New Lives (25 page)

In my mind I was running through my poems. Which one had made them prick up their ears, which one did they think was the most dangerous? Jock Buddy was resting his hands on the file, it was imposing. How had they got hold of them? What I wanted to say was: “Yes, you're speaking with the author, but I've already thrown that poem out”—because of faulty rhythms and rhymes. Only recently I had run across Mayakovsky's
A Drop of Tar,
a slim volume put out by Insel, in which he describes the construction of his poems—highly recommended reading. Mayakovsky, who would take his own life, writes a poem upbraiding Yessenin for committing suicide. Yes, I planned to use Mayakovsky to lead our Checka agents around by the nose.

The bell rang for a change of class, then rang again for class to begin, and I still didn't understand the point of their questions about my family, especially about relatives in the West. Yes, we were planning to fly to Budapest. If they wanted to chat—please, I had time. This was getting me out of chemistry and Russian both. Jock Buddy and I were now engaged in a smiling contest. When he asked for his next cup of coffee, he also ordered a glass of seltzer for me and offered me a cigarette—then immediately pretended he had forgotten I was just a student.

I was expecting a nasty turn of events at any moment. I was curious how they would segue into my poems. My first district poetry seminar had begun with the question, who among those attending were of the opinion that literature must be oppositional.

It had all happened so fast that time.
¹⁴⁹
Now I finally had the chance to correct my mistake. True literature is by its very nature oppositional.

When the bell rang for the last class of the day, Jock Buddy asked why my mother was planning, together with me, with the Enrico Türmer sitting here now in this room, to leave the German Democratic Republic by illegal means. “We merely want to know why. We have more than enough proof that this is the case.”

Rage and shame throttled me, I fought back the tears. So that's what they thought was a direct hit. Rheumy Eyes and Jock Buddy fired their barrage of questions, bang, bang, bang, bang. I got to hear things I had said during class breaks, disparaging remarks about the antifascist protection barrier; Vera was quoted and described as an element hostile to the state; Geronimo was granted the honor of being mentioned several times. Over and over, Geronimo! It was like some curse. Which is why it took me longer than I would have liked to regain command of a firm voice. I don't think that I did in fact stand up, but when I recall that day I can only see myself standing to deliver my speech. We both spoke at the same time. Not in my wildest dreams had I ever thought of leaving this country. For me nothing could be worse than having to abandon it. This was my spot, these were my roots—my family, my school, my home was here. What would I do in the West?

I babbled away like a windup toy, and at some point they fell silent. “I want,” I said, “to become a writer, and as a writer I have no choice but to work where I know my way around, where people live who share my experiences. A person such as myself would never leave a country in which literature is of the utmost importance.” Did they get my threat at all? “What would I do in the West?” I repeated, fully aware that I had succeeded in sounding convincing—except for a missing a word or two: What would I do in the West
now
? was the real question, or
at this point.
But the more I kept on talking, the more I realized that I was slowly running out—if not of rage—then at least of arguments.

I defended Vera, an exceptional talent, who found herself thwarted in her development and self-realization, Vera, who merely offered her candid opinion, which they ought to be happy to hear.

I added several remarks about the social role of literature, before I asked finally asked them what justification they had for this false charge of wanting to flee the republic. And then I heard myself calling their suspicions shameless—shameless, yes, shameless! I couldn't have put it any better. They had to know that there was no rebuke more beloved by the people's pedagogues than: “I'm ashamed for you! I'm ashamed for you all!”
¹⁵⁰

“We're asking the questions here,” Jock Buddy interrupted, smiling yet again. I assumed that his smile came from the fact that he was quoting a well-known phrase, a joke for insiders.

Rheumy Eyes wanted to know why my mother claimed that our trip to Budapest was one awarded her for professional excellence, and whether perhaps she was, without my knowledge, planning to flee the republic. Both of them noticed how I hesitated before I replied. Then we all fell silent, until Jock Buddy gave the principal a nod.

