Kemmerich's Death
Kemmerich’s Death
Script
Dramatis Personae
Franz Kemmerich, wounded soldier (Ewan)
Paul Baümer, soldier, friend of Kemmerich (Jack)
Müller, soldier, friend of Kemmerich (Eric)
Doctor (Connor)
Props
Pair of Boots.
Box (of Kemmerich’s things).
Table (bed).
Lights.
Scene.
Kemmerich lies on a bed; Müller & Paul intrant. They sit.
M: We’ve brought your things, Franz.
K (gesturing with his hand; in a husky voice): Put them under the bed.
Müller does as he is told, but comes back up with a pair of boots.
M: Are you going to take these with you, Franz? Pause. It would be a pity to leave them here – the orderlies would pinch them any minute. Why don’t you leave them here? (Kemmerich does not respond) We could do a swap, you can really do with boots like that out here.
Paul kicks Müller; Müller puts the boots back under the bed.
P: Chin up Franz.
Müller stands up, walks away and faces the audience.
M: Best quality English flying-boots, with soft yellow leather, coming to the knee, with lacing all along the way. The orderlies are bound to pinch them the minute he’s dead.
Exit Müller annoyed.
Pause.
Kantorek closes his eyes. Lights off over the bed. Paul stands and faces the audience under the light on the right.
P: He looks terrible, yellow and pallid, and his face already has those weird lines that we are so familiar with. There is no longer any life pulsing under his skin – it has been forced out already to the very edges of his body, and death is working its way through him, moving outwards from the centre. There in the bed is our pal Kemmerich, who was frying horse-meat with us not long ago – it’s still him, but it isn’t really him any more; his image has become blurred, like a photographic plate that’s had too many copies made from it. Whenever we went swimming, Kemmerich always used to look small and slim. Now he’s lying there – and why? Everyone in the world should be made to walk past his bed and told: “This is Franz Kemmerich, he’s
Script
Dramatis Personae
Franz Kemmerich, wounded soldier (Ewan)
Paul Baümer, soldier, friend of Kemmerich (Jack)
Müller, soldier, friend of Kemmerich (Eric)
Doctor (Connor)
Props
Pair of Boots.
Box (of Kemmerich’s things).
Table (bed).
Lights.
Scene.
Kemmerich lies on a bed; Müller & Paul intrant. They sit.
M: We’ve brought your things, Franz.
K (gesturing with his hand; in a husky voice): Put them under the bed.
Müller does as he is told, but comes back up with a pair of boots.
M: Are you going to take these with you, Franz? Pause. It would be a pity to leave them here – the orderlies would pinch them any minute. Why don’t you leave them here? (Kemmerich does not respond) We could do a swap, you can really do with boots like that out here.
Paul kicks Müller; Müller puts the boots back under the bed.
P: Chin up Franz.
Müller stands up, walks away and faces the audience.
M: Best quality English flying-boots, with soft yellow leather, coming to the knee, with lacing all along the way. The orderlies are bound to pinch them the minute he’s dead.
Exit Müller annoyed.
Pause.
Kantorek closes his eyes. Lights off over the bed. Paul stands and faces the audience under the light on the right.
P: He looks terrible, yellow and pallid, and his face already has those weird lines that we are so familiar with. There is no longer any life pulsing under his skin – it has been forced out already to the very edges of his body, and death is working its way through him, moving outwards from the centre. There in the bed is our pal Kemmerich, who was frying horse-meat with us not long ago – it’s still him, but it isn’t really him any more; his image has become blurred, like a photographic plate that’s had too many copies made from it. Whenever we went swimming, Kemmerich always used to look small and slim. Now he’s lying there – and why? Everyone in the world should be made to walk past his bed and told: “This is Franz Kemmerich, he’s