Jenny Erpenbeck on her Booker Prize-winning novel 'Kairos'

The Berlin Wall collapsed almost overnight. Do you feel that the homeland you know was stolen from you?

No. A change was needed, although it went differently from what the East Germans expected initially. The process of transformation of both halves of the country is still ongoing. It first looked like a one-way thing, but it isn't.

Your work often explores the complexities of German history and identity. What draws you to these themes?

The troubled German history of the last hundred years teaches us a lesson about transition in general. Systems can change, but people do not. They carry their past memories with them, partly evolving but also clinging to bits of their former identities.

In German history, there were bitter losses, cruelty, manipulation, and hate at work, as well as great hopes and new beginnings. Hope and the abandonment of hope greatly interest me.

In your novel The End of Days, you weave a complex narrative to tell the family story of three generations. Through this story, you also talk about political transformations. Tell me more about this.

I was driven by many questions, such as: Who is someone when he or she suddenly passes away? What mattered in his or her life? What form does the encounter with contingency take? Who is mourning the deceased? What is the sum of a life? And does this sum change over the course of one's life?

So, I had the idea to invent a main character who dies and comes back to life four times before finally passing away for good. Some things that seem to be of great importance in the beginning fade away some years later and come back again at the end—or not. A tiny detail might gain importance over the course of her life, but only the reader can connect these threads through these different courses.

She is a child first, then a loving young woman, then a political victim in her 40s, a celebrity in her later years, and, in the end, just an old woman, forgotten by almost everyone but her son. We see her in all her potential: for love, female self-empowerment, being lost, glory, and despair.

Your novel Go, Went, Gone addresses the refugee crisis in Europe. What motivated you to explore this topic?

There was this first accident in 2013 when a boat with refugees on board capsized in the Mediterranean, and 400 people drowned. This was when I thought it was high time to start talking with those refugees who had already lived on the edges of our societies by then—the ones who had survived their journey but still hadn't been able to start their new lives. I felt it was time to connect both worlds—at least through storytelling.

So, I would interview some refugees about who they are and, more importantly, who they were before they left their countries. They would tell me about their countries, their jobs back home, their family, friends, and homes—about all that was lost.

I would accompany them to offices to meet with lawyers and attend demonstrations, which opened my eyes to their hardships. If we allow people to stay unseen, it tells a story about us, too—about our fear of knowing our real selves by seeing those people caught in the abyss of limbo.

You came from an educated and accomplished family. How did this shape your personality and your writing?

I'm writing in the third generation. My grandparents were authors, and my father was, too. My mum was a literary translator from Arabic. From an early age onwards, I was obsessed with reading and was lucky to be surrounded by tall bookshelves and getting reading recommendations from my parents. We had endless conversations about literature and art at our kitchen table, and somewhere in the background was always the sweet sound of some typewriter.

But as a young adult, I wanted to try something different first. I studied music and became an opera director, and only when I was 30 did I start to explore writing on my own, which felt both familiar and excitingly new at once.

Do you think that studying theatre and directing opera has influenced the narrative style and structure of your novels?

As a child, I learned to play the piano and sang in a choir, so there was always music in me. I consider language a form of music, too. When reading, I also listen to the sound of the words and the rhythm of the language. I can feel it when the words slow down or speed up, just like when listening to music.

Are you influenced by any Arab writers? Not least with your mother, Doris Kilias, such a well-known translator from Arabic to German.

Of course, I read many Arab novels and stories, such as those by Naghib Machfouz, Gamal al-Ghitani, and others. I wouldn't say that they influenced my writing directly, but they made the foreign world part of my own world—as should be the case with all good literature.

You have written short stories, novellas, and novels. Tell us more about that.

My first story turned out to be a novella. Then, I was asked to write short stories on different occasions. It was learning by doing. My publisher and I would collect the short stories in one volume, which we would turn into a second book.

During the release of my first three books, I was still directing opera productions in Austria and Germany. When my son started attending school, I was lucky to be able to make a living only from my writing. 

From that moment on, my concentration was different. I could explore a topic in a more complex way, and I was able to write longer stories. Here and there, I would also write a theatre play or a libretto, the text for an opera, to keep my connection to music and theatre. Every genre has its own demands, and I enjoy the challenge of doing something different.