Ballad of Aunt Else’s Refugees It's cold in Schlossberg. The stoves are full of our nails and hairs. The lift with coal and matches remained stuck in the middle of the hairdresser's by the City Gate. We had our forelocks trimmed for free there and now we look at each other as if in a mirror, pH neutral. When Aunt Else adds knitting to our slippers we play darts: she aiming her blue knitting needle at our hearts, we our red at hers. Gruss gott. and accelerates the asylum procedure. And love. It's going to be all right, Aunt Else says.