubs of elderberry and mock orange leafing out to form an impenetrable wall of green.
Love has its seasons. Autumn brought an end to the park. The trees grew naked, and we moved our rendezvous to the Neptune Baths. An oval sign with a swan hung next to the iron gate. Every week I met up with a married man twice my age. He was Romanian. I won’t say what name he used or what name I used. We staggered our arrivals, so that no one and nothing could have any idea that we’d arranged to meet: not the cashier ensconced in the leaded-glass windows of her booth, nor the shiny stone floor, nor the rounded middle column, nor the water-lily tiles on the wall, nor the carved wooden stairs. We swam in the pool with all the others and didn’t come together until we were both in the sauna.
Back then, before my time in the camp as well as after I returned, and all the way up to 1968 when I left the country, every rendezvous could have landed me in prison. Minimum five years, if I’d been caught. Some were. They went straight from the park or the baths to a brutal interrogation and then to jail. And from there to the penal colony on the canal. Today I know that almost nobody came back from there. The ones who did were walking corpses—old before their time and broken, of no use for any love in the world.
And in the camp—if I’d been caught in the camp I’d be dead.
After those five camp years I roamed the busy streets, day in and day out, silently rehearsing what to say in case I was arrested, preparing a thousand excuses and alibis to counter the verdict: CAUGHT IN THE ACT. I carry silent baggage. I have packed myself into silence so deeply and for so long that I can never unpack myself using words. When I speak, I only pack myself a little differently.
Once during the last rendezvous-summer I took a long way home from the park and found myself near the Holy Trinity Church on the main square. This chance detour turned out to be significant: I saw the time that was coming. On a column next to the side-altar stood a saint in a gray cloak, with a sheep draped around his neck as a collar. This sheep draped around the neck is silence. There are things we do not speak of. But I know what I’m talking about when I say that silence around the neck is different from silence inside the mouth. Before, during, and after my time in the camp, for twenty-five years, I lived in fear—of my family and of the state. Fear of a double disgrace: that the state would lock me away as a criminal and that my family would disown me out of shame. On crowded streets I would stare at the glass panes of the shops, at the windows of streetcars, of houses, I would gaze into fountains and puddles—checking to make sure I wasn’t transparent after all.
My father was an art teacher. With the Neptune Baths inside my head, whenever he used the word WATERCOLOR I’d flinch as though he’d kicked me. The words knew how far I’d already gone. At the dinner table my mother said: Don’t stab the potato with your fork because it will fall apart, use your spoon, the fork is for meat. My temples were throbbing. Why is she saying meat when she’s talking about forks and potatoes. What kind of meat does she mean. I was my own thief, the words came out of nowhere and caught me.
Like all the Germans in our little town, my mother, and especially my father, believed in the beauty of blond braids and white knee-stockings. They believed in the black square of Hitler’s mustache and in the Aryan heritage of us Transylvanian Saxons. The physical part of my secret alone was a gross abomination. And with a Romanian there was the additional matter of Rassenschande.
I wanted to escape from my family, to a camp if need be. But I felt sorry for my mother, who had no idea how little she knew me. And who would think of me more frequently when I was away than I of her.
Inside the church, next to the saint with the sheep of silence, I had seen the white alcove with the inscription: HEAVEN SETS TIME IN MOTION. Packing my suitcase, I thought: The white alcove has done its work. This is the time that’s been set in motion. I was also happy I wasn’t being sent off to war, into the snow at the front. Foolishly brave and obedient, I went on packing. And I took whatever was offered—leather gaiters with laces, knickers, the coat with the velvet collar—even though none of it was really right for me. Because this wasn’t about clothes, but about the time that had been set in motion, about growing up, with one set of things or another. The world is not a costume ball, I thought, and no one who’s forced to go to Russia in the dead of winter need worry about looking ridiculous.
A patrol consisting of two policemen—a Romanian and a Russian—went from house to house carrying a list. I no longer remember whether the word CAMP was uttered inside our home. Or what other word might have been spoken, except RUSSIA. If the word CAMP was mentioned, it didn’t frighten me. Despite the war and the silence about my rendezvous draped around my neck, I was only seventeen years old and still living in my bright, silly childhood. The words WATERCOLOR and MEAT affected me. My brain didn’t register the word CAMP.
Back then, at the table with the fork and potatoes, when my mother caught me with the word meat, I remembered how she used to shout down to the courtyard where I was playing: If you don’t come to dinner right away, if I have to call you one more time, you can just stay where you are. But I didn’t always come right away, and once, when I finally went upstairs, she said:
Why don’t you just pack your satchel and go out into the world and do whatever you want. She pulled me into my room, grabbed my woolen cap and my jacket, and stuffed them inside my little backpack. I said, But I’m your child, where am I supposed to go.
A lot of people think packing a suitcase is something you learn through practice, like singing or praying. We had no practice and no suitcase. When my father was sent to join the Romanian soldiers on the front, there was nothing to pack. Soldiers are given everything they need, it’s all part of the uniform. But we had no idea what we were packing for, except a long journey and a cold place. If you don’t have the right things, you improvise. The wrong things become necessary. Then the necessary things turn out to be the only right things, simply because they’re what you have.
My mother brought the gramophone from the living room and set it on the kitchen table. Using a screwdriver, I made it into a suitcase. First I took out the spindle and turntable. Then I corked up the hole for the crank. The fox-red velvet lining stayed. I also kept the triangular emblem with HIS MASTER’S VOICE and the dog facing the horn. I put four books on the bottom: a cloth-bound edition of Faust, the slim volume of Weinheber, Zarathustra, and my anthology of poems from eight centuries. No novels, since you just read them once and never again. After the books came my toilet kit, containing: 1 bottle eau de toilette, 1 bottle Tarr aftershave, 1 shaving soap, 1 razor, 1 shaving ...

