Translator’s Note:
Hinz is one of the most common family names in Germany, as is Kunz. The German phrase (jeder) Hinz und Kunz (“(every) Hinz and Kunz”) is one of the equivalents of English “every Tom, Dick and Harry.”
Also, apartment numbers are not normally used in Germany.

Mien Nam is Hinz

So as jede anne Minsch bün ok ick tau mien’ Namen unschüllig kamen. Wenn’t nah mi gahn wier, harr ick hüt nich so heiten. Hinz. Wat’s dat för ’n Namen? Man blot vier Baukstawen: H I N Z. Em smückt kein Gräun, kein Blaum un kein lütt Vagel nich. Kein bäten Poesie sitt in em. As so’n drögen Haublock steiht hei mi so lütt un stief in’n Weg. Man, likers hett hei mi ok Freud un Hoeg inbröcht un männig tutige Geschicht’ is bi rutekamen.
     All’ Lüüd mit Namen Hinz hüren nu mal nipping tau! Un taugliek will ick all’ de Frugens un Kierls mit denn’ Namen Krause, Kunz, Meier, Möller, Schmidt, Schröder, Schulz wohrschugen, wenn de niege Breiwendräger in dat Hochhus kümmt, wo all’ disse Namens duffelt un dreifach vörkamen.
     Wenn mien Fomilie man blot ut einen Minschen besteiht, so spält sick in denn’ Breifkasten soväl af, as wenn’t üm ein Internat, Schaul, Kophus odder Fautballmannschaft geiht. Un all Nahwerslüüd kakeln un sünd womoeglich afgünstig oewer mienen groten Schriewerkring. Man, dor hett ne Uhl säten, un wenn ick up all’ de verkihrten Hinz-Breiwen un Hinz-Korten antwuurten wull, müßt’ ick woll mien Treckfiedel an denn’ Haken hängen.
     Einst steckte ein Nahricht in denn’ Breifkasten, un mien Ogen würden ümmer grötter, ümmer grötter. Jaa, ick süll mal bi de Post, de ok bi Neukauf ünnerkrapen wier, ’n Hümpel Geld afhalen. Ick mit de grote Plastetüt hentowt. Allens gor nich wohr. Dat Geld wier för Holger Hinz taudacht. Jaa, harr ick mit Holger Hinz ünnerschräben... Na ja, man is je noch ’n ihrlichen Minschen. Man blot de Plastebüttel blew leddig.
     Wieldes möt ick woll ahn mien Weiten ’n Dokdertitel krägen hebben. De Post wüsst Bescheid un smät mi de Honorat’schonen ümmer wedder in denn’ Dokder-Hinz-Breifkasten. So’n Promotschon möckt Spaß, ahn sick antaustrengen, – man, dat Geweiten dükerte mi bannig. Breif wedder trügg an de Post, wedder an Dr. Hinz, un so sachten glöwte ick an denn’ Dokdertitel. As eines Dags de echte Dokder bi de Post nah sien vermissten Breiwen larmte, wier ick mienen Dokder-Tütel perdautz wedder los. Endlich! Ja, so kann einen dat gahn. Mal büst ’ne Studierte un denn wedder ein lütt’ Hinzing.
     Einmal fünn ick in mienen Breiwenkasten ’n groten Breif von de Staatsoper Berlin. Up fründlich Oort un Wies’ wullten sei mi as Falstaff anglesieren. Dat wier tauväl un gallig schimpte ick up Oper un Post, dat sei mi Frugensminsch noch för ’n versapen Ritter hölten.
     Dat duert nich lang’, dor finn ick in mienen Kasten ’ne Odder, ick sall mien sögen Kind impen laten. Hm, wo kam ick as alleinig Fru fuurtsens tau ein Kind, wo ick doch all lang’ ut de jagdboren Johren rute bün? Mann in ’ne Tunn!“
     Af un an laden mi ok de Boxer – na de, mit de groten Ledderfuusthanschen – as Taukieker tau ehr Runn’ in. Nu möt ick mi wohrraftig noch das Boxen anwennen, un will mi all gliek in de ierst’ Runn’ mit ’n KO-Sieg von all’ de verkihrten Räknungen, Breiwen, Korten un Dokdertitel frieboxen.
     Bi denn’ Namen Hinz kann dat so nich blieben. Mien Nahwer Willem kickt mi ümmer so smüüstergrienig an, kann em gaut lieden.Tschä, ob ick em heuraten dau, hm, dat kann ick noch nich seggen. Denn heit ick je nahstens Fru Kunz.
     Un wecker spält denn mit uns Kulsoeg’...?

My Name is Hinz

Like everyone else I didn’t choose my name. I wouldn’t be having my name now had the choice been mine. Hinz. What kind of name is that? Only four letters: H.I.N.Z. There’s no green, no flower and no little bird to pretty it up. Not the slightest trace of poetry is in it. Insignificant and unwieldy it stands in my way like a dried-out chopping block. Nevertheless, it has been a cause for joy and amusement for me, and many a silly story came about because of it.
     Listen closely, all you folks called Hinz! At the same time I’m putting on notice all you women and guys called Krause, Kunz, Meier, Möller, Schmidt, Schröder, Schulz in anticipation of the new letter carrier entering our high-rise building in which all of these names are represented multiple times.
     While my family consists of only one person, there’s as much activity in my mailbox as if it belonged to a boarding school or some other type of school, or to a department store or a football team. And the neighbors all keep gossiping and may well be jealous considering all those people corresponding with me. But it isn’t what it seems to be, and I’d have to retire my squeezebox if I responded to all those Hinz letters and Hinz cards.
     One time I found a notification in my mailbox that made my eyes grow wider and wider. Well, I was supposed to collect a bunch of money at the post office at Neukauf’s. Plastic bag in hand I got there in no time. It turned out to be a mistake. The money was supposed to go to Holger Hinz. Hmm … I could have signed as Holger Hinz … But, well, one’s got to be an honest person. But the plastic bag stayed empty.
     In the meantime, unbeknownst to me, I must have earned a doctorate. The people at the post office were informed in that they kept putting the degree award notification into my Dr. Hinz box. It’s fun to get such a promotion without having done anything to earn it, but my conscience kept pestering me. Back to the post office the letter went; again it arrived in my Dr. Hinz box, and gradually I believed in having a doctorate. One day the genuine doctor complained about his missing letters at the post office, and suddenly I lost my doctorate. At long last! Ah, well. This is how the cookie crumbles sometimes: one day a scholar and the next back to plain little Hinzy.
     Once I found in the mailbox a large letter from the Berlin State Opera. In a friendly tone they tried to sign me on for the role of Falstaff. This was the last straw. Exasperated I bitched about opera and post taking me, a woman, for a drunken show-off.
     Not much later I found in the box a letter ordering me to have my baby vaccinated. Hmm. How could I, a single woman beyond childbearing age, come up with a child just like that? Goodness gracious!
     Once in a while boxers—and I mean the kind wearing large leather gloves—invite me to watch their fights. So now I’ve got to add boxing to my schedule as well. It would be nice to score an instant knockout to rid myself once and for all of all the erroneous bills, letters, cards and doctorates.
     I’ve got to get another name. My neighbor Willem keeps smiling at me so, and I do like him. Well, if I married him I’d be Mrs. Kunz.
     And who’d be messing with us then?