I washed my face in the restroom—my eyes were red from tears—and leaving school, headed straight for the Café Toscana.

As for the Toscana, suffice it to say that I transposed every café scene I ever read to that particular oasis beside the Blue Wonder Bridge (so that even today I could show you the table where young Törless once sat). I populated the café with famous colleagues. Sometimes they called out my name and waved me over. Sometimes they whispered among themselves, uncertain whether the marvelous verses being passed from hand to hand had in fact come from the pen of the young fellow sitting there solitary and pallid over his absinthe. Sometimes I was all by myself. The waitresses probably thought I was a Holy Cross choirboy, one of whose greatest pleasures was to have breakfast there after morning rehearsal. I seldom had to wait for a seat.

That day I was greeted downright rapturously by my famous colleagues. They congratulated me on the courageous speech I had given. Both their reception and the
ragoût fin
did me good. I immediately ordered seconds.

Gradually the scene in the principal's office acquired some good points. After all, I had my first official interrogation behind me. That was as significant as a hundred-page manuscript. Besides which, these guys now knew that they were dealing with a future writer. From now on my response to any questions would be a whispered “Stasi” and silence. Along with my
ragoût fin
I relished the rumors that would soon envelop the whole school, arouse Franziska's admiration, and ultimately find their way to Geronimo.

Vera—she was living with Nadja at the time—tended to me as if I were someone who had been severely injured and walked me home that evening.

My mother not only had a three-and-a-half-hour interrogation behind her, she had also had two gentlemen escort her back to our apartment. The two had insisted on seeing the application of my request, which the school had approved, to be released from classes. There was nothing in it about an award for professional excellence. All the same we were puzzled—my mother had in fact been considering using the phrase to avoid making people envious. Were we being bugged? Were there mics behind the wallpaper? The solution was perfectly banal. The only officer candidate in our class had recently spent the night with us because our apartment was close to the airport. We two represented our class on a committee providing the hoopla for a visiting foreign nabob (whose plane never landed). Evidently the vigilance of my schoolchum had set off the false alarm.

The next day, after each bing-bong that preceded every announcement on the loudspeaker, I expected to hear our names called out. My expectations were in vain.

It was only much later that I realized the real appeal of this involuntary session had lain in the mistake made by State Security. At the time I was almost ashamed of having been interrogated on false suspicions—which is why I never made literary use of the incident.

With warmest greetings,

Your Enrico

PS: Georg has quit. I'm taking over his share of our enterprise. Not one nasty word has been said, general relief on all sides. We're looking for new quarters.

Dear Jo,

Yesterday Jörg presented me as his associate; he spoke in serious tones with unusually long pauses, lending even more weight to his sentences, which always sound as if they're ready to be set in print. Although everything he said was already known, no one dared disrupt the ritual, not with so much as a look of boredom. Marion sat erect, nodding at me as if to say: Courage, Enrico, courage! Ilona pressed her bony knees together and kept smoothing the hem of her plaid miniskirt. She and Fred are evidently especially receptive to orations of this sort and waged a contest to see who could look more dignified. Kurt, Fred's assistant and deliveryman, as well as our film developer and ad hoc photographer—he's a member of a photography club—sat there inert, arms crossed. I've never heard Kurt speak a single complete sentence. Whenever we meet he raises his hand in greeting and answers every question with “Fine” or “Could be better.” For him every job is alike. If you were to ask him to wash windows, he'd immediately find himself a bucket, rag, and newspapers and would not stop until every window sparkled. The Wismut mine had let him go, which left him with just his job as a night porter at the hospital. I don't know if or when he ever sleeps.

We had also asked Pringel, one of our freelancers, to join us. I got to know him in Leipzig, where he put together the house journal,
Air Research Technologies
—he's an impeccable proofreader. Because he's stocky and overweight he can't keep his legs crossed for any length of time, although he seems to think that's important. So he's constantly changing legs, which gives him a strange fidgety look. Pringel's beard keeps growing wilder with each passing day, like a hedge framing a child's face.

