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Aufgabe II

Aufgabenstellung

1.
Sum up the next.
(30%)
2.
Examine how the neighbors’ attitude towards the widow is presented in the excerpt.
Refer to both narrative perspective and stylistic means.
(30%)
3.
On its website The Paris Review, a U.S. magazine on literature and culture, has invited readers to contribute to their blog on "Living Together – Communities Today" and to discuss the statement by author Dean Ornish: "The need for connection and community is primal, as fundamental as the need for air, water, and food."
Write the blog entry, also referring to the text at hand and materials studied in class, such as the movie Gran Torino.
(40%)

Text: Excerpt from Yohanca Delgado, "The Little Widow from the Capital" (2021)

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The widow arrived at LaGuardia on a Sunday, but the rumors about the woman who
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had rented a big apartment, sight unseen, had taken an earlier flight. We had already
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reviewed, on many occasions and in hushed tones, in the quiet that comes after long
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hours of visiting, what little we knew about the widow and her dead husband.
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About her life in the old country, we asked the obvious questions: Were there
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children? Cheryl heard from a friend who still lived in the Dominican Republic that
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they had only been married a year when he died. Had her husband been rich? No,
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our sources in the old country said, poor as a church mouse, with a big family to
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support out in el campo. Had the husband been handsome? Yes, in a rakish sort of
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way. And with what we knew we created him in our minds: medium height with a
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mop of curly hair and an easy laugh, walking down Saona Beach in a white linen
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guayabera, dropping suddenly to one knee. We ourselves felt a flutter in our hearts.
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On the day the widow finally arrived in New York, the rain came in fast, heavy drops
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that sounded like tiny birds slamming into our windows. She emerged from the taxi
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with a single battered suitcase and, little-girl small, stared up at our building as the
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rain pelted her face. Behind us our men and children called out for their dinners, but
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we ignored them. We would wonder later if she had seen our faces pressed up
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against the windows, on all six floors, peering out over flowerpots full of barren dirt.
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We watched her until she made her way out of the rain and into the lobby. Those of
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us lucky enough to live on the fourth floor squinted through our peepholes or cracked
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open our doors as the super carried her suitcase to the three-bedroom apartment
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she was renting. How could she afford it?
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The little widow walked behind the super, her gait slow and steady on the black-and-
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white tiles of the hallway. He was rambling about garbage pickup and the rent. She
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was younger than we expected her to be, thirty, maybe. The amber outfit was all
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wrong for the chilly autumn weather. She was from Santo Domingo, but she looked
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like a campesina visiting the city for the first time, everything hand-sewn and
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outdated by decades. She wore an old-fashioned skirt suit, tailored and nipped at her
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round waist, and a pair of low-heeled black leather pumps. Seeing them made us
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glance down at our own scuffed sneakers and leggings. On her head, she wore a
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pillbox hat, in matching yellow wool sculpted butter-smooth. She dressed her short,
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plump body as though she adored it.
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Instantly, we took a dislike.
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We ourselves had been raised on a diet of telenovelas and American magazines, and
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we knew what beauty was. We gathered after dinner to laugh at her peculiar clothes.
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We murmured with fake sympathy about her loneliness, and joked that she might
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turn our husbands’ heads. When we ran into her, though, we smiled and asked her
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how she was finding New York.
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We began to invent stories about the little widow’s life: torrid affairs that had driven
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her husband to die of heartbreak, a refusal to give him children, a penchant for
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hoarding money – we repeated the tales until we half believed them. The drama of
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the little widow’s previous life became richer and denser, like a thicket of fast-
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growing ivy. Who did she think she was, anyway? Living alone in that big apartment?
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The little widow seemed to understand what we expected of her: she muttered only
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quiet thank-yous when we held the door open as she struggled with her groceries, or
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when we helped her up after she slipped on a patch of ice in front of the building and
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landed flat on her back. As briskly as she could, she composed herself and
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disappeared, her head bowed low into the collar of her quaint amber coat.
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When we heard that the little widow could sew, we started bringing her dresses and
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pants to hem, mostly because we wanted to know how she lived. The little widow’s
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three-bedroom apartment was laid out like the others, but as she worked, our eyes
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darted hungrily between her and the contents of her sewing room.
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Her hair was curly, dyed reddish brown, and cut short around a pointed chin. When
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we got to see her up close, we noted that though she did have deep creases at the
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corners of her eyes, she did not have a widow’s peak. Her eyes were a dark hazel,
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and her pupils so small they looked like pinpricks.
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The little widow had wallpapered her sewing room with a cheap burlap. When one
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of us slipped a fingernail underneath a panel and discovered that the rough cloth was
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glued on, we crossed ourselves and said a quick prayer for the little widow’s security
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deposit.
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On that burlap the little widow had embroidered massive, swaying palm trees, so
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finely detailed that we could almost feel a salty breeze warm our faces as we stood
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on her tailor’s pedestal. Running our fingertips across the embroidered walls we
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could feel the braille of her labor; the grains of sand were individually stitched, as if
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the little widow knew each one. The ocean seemed to ripple and surge as the little
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widow worked around us in meditative silence, kneeling near our ankles with a pin
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between her lips. She was so gentle and fluid in her movements, her soft skin creasing
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like a plump baby’s around the pincushion she wore on her wrist.
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We liked her in those moments, but even so, we didn’t invite her to our birthday
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parties or gatherings at Christmas, though we knew she was alone in that large
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apartment, watching the passing of the seasons, just as we did, through black-barred
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windows.
(997 words)
Yohanca Delgado. “The Little Widow from the Capital.” The Paris Review 236 (2021): 137-139.

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