Katrina Poladjan on unpacking the past to know the present

Helen, the main character in Hier sind Löwen, has—like me—Armenian ancestors and asks herself precisely these questions on her journey to Armenia. The novel is primarily about the discovery of stories and history. In the process, Helen develops a historical consciousness by grappling with the unconscious aspects of her own historical identity, namely the inherited traumas of long-past injustices.

Whilst restoring an old Bible, she stumbles upon the story of two children's flight during the 1915 genocide in Eastern Anatolia. Through the protagonist's eyes, the novel reflects a Western European—one might say Eurocentric—perspective on Armenia and its history. I wanted to tell the story of this country, but also of the different ways in which it is viewed.

How do you balance the historical weight of your Russian heritage, with all its literature and philosophy, and your identity as an author writing in German? Do you feel that living between two languages and two cultures gives you a particular way of reading the contradictions of 20th-century history?

My life story is, of course, shaped by my experience of migration and by the dual influence of two cultures and languages. I learnt German as a foreign language, but I'm more confident in it today than in my mother tongue. And yes, these circumstances probably sharpen one's sense of contradictions and differences.

However, there are many Germans with whom I share a love of Tolstoy, Chekhov or Bulgakov. Culture always arises from exchange; literature arises from reading. And the broader we define these concepts, the wider our reading, and the more intense the intercultural exchange, the richer culture and literature become.

The protagonist of Hier sind Löwen works as a restorer of ancient books. In your journey to reclaim your family history through literature, do you feel like a "restorer" of collective memory? What were the most difficult gaps you encountered during the writing process?

The novel revolves precisely around these gaps—the silence, the shame, the repression. For me, however, literature is not at all about filling gaps. First and foremost, literature should open up spaces. This opening can be unsettling, irritating, but also tender and familiar.

The greatest challenge in writing Hier sind Löwen was to find a language for the violence of genocide that neither glosses over nor trivialises anything, yet still preserves the dignity of the victims. My aim was to tell the story of one of humanity's greatest crimes without succumbing to the widespread urge to polarise, without succumbing to the horrific images that weighed heavily on me often enough during my research.

I have always been, and still am, driven by the question of why people inflict violence upon one another, and have done so throughout history. And like so many others, I still hope that remembering violence might perhaps reduce or even prevent violence in the present and future.

After all, human thought and feeling are rooted in the capacity to remember. After all, we cannot remember; we can only deny or forget. Memory can have a negative effect, even a traumatic one, and lead to a thirst for revenge and retribution. The silence of remembrance was more important to me than the loud cries of accusation, grief and anger. And if, with this book, I have succeeded in opening a small window of remembrance, I am very pleased.

In Dreams of the Future, you chose to set the entire narrative within a single day—11 March 1985—to mark the death of Konstantin Chernenko and the beginning of a major historical transformation. Could you tell us more about the vision behind this project?

The goal of literature is surely to condense history, to make it tangible, and to transport it into the present through reading. Just as important to me as the theme, the conflicts and dreams of such a story, is the form, the poetic shape. When we speak of upheavals or tipping points—not only in the past—we are often referring to vast periods of time or entire eras. Literature, in turn, can expand or contract time; it is a magical time machine. In Future Music, the readership also has an advantage over the characters in terms of knowledge, as they are aware of the history and upheavals of the years that follow. This strange discrepancy fascinated me.

In your acceptance speech for the Marie Luise Kaschnitz Prize 2026, you described words as a double-edged power—they can plunge us into the abyss or lift us to the sky. You also spoke about literature as a space of "blissful disappearance" and reconciliation. Is writing still that space for you, or has it become more of a burden and responsibility toward the world?

It is a space that must be reclaimed anew with every novel. At first, there is a blank sheet of paper, a heavy burden, my own standards and desires, the expectations of others, perhaps even a sense of responsibility. From there begins a long journey, full of detours, missteps, but also happy coincidences. And until a text comes to fruition, fortunately, there is so much wonderful literature in which I can lose myself blissfully whilst reading.

Critics often describe your style as one of extreme condensation, where you leave vast white spaces for the reader to fill. How do you balance this linguistic brevity with the desire to evoke an expansive panorama of European history?

For me, one does not exclude the other. Writing is, first and foremost, storytelling, and every narrative requires its own economy. When a painter creates shadows with just a few dark lines and accents, the picture can reveal a great deal of light. That fascinates me. Perhaps I try to do something similar in my writing: using the right contours to give a sense of depth to something that would otherwise become flat again if overloaded with detail; I try to open up spaces that I fear would close again if filled in with colour. I seek room for manoeuvre, not finality. It is always more interesting to ask questions than to provide the answers. I hope for an open dialogue between the reader and the text.

You are often drawn to transitional periods where nothing is certain. Why do moments of waiting or historical uncertainty attract you as a novelist? Do you believe that truth tends to live in those margins rather than in the grand historical narratives?

Like many others, I too feel as though I am living in a time of transition. And my interest in the past stems from a desire to understand the present. Furthermore, I am convinced that a sense of uncertainty has shaped human existence throughout the ages. People have always paused to ask themselves: What is? What will be? And even when we look back, we realise that we cannot say exactly how things were.

There are always different perspectives, perceptions and memories. So we capture those memories in stories, hoping that a little truth might be hidden within them. I harbour a certain fundamental scepticism towards the concept of truth. But I believe we need to take detours through history to help the present come to terms with itself.

A novel is often described as a message thrown into an unknown sea. What lasting impact do you hope your work leaves on a reader from a completely different cultural context, such as an Arab reader?

This idea arouses my curiosity above all else. As I have already mentioned, I consider exchanges between people from different cultural backgrounds to be immensely important and enriching. But it would seem presumptuous of me to express any expectations or hopes in advance. In any case, I would be absolutely delighted to engage in an exchange with Arab readers.