New Lives (82 page)

“You don't have it easy.”

“She's just afraid,” Titus said without turning his head. He had always believed God was gentle and kind, but now he sensed that God could also be stern and demanding.

“There'll be others to help you,” Joachim said. “Everyone I've told about your decision is in awe of you.”

Titus nodded to Dr. Bartmann, who was leaning at the windowsill directly opposite the classroom door and just as they were leaving the dark middle flight had looked up from his newspaper as if expecting them. Dr. Bartmann was always smiling, except when he talked about the future of socialism—then he turned serious. Dr. Bartmann always wore only light-colored clothes, even the stripes on his shirts were somehow pallid.

“Well, sports fans,” he cried. Then the bell rang, and Dr. Bartmann folded up his newspaper.

There was something nonchalant about Dr. Bartmann's “friendship.” If someone offered too feeble an answer, he would content himself with mimicking it while drooping his shoulders and bending slightly at the knee, as if on the verge of collapse.

“Is there anything new in the epoch of the transition between capitalism and socialism?” Dr. Bartmann hiked up his trousers, until his belt buckle reached the point where his belly stuck out farthest. “The score, nine to nothing, a whole long day of hoping, and out of the running all the same. And what does our local paper have to say?” Just then the door opened, and Martina Bachmann entered carrying the grade book.

“‘I love discipline,'” Dr. Bartmann declared, “‘though I'm famous for not loving it.' Well, Mademoiselle Bachmann, who said that?”

She laid the grade book on the teacher's desk and without pushing her chair back squeezed into her seat.

“Yevgeny Yevtushenko!” Dr. Bartmann declared. “Haven't read it? ‘Soviet Writers on Literature'?” He pulled a narrow newspaper column from his open briefcase and held it up: “Communism cannot be complete without Pushkin, without the murdered poet and without his successor who perhaps has not been born yet. Great poetry is an inalienable part of Communism. Andrei Platonov—and those to whom that name means nothing, should now take note of him.”

With the flat of his hand Dr. Bartmann smoothed the column on the open grade book as if it were proof of something and reached again for the newspaper. “‘…which hurled the Turks (including those in the stands) into the abyss of being resigned to their fate.'” And then: “‘The GDR soccer fan staring at the TV screen found himself in the extraordinary, uncomfortable situation of crossing his fingers for the Turks…'”

“Show me,” Joachim whispered again. Titus stacked his civics book, report notebook, homework notebook, and pen holder on the desk.

“‘…the same team that in November 1976 had robbed us in Dresden of that single point that many a fan still mourns, as if it were the cause of all the soccer woes that became a constant companion in the months following and that are the reason why we aren't in Argentina now. Even though on October 29,
1977,
things didn't look so awfully bad after our team had pulled it off in Babelsberg, beating the underdog Malta by the same score of 9 to 0, which, when the Austrians managed it, had practically landed them in the realm of unique achievement. I admit…'”

Titus slid the notebook with his three-page report across the desk.

“‘…and tip our caps to our teams for having masterfully passed this test of nerves. But great exceptions are in fact exceptions…Over the long haul, the ball doesn't roll along unpredictable paths leading to good or bad fortune. And so he who does not succeed has the duty of asking himself where he has failed or done the right thing. This question will certainly preoccupy the public and those in positions of responsibility in the days and weeks ahead. And one hopes that this will mean that as they stand before the portals of new, great, complex…'”

“Balance of terror,” Joachim hissed through the left corner of his mouth.

“‘…cannot yet expect this of our top teams as the second half of the season leading to the Europe Cup begins the day after tomorrow. But let us arm ourselves…'”

“…It's just pure claptrap!”

“‘…to revitalize ourselves! There's hardly much else left for us at this point.'”

Dr. Bartmann lowered the newspaper. On Wednesday Dynamo would have to defeat Liverpool by at least 4 to 0 to make up for its
5-
to-1 defeat earlier in the season. “I wish,” Bartmann said, turning the page, “all our problems would be discussed the way Jens Peter writes about soccer. Starting with what he has to say about the Turks…” Dr. Bartmann gave a laugh, “…the abyss of resigning themselves and such—I tipped my cap right then and, then, my ballpoint started twitching. And then he goes on to call a spade a spade.”