Product details

ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0071W50Y6
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Metropolitan Books (April 24, 2012)
Publication date ‏ : ‎ April 24, 2012
Language ‏ : ‎ English
File size ‏ : ‎ 408 KB
Text-to-Speech ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Screen Reader ‏ : ‎ Supported
Enhanced typesetting ‏ : ‎ Enabled
X-Ray ‏ : ‎ Not Enabled
Word Wise ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Print length ‏ : ‎ 304 pages

Best Sellers Rank: #1,061,240 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #1,789 in Historical European Fiction
- #5,774 in Historical Literary Fiction
- #8,768 in Contemporary Literary Fiction

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4.3 205 ratings

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Born in Romania in 1953, Herta Müller lost her job as a teacher and suffered repeated threats after refusing to cooperate with Ceauşescu's secret police. She succeeded in emigrating in 1987 and now lives in Berlin. She won the IMPAC Award for her novel The Land of the Green Plums, and received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2009.

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Customers praise the writing quality as beautiful, vivid, and brilliant. They describe the book as brilliant and worth reading. However, opinions differ on the pacing - some find it compelling and sensual, while others find it depressing and heartbreaking.

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11 customers mention "Writing quality"11 positive0 negative

Customers appreciate the writing quality of the book. They find it beautifully written, with a poetic heart. The author vividly describes the hardships faced by those sent to Russian forced labor camps. The language is brilliant and the author puts the reader inside the dark room. The translation is decent, and the powerful poetry of self-awareness comes through. Overall, customers find the book engaging and worth reading.

"...It is populated with a host of characters who are vivid and deeply alive, even when we know them only as extensions of Leo's constrained..." Read more

"...The book is interesting and well written...." Read more

"...The writing is exquisite and original and must have been very difficult to translate...." Read more

"...Herta writes sentences beautifully, describes vividly, re-invents the German language with electrifying originality...." Read more

8 customers mention "Value for money"8 positive0 negative

Customers find the book well-written and engaging. They say it's worth reading and exceeds their expectations.

"This is an amazing and shocking book. I was totally unaware of these forced labor camps of Germans deported from Romania just after WWII...." Read more

"...failed me completely by way of my original expectations - but succeeded brilliantly in ways I never expected...." Read more

"...the characters (both for good and ill) shines through and makes the book a must read." Read more

"This is another brilliant work by Herta Muller...." Read more

14 customers mention "Pacing"7 positive7 negative

Customers have different views on the pacing of the book. Some find it compelling and interesting, while others find it depressing, heart-wrenching, painful, and boring.

"...But, for us, looking in in comfort, it is endlessly compelling and deeply involving: the opposite of the deranged fragments of healthy lives that..." Read more

"It is very well written. A bit depressing since it is about an internment camp...." Read more

"...The book is interesting and well written...." Read more

"...No one finished it. It is so depressing. It's really a collection of short essays - not a novel...." Read more

