Sibylle Lewitscharoff

The place of execution lay behind Stuttgart’s houses, surrounded by fake vineyards that, close-up, did not look very convincing. My place of execution, he thought involuntarily, because the toughest of his battles had been on account of it, but in reward it had not turned out as he had imagined.

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The house I was never allowed to enter. The famous Schmitthenner designed house in Löwen Strasse – for the first time I will see it from the inside. I grew up in Löwen Strasse too, but at the lower middle-class end of the street that leads into the old part of Degerloch. I effortlessly draw the house out of a dark chamber of my memory, admittedly only the top floor and the roof, the parts that rose higher than the high garden wall. A gate set in the wall. I can see Robert and Blechle disappear behind its jambs. All of the make-believe fortresses that I shot at as a child with my home-made catapults looked like Blechle’s house, rather than the castles in the Swabian hills.

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