Titus watched Joachim fill the margins with questions and exclamation points.

Dr. Bartmann often wrote to
Neues Deutschland
or the
Sächsische Zeitung.
Before the autumn break he had read them aloud a letter in which he had asked how the editors of
Neues Deutschland
could use nicknames when writing about a president of the United States. If they had to use first names—although “Carter” or “President Carter” would be quite sufficient—the correct form was James Earl, not Jimmy. For what could be the reason for using the name Jimmy for a man who represents the most aggressive circles of imperialism and threatens humanity with the most perfidious weapon ever developed, who himself calls the neutron bomb a “fair” bomb? Dr. Bartmann also explained to them why they should use the term German Democratic Republic and not simply GDR. In his class from now on he wanted to hear only the terms German Democratic Republic and FRG.

Titus saw Joachim write “nonsense” in the margin of his report.

Then it was time for the chronicle of the day.

Titus tugged at his notebook, dragging it back along with Joachim's elbow. But Titus had to write now, ten catchwords needed to be added to his notebook.

“Disclosure in New York—with the help of Western countries Israel began developing nuclear weapons over twenty years ago. A crucial role was played by Israeli agents who had acquired fissionable materials from nuclear facilities in the USA. Others involved in these transfers besides the USA included the FRG and France.”

“Right,” Dr. Bartmann said, “but too long.”

“Greed knows no morality. More than 350 corporations in the USA, along with 500 British companies and 400 from the FRG have established offices in South Africa. A quarter of the moneys invested in South Africa comes from abroad.”

“Very good. But let's have some new news.”

“In Italy mass protests are steadily increasing against the plans of the USA to produce a neutron bomb. On Tuesday thousands of Rome's residents marched in the capital to protest this planned aggressive move, which in terms of world peace would…”

“And so on and so forth,” Dr. Bartmann exclaimed.

“New wave of rent increases in the FRG. Because of rising construction costs of up to 20 percent rents had to be…”

“Something else, something else!”

“More bank robberies in the FRG.”

“No!”

“An
8,000-
ton freighter has been named in honor of Vasili Shukshin…”

“Nyet, nyet, nyet.”
Dr. Bartmann accepted the impressive strikes in Italy, but rejected torture in Belfast, a new phase of rocket construction in the FRG, the temporary weapons embargo against South Africa, and the poison bomb developed by the U.S. Navy.

It wasn't until the world reaction to the Panama Canal Treaty that Dr. Bartmann nodded and turned around briefly as if checking how many seats were left until Joachim, who the last time had suggested “Record number of visitors for Stolpen Castle”—for which Dr. Bartmann had demanded he supply his reasons. And Joachim had given a brief excursus on historical consciousness and how it shouldn't always be limited to the most recent past, but requires experiences from all epochs, and Dr. Bartmann had let the visitors' record be included.

It wasn't clear who Dr. Bartmann had pointed to; at any rate Joachim said, “Andreas Baader, Gudrun Ensslin, and Jan-Carl Raspe were buried on Thursday, October 27th, in Stuttgart's Dornhalder Cemetery.”

Dr. Bartmann smiled. “We covered that topic last week. Is this really so important?” Dr. Bartmann recalled that Lenin had said that the radical Left was the children's disease of communism and did great damage to the cause of the proletariat.

Instead of calling on Titus, Dr. Bartmann was now nodding at Peter Ullrich, who sat at the desk in front of them. Tears welled up in Titus's eyes. He would have loved to have broken into sobs.

Peter Ullrich talked about the underground explosions in Nevada and Great Britain's antitank rockets. It was absurd to break into tears just because Bartmann had passed him over. How could he ever make a decision if he was a wimpy crybaby?