Jörg spoke at length about the responsibilities and risks we'll both be sharing. He called on everyone to show discretion in terms of content and numbers, especially now, because next week we'll be leading with the announcement of the hereditary prince's visit.

Jörg will represent us in public, I'll work on in-house issues, and we'll share editorial duties.

Then it was my turn to say a few words. No sooner had I finished than Fred asked just what if anything would be different? He was upset because Jörg doesn't want him to sit in on editorial meetings—but has asked Ilona to.

Although I didn't have to answer any questions, I was glad when the meeting ended.

The baron has invited Jörg, Marion, and us to join him at the Wenzel next week. He pleaded fervently with me not to hide my wife away again this time.

We talked a good while as we sat in his new car—I'm to keep his old one until I can afford to buy my own.
¹⁵¹
He had to admit that he didn't know the rules of the game in the East, but the longer he thought about the fact that half the firm had been as good as foisted off on me, the more he was inclined to look for some attached strings that were dangling so close to our nose we couldn't see them. I told him what I knew—that neither Jörg nor Georg had needed his own ten thousand marks and both had already returned the money to their mothers. Steen's twenty thousand D-marks were news to the baron. The more details I told him, the less believable the whole thing seemed to him.

But be that as it may, he finally said, from now on at any rate I wouldn't be sleeping so soundly. He didn't want to have to reproach himself later, which was why he needed to make clear to me, even at this moment of my greatest happiness, that according to civil code co-owners in a company were fully exposed. “You're liable down to your wife's last blouse, to your son's last pair of pants.” He swore he wasn't implying anything, but I should be prepared for the tricks and treachery of this new world. Sometimes just a roofing tile or a banana peel can lead to a firm's ruin. His motto was: “the limited liability corporation, a GmbH!” He traced the letters on the fogged-up windshield and went on with his lesson. Then he rummaged in the glove compartment and, as a farewell gift, handed me a paperback published by dtv. From long use it opens to the law covering limited liability.

Hugs,

Your Enrico

Dear Nicoletta,

I awoke a little while ago with a strange sense of joy. It was in anticipation of something, and do you know of what? Of now, of this moment, when I can write to you. It's as if you have just sat down beside me. And through you what I tell you takes on its own special color. I share my memories with you and you alone. To whom else should I tell these things?
¹⁵²
And each time I do, I find myself just this side of writing you real love letters. It takes every ounce of will not to. You entered my life, and yet before I could even stretch out my arms to you, you were taken from me again. Without you I feel incomplete, like an amputee.
¹⁵³
And I'm afraid that you will have forgotten it all when we meet again […] and won't even recognize me. To keep from becoming a stranger to you, I shall go on writing.

In October 1980—I was in the twelfth grade—I received a telegram. Geronimo asked if he could spend the night at our place that coming Saturday, and noted his time of arrival. It's not as if I had expected a visit from Geronimo, but I wasn't surprised either.

Geronimo had definitely grown, he was clearly taller than I, his hair fell down over his shoulders and was so greasy it glistened, so that my mother asked if it was raining.

When we sat down to coffee, he polished off our weekend supply of rolls and scraped the last bit of honey from the jar. My mother covered her faux pas with a steady barrage of questions. Each began with “Johann,” as if she were calling on him in class.

After he had eaten his fill, we retreated to my room, about which he had no comment, not a single syllable, in fact he didn't even seem to notice the splendor of my books and pictures (the latter on loan from Vera). I asked who he planned to visit in Dresden—no one except me. Was there a concert or a play he wanted to attend—not that he knew. He answered every question with monosyllables. If I fell silent, he remained mute too. I didn't know what to do with him. My question about where he intended to study theology
¹⁵⁴
arose from the same awkwardness as the rest of my inquiries.