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“To lead the future, learn from the wounded voices of the past.”

I believe only literature can illuminate a wound without laying bare moral collapse in a blatant way. That is precisely what resonates in Wolfgang Borchert’s works—soft-spoken, concise, yet devastating. His name may not stand as grandly as Goethe, Schiller, or Brecht, but there is something deeply affecting in the way Borchert writes. Even today, one of his short stories, The Kitchen Clock, continues to echo gently in my memory.

The Kitchen Clock: A Heaven Marked at 2:30 A.M.

Borchert is best known for his work The Man Outside (1947), published in Germany just after the war’s devastation. This is what I admire most about Borchert: he exposes Germany’s moral wounds and the political sensitivity of the era with quiet precision. The Man Outside itself is a postwar drama about a soldier returning home only to feel estranged in his own country.

Among his other works, there is one short story that, I believe, deserves more attention. It is titled The Kitchen Clock. The plot is simple: a young man who keeps venerating his old, broken wall clock. His admiration is so profound that he feels as though he has found a small piece of heaven within it—merely because it shows the time 2:30 a.m.

In The Kitchen Clock, Borchert presents two faces of postwar victims. On one side are those who see the wall clock as nothing more than war debris—an object with no real value, just another lifeless remnant that survived destruction. On the other side stands the young man who holds the clock as his only doorway back to a warm, forgiving past. For others, it is just rubble; but for him, it is home, his mother, and every happiness he once knew.

“It has nothing to do with the bombs. You shouldn’t keep talking about the bombs,” he says—a gentle, almost despairing rejection from someone trying to preserve the only memory untouched by the war.

Across Borchert’s works, you can sense the profound emotional weight woven into every detail. How he portrays young men whose faces have aged prematurely because of war; how he renders mothers who wait endlessly for their sons to return; and how he courageously criticizes the Nazi regime through postwar literature that focuses on the deep wounds the war inflicted upon ordinary Germans.

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What Is Trümmerliteratur?

Okay, let’s set Shakespeare aside for a moment. I think it’s time for younger generations to become familiar with writers like Wolfgang Borchert and Heinrich Böll. Known for their contributions to Trümmerliteratur (rubble literature), the writers of this era explored the crimes of the Nazi period and the profound sense of guilt felt by Germans for participating in a brutal war of aggression that claimed millions of lives.

Many of these authors had been directly involved in the war themselves, fighting as soldiers on the front lines. Their stories reflect the daily struggle for survival in destroyed cities, the loss of friends and family members, and the collapse of dreams and hopes as old values no longer held meaning.

The writing style of Trümmerliteratur (1945–1950) is characterized by several key features:

• Extremely simple language. After the war, German cities lay in ruins, and so did literature and the German language itself, which had been weaponized under the Nazi regime
• A focus on the destruction of German cities—both physical and moral
• A mood of cynicism, despair, and exhaustion
• An emphasis on the Heimkehrer—soldiers returning home from war
• Critiques of war and authority
• A crisis of individual identity

“Wir brauchen keine Dichter mit guter Grammatik. Zu guter Grammatik fehlt uns Geduld. We don’t need poets with good grammar. We don’t have the patience for good grammar.” – Wolfgang Borchert

The fame of these writers is not comparable to the monumental stature of Goethe. In modern Germany, postwar literature is indeed known—largely because it is frequently taught in secondary schools—but it does not occupy the same cultural pedestal as the great classical figures.

These authors are not widely celebrated cultural icons; rather, they are voices that live in classrooms, in spaces of reflection and learning, in the quiet corners where character is shaped. This is not about nostalgia, but about how their works help prepare younger generations to become more humane leaders.

The Kitchen Clock (Die Kuechenuhr)

by Wolfgang Borchert, translated by Hidar Fathur Rizky

They were already looking at him as he approached in the distance, because he just stood out. He had quite an old face, but from the way he walked, they could tell that he was only twenty. He sat down with his old face on the bench facing them. And then he showed them what he was carrying in his hand.

