New Lives (83 page)

“Uh-oh,” Titus whispered, “we forgot about the dialogue.”

Peter Ullrich and his benchmate began to reel off the memorized exchange. Joachim shrugged. Of course it was beneath his dignity to have prepared for this. A dialogue was something for students who, like Titus, had already been given a D.

The class laughed. Peter Ullrich was good in Russian; he had spent a few months in Leningrad and liked to show off his cooing pronunciation.

“I'll start it,” Joachim whispered. And even if he started a hundred times, it wouldn't help him, Titus, one bit. Excuses didn't count unless you offered them up front.

The toxic blonde asked questions and Titus tried to take note of Peter Ullrich's answers. Peter Ullrich was awarded a
“yedinitsa,”
his third, as the toxic blonde herself remarked in surprise, but that was only befitting an officer's candidate. His benchmate likewise received a
yedinitsa
—it was her way of honoring spontaneity, the toxic blonde remarked.

Martina Bachmann at the desk in front of them raised her hand, and the toxic blonde cried, “Behold, a miracle!” Titus was grateful, because there was now a only slim chance they would be called on. Martina Bachmann wanted to explain why she hadn't been able to prepare the lesson. “Am I supposed to swallow that?” the toxic blonde interrupted.

Titus was hoping she wouldn't allow the excuse and test Martina Bachmann anyway. But the toxic blonde turned away when two students in the second row raised their hands, to which she responded with a “You too?” But they wanted to take their turn and kept up the dialogue so long that the toxic blonde sat down on her desk, crossing her arms, smiling with satisfaction. And when they were finished, she didn't ask them any questions, gave them both an A in the grade book.

That left only his row. Titus didn't know where he should look, and felt how little the last class of the day and his report mattered, if only he could survive this hour in one piece. Then he heard a name, not his and not Joachim's. The toxic blonde had called on Mario, because she thought she would be doing her Mario a favor. Mario shook his head. “I'd rather wait till next time,” he said. The toxic blonde smiled. “What a shame,” she said. “It's still very easy at this point, I'll expect more the next time.” She called on Sabine, and Sabine immediately began, and the Sabine sitting beside her responded, and so it went back and forth between the two Sabines. Each row had now had its victims, and Titus thought he knew what the toxic blonde would say in conclusion: Close the mouths and open the books. Of course she'd say it in Russian.

“Chto?”
the toxic blonde squealed.
“Chto?”
Peter Ullrich and a few others laughed. After the next sentence by Sabine number one, Joachim laughed too. Sabine number two replied. The toxic blonde had jumped to her feet. Sabine number one was blushing and attempted a smile.
“Chto?”
the toxic blonde squealed after the next sentence as well.

By the time Titus finally realized that Sabine and Sabine had skipped a line in their memorized text and been exchanging nonsense, Sabine number two was crying. The toxic blonde damned them both to a D, but with the possibility of improving their grades the next time. Now Sabine number one likewise broke into tears.

“Let's go,” the toxic blonde said, giving Joachim a nod.

Titus saw Joachim shrug and heard him say,
“Khorosho.”
And then he pretended to lift something up onto his desk, reached for an invisible telephone receiver, and moved his finger in circles. He dialed, and when he was finished, leaned back. Titus felt sick to his stomach. Joachim went, “Ring ring.” Titus pretended to pick up a receiver too, someone laughed. Titus waited a moment, then he said,
“Allo?”
It was in God's hands now.

“Zdes' govorit, Joachim, zdrastvuitye!”

“Zdes' govorit, Titus, zdrastvuitye.”
With his right hand to his ear, Titus propped his elbows on the desk and stared down at the surface.

“Fsyo khorosho?”

“Fsyo khorosho,”
Titus repeated.

“Ya khotchu priglasit tebya…”
The rest was unintelligible.

“Oh, spasibo,”
Titus said, and then a word came to mind that he had never spoken before.
“Otlitchno!”
he boomed into the receiver. It came to his lips so perfectly naturally that he repeated it.
“Otlitchno!”