He was afraid of what would happen during the next break, the five minutes until Russian class began. He had said what he wanted to say. If Joachim didn't understand, if he still believed he would listen to him instead of his mother…

“First,” Dr. Bartmann dictated, “an electronic computer of the EC 1040 series was presented to Havana by Robotron Kombinat. KOSMOS 962 was launched. Second, recruitment of Egyptian scientists by the USA and the states of Western Europe has reached dangerous levels. Seventy percent of such students don't return home.”

There were twenty minutes left for regular instruction.

         

[Letter of June 28, 1990]

Titus opened his notebook at the front and jotted down the date for the second time: Oct. 31, 1977.

Dr. Bartmann wrote 9.1.2. on the blackboard. The nature of cap. society. 9.1.2.1. The nature of cap. exploitation. Followed by two columns, capitalists on the left, the working class on the right.

From there on it was all a matter of who held up his hand. If no one did, Dr. Bartmann provided the answer himself. Joachim's shorthand was so good that he not only kept pace with Bartmann, but even got ahead of him at the end of every passage.

“The goal of capitalist production is the achievement of the highest possible surplus value, that is, profit, by intensified exploitation.” A box with the words “appropriated profit,” from which two arrows extended right and left. Left: personal use/luxuries; to the right: capital for buying new machinery to constantly generate more surplus value.

“At the risk of his own ruin,” Dr. Bartmann declared, “every capitalist is forced to modernize production and do battle with other capitalists. This competitive struggle results in constantly intensified exploitation.”

Dr. Bartmann dictated quickly, but as soon as a hand was raised, he would repeat the second half of the sentence. “…constantly intensified exploitation. That is the brutal law of capitalism. That brutality results in a) the continued expansion and contraction of the powers of production, b) increased exploitation and destruction of large segments of the peasantry and capitalist entrepreneurs themselves, c) a battle for markets and raw materials, open parenthesis, wars, neocolonialism, close parenthesis.”

Dr. Bartmann erased the box of appropriated profit. “That leads to 9.1.2.3. The fundamental contradiction of capitalism, new line, quotation marks: The bourgeoisie has, dot, dot, dot, created more massive and colossal productive forces than all preceding generations, period, end quotation, open parenthesis, Marx, Engels,
Manifesto,
close parenthesis. And now don't write this because it's from our next class and merely for you to mull over.” And then Dr. Bartmann wrote on the blackboard without comment: “The contradiction between the soc. nature of production and the priv. appropriation of cap. is the fundamental contradiction of capitalism.”

He stepped to one side of the blackboard, pointed with an open hand at what he had written, and said, “This is the source of the antagonistic class dichotomy between the working class and the bourgeoisie.” He shouted over the sound of the bell, “The upshot of which is the abolition of capitalist conditions of production—friends, one and all!”

The first students to look up returned the greeting mutedly, as if talking to themselves.

Dr. Bartmann jotted something in the grade book, buried the newspaper clipping in his briefcase, closing it with a click.

“I have a funny feeling,” Joachim said, standing beside their desk, waiting, “a very funny feeling.”

Titus packed up his things. But when he looked at Joachim he realized that their friendship had only a few hours left. Joachim would say that you can't wash your hands in innocence and that one must be prepared to leave Father and Mother.

Joachim talked as they descended the stairs, went on talking even after they had taken their seats in Russian class, so that Titus had not yet unpacked his stuff when the toxic blonde, as Joachim called Frau Berlin, appeared at the door.

The toxic blonde took her time. The longer the “hullabaloo” and “ruckus” lasted, the more relentless she would be in the hour ahead.

“Zdrastvuitye!”
the toxic blonde announced, and the class responded in chorus:
Zdrastvuitye!
They stood there immobilized, no one resumed their seat. The toxic blonde gave them a wink. “
Khorosho, zadityes, poshaluista,
and who was it said you can teach a young dog new tricks.
Vot!
” And after a brief pause while she opened the grade book, she addressed them desk by desk.
“Vy gotovy? Vy gotovy? Vy gotovy?”
Each time she let her chin drop for a second, wagging her head and blinking like a simpleton. Titus had nodded as her gaze shifted in his direction. He thought she had asked him if he was ready for the lesson. But when she followed up with,
“Kto khotchet?”
he felt flushed.