That was our kitchen clock, he said, and looked at them all, one after another, sitting on the bench in the sun. Yes, I was able to find it. It was still there.

He held a round white kitchen plate clock out in front of himself as he dusted off the the blue painted numbers with his finger.

It has no further value, he remarked apologetically, I know that also. And it is also not especially pretty. It is only like a plate, with white varnish. However, I do find that the blue numbers are quite pretty to look at. The hands are naturally only made of tin. And now they don’t work any more either. No. It’s definitely broken on the inside. But it still looks like it used to. Even if it doesn’t run anymore.

With his finger tip he made a careful circle around the edge of the clock shaped like a plate. And he said softly: And it was still there. The people sitting on the bench in the sun did not look at him. One man looked at his shoes, and the woman looked into her baby buggy. Then someone said: You’ve probably lost everything?

Yes, yes, he said joyfully, think about it, everything! Only this clock here, it’s left over. And he raised the clock up again, as if the others were not yet familiar with it.

But it doesn’t run anymore, said the women.

No, no, it doesn’t. It is broken, I know that well. But otherwise it is just like it always was: white and blue. And again he showed them his clock. And the best thing, he continued excitedly, I haven’t even told you yet. The best is yet to come: Think about it, it stopped at 2:30 in the morning. Exactly at 2:30, think about it.

Then your house was surely hit at 2:30, the man said as he pushed his lower lip forward importantly, I’ve often heard that. When the bomb falls, the clocks stop. That comes from the concussion of the explosion.

He looked at his clock and shook his head pensively. No, dear sir, no, you are wrong about that. It has nothing to do with the bombs. You should not keep talking about the bombs. No. At 2:30 something quite different took place that you don’t know about. That’s just it, that it stopped exactly at 2:30. You see, I always came home at 2:30. At night I mean. Nearly always at 2:30. That’s just it.

He looked at the others, but they had taken their eyes off of him. He didn’t find them. Then he nodded at his clock: You understand, I was naturally always hungry then, wasn’t I? And I always went straight into the kitchen. And it was almost always two thirty.

And then, then, of course, my mother always came in. No matter how quietly I opened the door, she would always hear me. And, as I would look for something to eat in the dark kitchen, suddenly the light would turn on. And there she would stand in her wool jacket with a red shawl around her neck. And barefoot. Always barefoot. And our kitchen had a tiled floor. And she would squint her eyes, because the light was so bright. Because she had already been asleep. It was night.

So late again, she would say then. She never said more than that. Only: So late again. And then she would warm up my supper and would watch me eat. At the same time she would always rub her feet against one another, because the tiles were so cold. She never put her shoes on at night. And she would sit there for as long as it took, until I was full. And then I would hear her still clearing away the dishes after I had already turned off the light in my room. Every night it was like that. And mostly always around two thirty. I just took for granted that at two thirty in the morning she would prepare a meal for me.

I just took it for granted. She would always do that. And she never said more than: So late again. But she said that every time. And I thought it would never stop. It was so natural to me. It had always been like that.

For a moment there was complete silence on the bench. Then he said softly: And now? He looked at the others. But he didn’t find their eyes. Then he said softly into the white and blue round face of the clock: Now, now I know, that it was paradise. Real paradise.

On the bench there was complete silence. Then the women asked: And your family?

He smiled at her with an embarrassed look on his face: Oh, you mean my parents? Yes, they are also gone with the house. Everything is gone. Everything, just imagine. Everything is gone.

He smiled, embarrassed from one to the other. But they didn’t look at him.

Then, once again, he held the clock high and laughed. He laughed: Only this here. Only it’s left. And the best thing is, it stopped at exactly two thirty. Exactly two thirty. Then he said nothing more. But he had quite an old-looking face. And the man sitting next to him looked at his shoes. But he didn’t see the shoes. He just thought the whole time about the word paradise.

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