Kindergarten has remained with me as flashes, with nothing lit between them.
Flash. My first nursery, on Rosa Luxemburg Street, where it crosses Karl Marx. The first state institution in my life stood at the crossroads of two revolutionaries, and nobody in town found anything special in that.
Flash. Someone is dabbing brilliant green on your eyebrow. What came before it you find out later, from grown-ups: you were playing with a toy, spinning round, caught the corner with your eyebrow and split it; the emergency room, stitches and everything that comes with them. Of the whole story with blood, strangers’ hands and a needle you were left with the last frame, and even that is about the brilliant green, which then would not wash off for a week.
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