The toxic blonde erupted in a sharp squeak.

Titus didn't understand Joachim's answer, but he hadn't heard a time of day, and so he simply asked:
“A kogda?”

Joachim made several suggestions and ended with the question:
“Eto udobno?”

Titus repeated the words without knowing what they meant:
“Da, eto udobno.”

Joachim went on talking. When it was Titus's turn again he simply said:
“Ponimayu. A chto ty khotchesh?”
That always worked.

“Chto ty khotchu?”
Joachim asked.

“Da,”
Titus quickly replied.

Joachim talked about books, records, theater, and said something about soccer too, which once again evoked laughter.

“Muy idyom f teatr,”
Titus replied, as if it were up to him to straighten things out.

Joachim followed with another long sentence Titus didn't understand. Titus stuck to his guns:
“Muy idyom f teatr.”
Joachim pretended to be upset. Evidently he didn't want to go to the theater. Titus could sense people around him getting ready to laugh.

“Kak ty khotchesh. A ja khotchu kushat tort.”

Joachim had to wait a moment for the class to settle down.
“Do zvidaniya,”
Joachim said.

“Fso khorosho?”

“Fso khorosho,”
Joachim declared.

“Spasibo,”
Titus said.
“Do zvidaniya.”

They both put their imaginary receivers down at the same time. The toxic blonde said,
“Otlitchno”
and
“spasibo”
and sat back down on her desk. She pointed out two mistakes Joachim had made, praised him for the liveliness of the conversation, and said, giving Titus a wink, that with a little effort one can achieve one's ends even with somewhat limited means. She even said something about acting talent and noted Titus's poker face. As she entered the grades in the grade book her hand made the same motion twice.

What a wretched little creature he was, looking for salvation in a grade, a good grade in Russian. He had pleaded with God for that? And Joachim, to whom he had lied, to whom he had not yet admitted that he would read the report—that same Joachim had just rescued him. Wasn't that a sign? An unexpected turn of events that he wouldn't have dreamt of in his wildest dreams? Wouldn't God, if He were on his side, have led him just as He had now? Wasn't Joachim his best model? Didn't he want to be like him?

Titus stared at the new vocabulary words they were drilling in chorus. He joined in, but they were meaningless sounds and syllables.

For a moment he dared the thought that, as a reward for his own honesty, God would favor him with abilities like Joachim's. Couldn't he decide all on his own to do what needed to be done?

“Poker face,” Joachim whispered when the bell rang. Titus liked hearing the words “poker face” coming from Joachim.

         

and went “Ring ring.” In that same moment Titus felt something icy brush up against him, curdling his blood.

“Ring ring,” Joachim went for the second time. Why was he dragging him into this? Titus pretended to pick up a receiver too.
“Allo?”
He didn't know whether the class was laughing at their act or because his voice sounded so pitiful.
“Zdes' govorit Titus, zdrastvuitye.”
Titus propped his elbow on the desk, pressed his knuckles to his right cheekbone. He stared at Martina Bachmann's back, at the spot where her hair almost touched the back of her chair.

“Fso khorosho?”

“Fso khorosho,”
Titus repeated.

“Ya khotchu priglasit tebya…”
Titus hoped it would all be over soon.

“Spasibo,”
Titus replied.

Joachim strung sentence after sentence together. Pirouettes, Titus thought. The last of them a question. Titus nodded. He wanted to show: I know, it's my turn now. He had even understood the question. But he couldn't make it work that fast. He wanted to say that of course he accepted the invitation and wanted quickly to finish his homework so he could help Joachim get things ready for the party. He wanted to ask who else was invited besides him and if he should bring anything and whether Joachim had any definite wishes as to his birthday present.

Joachim said:
“Nu?”
and started over again. There was a few laughs. Titus said,
“Da.”

Joachim went on chitchatting. Titus managed one more
“Spasibo.”
It made no difference whether he spoke or not. Titus could feel his own hand on his cheek, he could even see himself. Joachim whispered something, but since no one else was speaking they all heard it too. He wasn't going to repeat it. His pride wouldn't let him. Titus heard his shoe tapping the floor.

