Hooligan

  “What ya got there?” he asked me, and I held up the apple Mom had pressed in my hand. He took it and threw it away and said I wouldn’t need that, and that there’d be real food in the stadium, and he and my dad grabbed me by the hands and swung me back and forth. The streets were full of other men. Men like us. And all of them were walking in the same directions and clapping their hands and singing something about an old love. Many of them were wearing red and green scarves or had 96 jerseys on. Just a handful of men were wearing denim vests with frayed armholes instead of sleeves like my dad was, and these other men’s vests were also covered with patches like medals on a veteran’s parade uniform.

  After we’d walked through the big gates at the bottom of Niedersachsen Stadium, my uncle bought me a hotdog and a Coke. Just for me. The bottle was ice-cold and wet, and I had to be careful it didn’t slip through my fingers. I was hardly ever allowed to drink Coke at home. And never when we were at Grandma and Grandpa’s. Grandma always said it’d give you black feet like a Negro and I wouldn’t want that, but I didn’t understand what was so bad about that. What I would have liked most of all was if we’d go to Grandma’s after the game, when I’d drunk the big Coke all alone. Then I would have proudly marched into her sitting room and taken off my socks and shown her my black feet, and I would have run off, laughing.

  I was so busy drinking that I’d just taken one bite of the hotdog poking out of the roll like a fat, brown worm. But my dad was pulling me farther because the game was about to begin. I wanted to start whining because he’d grabbed me so roughly by the upper arm, but Uncle Axel rubbed my head with his hand. It seemed as big as an umbrella. He winked at me and took the Coke off my hands so I could eat in peace, and all together we went into the stadium. We were down at the bottom of the stands. Close to the fence separating us from the field, and my uncle had to put me on his shoulders for me to see anything. Dad was busy yelling at the official that it’d clearly been a foul, but I thought the whistle was blown ages ago and a free kick given. The Reds, that was our team. Hannover. And the Blues, from Meppen, our opponents. The free kick went in the direction of their goal, and all of the players had gathered in the box and were pushing each other and then the ball came and bounced through the rows and was headed here and there. Till it fell at the feet of the Reds’ number 5. He swiveled with the ball on his foot and shot. I jumped in shock because the completely filled stands behind us let out an ear-splitting yell, and I hopped up and down on my uncle’s shoulders, and my Dad bellowed his head off and screamed, “Yeah, Wojcicki! He plays till all their backs are against the wall!”

  That stuck in my memory. That strange, magical name that sounded like something from another planet. I tried to silently form the name with my lips: Woit-chiky. Woy-chikki. I was so stuck on that name that I kept on getting on my uncle’s and dad’s nerves, asking when number 5 would get the ball again, and if he’d score another goal, and sometimes they found time for a curt answer between the yelling and thrusting their fists in the air and the beer drinking. But I just wanted to have them pronounce his name again. And again. Till I’d have the courage to say it right, because at some point I had the feeling that it’d lose its magic if I mispronounced it.

  It took a while till the flaring celebration died down in our section. I’d joined in at some point and also called out “96!” but then the game and all the spectators above had calmed down, when a deep voice like a bass drum said, “Axel, you old salamander.” Axel turned around fast, and I whipped around too because I was sitting on his spacious but hard shoulders. A giant stood in front of us. He was even bigger than my uncle, and though Uncle Axel and I were standing on a step, the two of us just barely came up to the level of the giant. He had very dark, bushy eyebrows. Like thick building blocks. And a bald head that was a little pointy. This was accompanied by a puffy bomber jacket whose orange was so bright it almost pierced my eyes. Axel took me off his shoulders and told me I should go to my father. He was sitting in the row below us and trying to keep up with the rhythmic clapping of the other fans.

  “Damn toothbrush,” my dad said and held me tight, pointing up at the floodlight pole that had just gone out.

  But it was still bright enough that the game went on without it. And I anyway, I was much more interested in the scary, bright giant, and I kept secretly turning around to see him while my dad talked about the terrible electrical system and the like. Uncle Axel and the giant stood next to each other like two towers of a knight’s castle and looked into the distance and whispered something to each other, and even though I was a real man now because I was allowed into the stadium, I noticed that there was something beyond that, and the two of them were sharing a very special grown-up-man experience. They pointed their fingers straight over the field to the other end of the stadium, where tiny fans in blue could be seen. And when one of them pointed, the other nodded, and vice versa, and I really would’ve liked to know what it was about and wanted for them to let me in on their manly secrets. But the orange giant also sent a shiver up my spine, so I turned back around to Dad, and because I didn’t want to seem like I hadn’t been listening, I wanted to ask something. I don’t remember what. Something about why toothbrushes, because I couldn’t make the connection yet that a pole mounted with floodlights sometimes looks like a toothbrush. But my dad had turned around too and was looking at his big brother and his giant buddy, and his mouth moved slightly, as if he wanted to say something. Then he reached for his beer and spilled some on my shoes, but I didn’t say anything, that kind of thing happened among men. Sometimes beer gets spilled. And Dad took a sip and the suds stuck to his mustache and popped in tiny bubbles, and he wiped his sleeve over his mouth and called out, “Hey there, Dirk!”

  But he didn’t get a reaction, so he called out again, this time just a little louder, and my uncle and the orange giant interrupted their secret exchange and looked down at us, and the giant nodded briefly but didn’t smile friendly, and then they continued whispering. Mom had tried to teach me that you should always have a friendly greeting, but when you’re that big, I thought, then you didn’t have to follow the rule. My dad turned back around and drained his beer in a long gulp. And then he looked at me and said, “Well, Heiko,” draping his arm around my shoulder and pulling me tighter, making me smell a little of armpit. “Wait a sec,” he said and pulled off his vest. He briefly held it in his arms like a baby, and then he swung it over my head and all I had to do was slip my arms through the holes. He looked at me and grinned, and then he said, “Yeah, Heiko. 96.” He pointed to the logo on my chest, “Sure is something.”

