Zwanzig Minuten, directed by Judith Kuckart and Skoronel Reloaded, celebrated its premiere at Theater Thikwa on 2–5 July 2026, as well as on 8 and 9 July. Featuring Hannah Grzimek, Frank Herfeld, Torsten Holzapfel, Elise Neumann, André Nittel, Tim Petersen, Sabina Stücker, Estrella Urban, and Hilarius Urban, the piece brings together a mixed ensemble of performers with and without physical or mental disabilities.
As I rush out of the hot and humid theater after the show, I bump into one of the performers, Torsten Holzapfel. After a second of awkwardness between us, he shouts, “Alles Gute für Sie!” This honest interaction that warms my heart is what Zwanzig Minuten feels like.
Throughout the performance, I get to learn about the nine performers onstage: who they are, what their favorite objects are, and what they enjoy doing. Zwanzig Minuten, the program notes share, is an attempt to “make something small into something big.” The performers’ individual personalities, mannerisms, and lived experiences—qualities that may seem insignificant or even be viewed negatively by society, particularly for those with disabilities—take the stage in a safer space, where empathy for one another is palpable.
A scene depicting a garden sale shows how easily Holzapfel’s kindness is exploited. He suggests prices for a bed and a television; buyers repeatedly offer 10 euros less. Each time, he enthusiastically accepts the lower price. He goes even further by offering them free beverages and giving away his record player and a record at no cost. Later, I come across one of his drawings tucked inside the program notes with a caption: “I must learn how to be mean.”
© Torsten Holzapfel
Reading it, my heart clenches with the sadness of having been told that my own nature is a problem to be corrected. As an autistic person, I am very honest and direct in my communication, which has often been interpreted as careless and tactless. I have learned and practiced social skills repeatedly in an effort to act differently, but at the end of the day, it is not something I can change. Sometimes, I wish these characteristics could be appreciated as beautiful traits rather than flaws.
Onstage, the ensemble is sitting and drawing. Holzapfel launches into an extended monologue about his love of drawing places such as train stations and how absorbed he becomes in capturing every possible detail. The others lower their heads onto the table, burying their faces in their arms. A bell sounds and Holzapfel abruptly stops his rant. The others lift their heads up and laugh at him. He looks around with a perplexed expression.
Another performer, Tim Petersen, also shares his joy of drawing in the same scene. He briefly shows one of his drawings and says, “It’s three women in the snow!” and nothing else. After the show, I find the same drawing in the program notes, accompanied by a caption that recontextualizes its quiet: “The winter in Germany is cold, but the people are even colder.”
© Tim Petersen
Living in Berlin for almost ten years, I have developed something I call “German trauma”—not because the cold German culture invented my exhaustion, but because it sharpens it. I remember quietly thanking a man recently who’d pulled his three dogs aside to let me pass. He didn’t hear me—my voice is soft, a trait of my autism—and shouted, “At least you can say thank you!” At that moment after a particularly tiring day, I felt how neuronormativity drains me, and how German bluntness intensifies it. Perhaps this is why it touched me to watch every performer onstage simply be who they are, without needing to be anything else.
Zwanzig Minuten, directed by Judith Kuckart and Skoronel Reloaded, celebrated its premiere at Theater Thikwa on 2–5 July and on 8/9 July 2026.