The following version of the book was used to create the guide: Erpenbeck, Jenny. Go, Went, Gone. Granta Books, 2025.

Going, Went, Gone follows Richard, a recently retired professor of classical philology in Berlin, as his life intersects with a group of African refugees protesting for asylum in Germany. The novel traces his journey from detached academic to engaged advocate, exposing the bureaucratic and moral complexities of Europe’s refugee crisis.

Richard, newly retired, struggles with the emptiness of his days. His life—marked by routines like preparing Abendbrot (evening bread) and gazing at the lake where a drowned man’s body remains unseen—reflects a passive existence. One day, he notices a hunger strike by refugees outside Berlin’s town hall, their slogan “We become visible” haunting him. Initially indifferent, he begins researching African geography and migration policies, confronting his ignorance. A pivotal moment occurs when he attends a pro-refugee meeting at an occupied school: a loud noise triggers panic, and Richard flees, ashamed of his cowardice. This sparks his determination to engage further.

Richard visits Oranienplatz, a refugee encampment, and learns the men will be relocated to an abandoned nursing home near his house. Posing as a researcher, he interviews four Nigerian men—Rashid, Zair, Ithemba, and Abdusalam—who recount harrowing journeys, including a capsized boat where 550 drowned. Overwhelmed, Richard retreats but returns, meeting a boy he nicknames “Apollo” (for his godlike beauty) and Awad (“Tristan”), who survived war in Libya. Their stories—of lost families, forced migration, and bureaucratic limbo—begin to dismantle Richard’s intellectual detachment. He studies the Dublin II Regulation, realizing how asylum laws trap refugees in cycles of displacement.

Richard invites Osarobo, a Christian refugee from Niger, to play his piano, only to discover Osarobo has never touched one. Their awkward yet tender interaction symbolizes Richard’s clumsy but growing empathy. He starts teaching German to advanced students, including Ali, a nurse, and Yussuf, an aspiring engineer, confronting the systemic barriers blocking their dreams. A poignant grocery store encounter with Rufu—who pays for Richard’s forgotten wallet—inverts power dynamics, revealing refugee generosity amid their precarity. Richard’s classical education also shifts: he realizes Greek myths like Medusa originated in North Africa, challenging his Eurocentric worldview.

The refugees are moved to Spandau, a Berlin suburb, where they crave “normal” life but face deportation threats. Richard helps Ali secure care work for his friend’s elderly mother, witnessing her initial racism soften—a microcosm of integration’s possibilities. On Christmas, Richard hosts Rashid, who reveals his children were murdered in Libya. Meanwhile, Osarobo is forced to return to Italy to maintain legal status, and Karon faces fines for lacking a transit ticket—a cruel irony, as he sent money to his injured brother instead. Richard erupts at police, a turning point in his activism.

Deportation letters arrive. Rashid attempts self-immolation in protest; others move into Richard’s home as allies like Detlef and Sylvia shelter more men. A bonfire gathering underscores shared grief—Detlef reveals his wife’s terminal illness, while refugees mourn lost families. Sylvia challenges Richard’s paternalism when Osarobo is suspected of theft: “If you make excuses for his betrayal, you’re playing the morally superior European.” The novel ends bleakly: police surround the nursing home, phones are disabled, and Osarobo is deported. Richard’s final reflection—on the drowned refugees and Germany’s ghostly Holocaust victims—links past and present violence, underscored by the title’s refrain: “Go, went, gone.”

Erpenbeck’s novel interrogates visibility, historical guilt, and the limits of compassion. Richard’s arc—from observer to accomplice—mirrors Europe’s moral reckoning with migration. Yet the system’s inertia prevails, leaving refugees in limbo. The book’s power lies in its refusal of easy answers, instead spotlighting the human cost of borders and the fleeting grace of solidarity.