  ———

  The fields behind Wunstorf go blurry under opaque patches of fog, becoming a watery gray soup. The surrounding villages no longer seemed to exist. I roll down the driver’s side window, and my whole arm thanks me with a stabbing pain that vibrates down to the tips of my nerves. Only now, as the cold places a stranglehold over my neck and cheeks, do I realize I’m about to bounce over the frozen path to Arnim’s house, and every little bump pushes into my spine.

  The pickup in the driveway hasn’t moved an inch. Its windows, and those of the house, are covered with frost. Through the holes in the trees, only gray can be seen. The world has become still and smells of practically nothing. The bell rings when I open the front door. I jump, scare myself so bad a pinching pain shoots through the top of my skull. Nothing has changed, aside from the spiderwebs that have spread across the ravaged living room landscape and on which single little drops of condensation hang. It’s musty and damp in here. I climb the stairs. The creak of the steps echoes through the whole house. I feel dizzy. For days now. Maybe because I’ve been eating too little, hardly drinking. That’s why I support myself against the doorframe in front of Siegfried’s room and listen. Nothing. Something goes through my arm, wants to press the handle, but I don’t give in. Don’t want to know what or if I’ll find anything inside. I stagger into my old room instead. I put down my backpack, though I’d forgott
en till now I was even carrying it, and let it slip down in front of me on the wooden floors. Was it on my back the whole ride? No clue. Doesn’t matter. My stuff is spread across the room in the usual chaos. I crawl through it on my knees. Layers of dust stick to my pants legs. I reach around randomly, grabbing clothes semi-intentionally that I want to take along and stuff them into the backpack. Then I push my mattress to the side and pry up a loose piece of wood flooring in the corner. Underneath is a bundle of bills I’ve set aside for emergencies. It’s not much, but it’s enough for a while. I could have taken it along last time, but I was in a trance and just wanted to get away after what I’d discovered and what I did. In the end, I take my decrepit laptop and cable and cram them between the stuff in the backpack. That’s everything I wanted to take care of here.

  When I turn around one last time in the front doorway, I see Arnim’s gun lying on the kitchen table. That’s enough for me. I don’t go back into the kitchen, don’t cast a final gaze into the yard. There’s nothing left for me here. I have an unpleasant feeling of pressure on my ears. It’ll get better when I’m finally gone, far away. I’m sure of that. I’m about to pull open the front door when I hear a muffled clatter. Just once. It came from upstairs. I don’t move. The door handle is ice cold under my bruised, still-injured fingers. There’s nothing for a moment. I already think I misheard, but then there’s another sound. I can hear it clearly through the thin wooden ceiling. The unmistakable beating of wings. Rustling feathers.

  The pack I’d tossed onto the backseat of my car falls down into the footwell behind the passenger seat. When I drive out of the woods, the fog has lifted slightly and is now at the level of the treetops. For the last time, I drive the track to the road at walking speed. My head is a little lighter. I let my gaze scan through the windshield. From left to right. The gray boxes of the industrial area behind the fields seem almost brilliantly white. All at once, I whip my head back around to the left because something was in the corner of my eye. I stomp on the brakes and come to a stop halfway there, in the middle of the fields. Without looking, I turn off the ignition and the VW’s motor dies under my gaze in the middle distance. I awkwardly unwrap myself out of the seat belt, finding the release button with my hand. Don’t want to lose the white point that’s moving quickly over the fields. I get out. Don’t blink. My eyeballs start to burn. I blink briefly. Testing. But the white point is still there and shoots straight over the fields toward me. It’s not a white point anymore, either. But rather a body carried on four muscular legs and a massive head with a nearly square muzzle and pointy cropped ears.

  Poborsky abruptly comes to a stop a couple yards from the car. His wide tongue hangs out the side of his jowls. Slobber drips from it. We look at each other. He barks a couple times, rearing up. I walk along the car, not letting him slip from my gaze. His jowls twitch in front, so I can see his teeth. He growls. I freeze next to the trunk. Then he’s quiet again. Just looks at me. Turns his head. His fur is dirty. Dried mud clings to the white. He takes a couple steps toward me and the hatchback, then pauses. I don’t move. Just watch. He continues. With swinging steps. Then he makes a leap and jumps into the car. I bend over and look through the angled rear window inside the car. He carefully moves over the middle console to the passenger side. I continue staring. He’s just sitting there and looks out the window. His warm breath makes the window fog over. I approach the driver-side door a pace away from the car so I can keep an eye on him. No reaction. I get in. No reaction. I close the door. Nothing. Hand on the ignition. I start the car. Poborsky looks out the window. There’s a warmth exuded by his body, which has become skinnier. I put it into first gear. We drive off. We’re almost on the county road, almost have asphalt under our wheels, when he turns his head to me. His nose is sandy from digging. He follows my hand as it goes to the stick shift, into second gear, and back to the steering wheel. Then he looks into my eyes. He pants. I think when dogs pant it looks like they’re smiling. We look at each other for a moment. Then he turns away and looks out the window. We turn onto the road.

  I would like to offer thanks. To Kathi for so much in so few years. To my grandparents. My entire family. My friends (now we're even, Laura). To Valentin and Elisabeth and the ERA team. To Tom and the people at Aufbau. To Mr. Gleitze and Mr. Watermann. To all those who supported me, whether while I was working on the book or before.