Joachim talked about books, records, theater, and even mentioned something about soccer. Titus didn't want to say anything more. She should just give him his F and leave him in peace. Her nickname shouldn't be Toxic Blonde, but Band Saw, she had a voice like a band saw. Joachim fell silent.

When the toxic blonde demanded he look her in the eye—those little eyes—he raised his head. He didn't care what was coming from her blurry mouth. “I forgot,” he said, only making things worse. Compared to him Martina Bachmann was a hero.

He had had better things to do than memorize this bilge, which he would never use anyway.

Titus saw himself in the bright world where he had lingered yesterday, a world with no place for a toxic blonde.

All the same Titus was surprised when she did in fact give him an F. Why was she still picking on him? You don't kick someone when they're down, he thought. But of course she wouldn't know that. What was he supposed to apologize for? He had forgotten, and for that he'd got his F. He said not a word. The toxic blonde flung her silver ballpoint across the desk, sending it bouncing off somewhere. Someone picked the pen up and brought it forward to her. She didn't say thanks. They opened their books.

How could he have imagined he would get away with it? From one moment to the next he forgot the weekend as if it were a dream. He wouldn't be allowed to stay in school with a D in Russian on his next report card. So graduation was out of the question now. Would God give him a second chance?

It wasn't that he just hadn't studied, he had been wrestling with other problems, with essential questions. Had all that been meaningless?

He was convinced he had deserved this chastisement, as a reminder of what his real intentions were.

The Almighty, Titus thought, can use even someone like the toxic blonde as his instrument.

When the bell rang Titus was afraid the toxic blonde would ask to talk with him. But she paid him no attention. He walked across the courtyard to the other building. The fresh air did him good. He took up a position at the open window in the math room, his knee resting on the radiator. He waited for the warmth to find its way through the fabric.

Titus hoped Petersen would call on him now and not wait until the last class. Petersen began by repeating the story problems to be solved. “Write this down,” he said, and let his right forefinger dive headfirst into the void. “A freight train is transporting 730 tons of brown coal briquettes in 38 cars. Some cars carry a load of 15 tons, others of 20. How many of each kind of car are there? Second…” Titus heard whispers, could sense the fear that Petersen might spring a pop quiz on them. Instead Petersen let his forefinger make another dive and repeated, “Second. A tank of the National People's Army has traveled 230 kilometers. There are now still 40 liters left in what had been a full tank of fuel. If it could limit its fuel usage to 15 liters per 100 kilometers, the tank would have a deployment radius of 270 kilometers. How large is its fuel tank? How much fuel was used per 100 kilometers? Third! A reconnaissance plane of the NPA…” Titus wrote it down. He could do these kinds of problems. Petersen had to leave the classroom for twenty minutes. Peter Ullrich was assigned to keep order.

And the quiet held even after Petersen left the room.

Joachim was done in ten minutes. Titus just in time for Petersen's return.

“I assume,” Petersen exclaimed at the door, “that you've already compared solutions. Were there any difficulties?”

No one responded.

His mouth half open, Petersen looked around the room, raised his arm, and asked again, “No difficulties?” and nodded several times in approval. He looked for a good piece of chalk and wrote on the blackboard: “Equations with more than two variables.”

Titus began a new page and underlined the title twice. Petersen said he wouldn't spend a lot of time on this, because anyone who knew how to solve equations—and they had just been able to test themselves on that—would have no problems with this. It was only a matter of expanding the framework for setting up the equation. The process was based on a step-by-step reduction of the number of variables one by one.

Five minutes later Petersen put equations on the blackboard and transformed the first one. Titus quickly caught on to how the equation was set up.

It wasn't long before Petersen tossed the chalk onto his desk, stepped up beside the blackboard, and shoved his glasses back into place. Anyone looking skeptically at the equations was in danger of being called to the front.

         

[Letter of July 4, 1990]

Evidently all it took was mastering a specific principle. Everything else proceeded from that. Titus was amazed that such a long row of numbers could be no mystery.