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Joseph Psotka
A poetic encounter with inhumanity as a human condition.
Reviewed in the United States on May 7, 2012
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This is an English translation of the German version of Atemschaukel (German Edition) by Herta Mueller. The translation is decent and the powerful poetry of self awareness comes through and carries you along on its undulating rhythms. Translating the unusual imagery in this poetic narrative is not easy, since the semantic associations and echos of the implicit meanings of the words Mueller leans on so heavily throughout are so unique they often have no family relatives in English. Atemshaukel,BreathingSwing, the title of Hunger Angel in the German version, focuses on the physical motion of the chest as we breath, swinging in and out, unattended, propelled by inner energy and organs that magically convert the meager sustenance of the camps, wild spinach, acacia flowers, camomile, even grass, into a renewal of spirit. Other metaphors; hungerangel; heartshovel; many more; pit elemental human activities against each other in unexpected contexts with the sparest of mechanical meaning. Life in forced labor camps has been reduced to the barest extreme of mechanical clinging to life. Many die, a few deaths portrayed vividly and repeatedly as memes in the story, but most are unattended in the hard scrabble attempts to stay alive in absolute obeisance to the urgent demands of the all pervasive hunger angel. Mueller brings to life the many hungers that survive even the ravages of near starvation: especially the hunger for human contact. Hunger is so demanding that interests and goals are narrowly shrunk to a laser beam focus on food. Their five year stay in the Soviet Union is called forced labor, but it seems to me that slave labor is a better description of the years in captivity, with no pay or freedoms, until the final year when conditions improved. This is a tale of slavery and brutality, and yet the slave masters appear only as shadowy and often comical figures. Shadows as guards in their towers silhouetted against the sky that is the path to freedom. Comic figures as commanders with long silly, unpronounceable names who fall asleep while the slaves and slave overseers, who are slave themselves, do the dirty manual labor or make life and death decisions with minmalist concern for individuals. All are depraved: slaves, overseer, and the masters and guards. They are villainous but only in the most antiseptic way, since they too are deprived of humanity in the novel: they steal from the state or they are distant and over exactingly fair in the distribution of the most minimal bread rations. Yet the whole is textured with humanity, at its best and worst. The story rises above one person's travails and reaches a purity of sympathy and depravity that is universal and timeless. Human relations remain paramount. There is much love of humanity in the forsaken despair of their existence. It is often furtive and surreptitious, as so much of our sex lives are. It is broken and distant and unfeeling, as their lives in slavery must be. But, for us, looking in in comfort, it is endlessly compelling and deeply involving: the opposite of the deranged fragments of healthy lives that are the only components left to these miserable zombies and walking dead. The story begins with their enslavement in the death throes of WWII as Russian armies have swept back Nazi invaders. Romanian fascists have been overthrown; Romania has switched sides; and the ethnic Germans of the area, Transylvanian Saxons and Banat Shwoveh, frantically try to escape the retributions awaiting them, but mainly are too naive or indecisive and so are caught unprepared. Obedient to authority, they are summoned to work as war reparations and they obey with all too few exceptions, just as Jews had obeyed their Gestapo orders in the same towns and villages only a few months earlier. Leo Auberg is given the best of everything available, so he carries parts of his whole family with him. A record player is converted into a leather suitcase and accompanies him throughout his journey. His grandmother says he will return, and this becomes his mantra throughout the skinandbones ordeal. But, in fact, in great irony and portent, he is eager to leave. He is gay, and hemmed in, imprisoned already, by the laws and misplaced narrow morality of the town. He has already found the joys of sex in secluded wooded areas or empty bath house saunas, and well knows the horrendous penalties if he is caught; few return from the imprisonment and those who do are forever broken. And so he goes to his Russian internment with hope and relief to get away from the claustrophobia and fear of capture; little knowing that this is the imprisonment of his fears, and he too will return where many do not, and be broken irreparably by the experience. And so, in one small chapter Herta Mueller encapsulates her own narrative of his experience and turns it from something adventitious and meaningless into a poetic expression of all mankind's strivings and shortcomings and human relations. It is a deeply penetrating story into the inner life of one young man, who becomes ageless and sexless. It is populated with a host of characters who are vivid and deeply alive, even when we know them only as extensions of Leo's constrained interactions. Arthur (Door) Prikulitsch is the kapo, enjoying life and sexual monogamy and playing with others' lives (opening and closing doors) at the expense of his own humanity and future, who becomes within the confused amorality of slavery the bearer of wisdom (All treasures have a sign that says: Here I Am.) Katy Sentry is the mirror of innocence amid the depravity and is everyone's child. Coupling overcomes all obstacles, but for Leo is a prison within the prison; since even within slavery, gay sex is a tabu enforced by death, and it keeps him distanced even from those whose human warmth he so desperately needs. Yet, it makes him the the most believable and objective of witnesses and reporters, and he sees clearly, especialy himself. Even the slaves are subject to the same inhumanity as their masters: their hunger drives husbands to steal food from wives and to punish bread theft with invigorated brutality. In this setting of despair the only command the slaves obey with relish is the destruction of lice and bed bugs. For me as a reader, this is a liberating tale. To see close up and in personal detail the enduring human vitality that can survive amid utter depravity and human oppression is as enlightening and elevating as any Pilgrim's Progress morality tale. Leo says, he can live like this and it would be a good life: he could be proud of his survival. Only poetry can plumb these depths for us, take us there so that we can extract its gold, refine it for us, and deposit us again in the mainstream of reality with a better understanding of our own aspirations, limits, and capabilities. We have only one life to live, and it is all too easily thrown away. But we are eternally constrained by our own desires and the thoughtless and arbitrary decisions of the mass of humanity that demands our conformity. And we give our assent at our peril. And so the swinging of our breathing continues.

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Thuringer
Solzhenitsyn Lite
Reviewed in the United States on July 21, 2013
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The Hunger Angel is about Transylvanian-Germans sent to Soviet concentration camps at the end of World War II. The book is interesting and well written. It is less gruesome and less political than Solzhenitsyn showing a different manifestation of Stalin's brutality. It is the story of people who are punished just for being Germans, most of whom are innocent, although some were or were related to people who were at a minimum Nazi sympathizers.

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Patricia
A Haunting Novel of Prison Camp Life
Reviewed in the United States on June 17, 2012
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This is an amazing and shocking book. I was totally unaware of these forced labor camps of Germans deported from Romania just after WWII. Herta Muller makes it live in graphic detail. We follow the main character, 17-year old Leo Auberg, from his discontented home life (hiding his gay tendencies) to the labor camps. At first he is naïve enough to be happy to leave home - until reality hits him and he faces the grim life of forced labor and starvation. We see the world entirely through his eyes. Hunger, cold, exhaustion and the constant threat of brutality and death are the driving forces. The prisoners have their own moral code and survival logic. It is a fascinating study in human nature in the most dreadful of circumstances. The writing is exquisite and original and must have been very difficult to translate.

A particularly heartbreaking part of the novel is how poorly Leo adjusts to release from the camps. He cannot express emotion and his family does not know what to do with him. It is such a letdown since you longed for his freedom throughout his suffering. That seems even more tragic than his five years of suffering. He can never recover. I highly recommend this powerful, haunting novel. Food will never look the same.

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11 people found this helpful

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Golfess
Unforgettable
Reviewed in the United States on July 25, 2022
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I'm a US citizen who read this book because I have an affinity for Romania and Romanians.

The book failed me completely by way of my original expectations - but succeeded brilliantly in ways I never expected.

A few brief examples:
"Romanian" is a fluid definition
A poetic writer like Muller can capture accurately the hard truths of heavy industry
The presence (or absence) of food creates its own reality

Highly recommended.

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SaBah
X
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on April 11, 2019
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Love it;

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Henriette
Bilder aus Worten
Reviewed in Germany on November 21, 2018
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Dieses Buch ist eines meiner Lieblingsbücher. Es ist faszinierend, wie Herta Müller es schafft, mit ihren Worten Bilder in unsere Köpfe zu projizieren.

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Murray, Mary E.
Speaking for the forgotten millions
Reviewed in Canada on December 28, 2012
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Beautifully crafted novel although the subject matter is harrowing. The author captured the sense of living with hunger with little sugar coating. She brought the life of a young man center stage to affirm his existence when it appears the world had fogotten him, She truly speaks as a voice for the dispossed who have lost everything except their humanity.

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chris
A character analysis.
Reviewed in Canada on October 15, 2016
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[...]

This book was very well written and thought provoking. The characters in it were well rounded and creative in their methods of survival in a hellish situation.

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Alicia M.
all well
Reviewed in Germany on October 30, 2015
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Received the book in a condition as it was described, and on time. I am really glad with my purchase.

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Top reviews from the United States

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5.0 out of 5 stars A poetic encounter with inhumanity as a human condition.

4.0 out of 5 stars Solzhenitsyn Lite

5.0 out of 5 stars A Haunting Novel of Prison Camp Life

5.0 out of 5 stars Unforgettable

Top reviews from other countries

5.0 out of 5 stars X

5.0 out of 5 stars Bilder aus Worten

5.0 out of 5 stars Speaking for the forgotten millions

4.0 out of 5 stars A character analysis.

5.0 out of 5 stars all well

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A poetic encounter with inhumanity as a human condition.

Solzhenitsyn Lite

A Haunting Novel of Prison Camp Life

Unforgettable

X

Bilder aus Worten

Speaking for the forgotten millions

A character analysis.

all well