by Uwe Tellkamp
Be at home, not ‘make yourself at home’, Meno had always found that simple greeting moving; he felt slightly ashamed at having to take the roses out of his coat in such an unceremonious manner since he’d forgotten to unwrap them before ringing the bell – and since he wanted to conceal how moved he was, he held out the budding Maréchal Niels to Irmtraud, who had his hat and gloves in her hands, with an awkward firmness that was nothing other than embarrassment, which he had never managed entirely to shed at the Londoners’. Jochen knew that. Meno took his time fiddling with his shoelaces, drips or dirt from the streets made Irmtraud furious. At his first visit, to be introduced as Hanna’s ‘boyfriend’, before which he had given himself Dutch courage with three miniatures of bitters from Lange’s stock, the ‘old connoisseur of life’ (as the ‘Herr Professor’ that Jochen Londoner had been for Meno at that time put it with an understanding nod and ironically crossed fingers) had not found anything to dispel his embarrassment: neither a tour of his personal library, taking down first editions of Kant and signed copies of Brecht and leafing through them at length, nor the table loaded with delicacies, the celebrated scholar’s markedly homely attire of cardigan and tartan slippers or his amiable questions, going into detail and offering a wide range of interests. On the contrary, the wealth (both material and intellectual) of the Londoner household had intimidated Meno even more and Londoner could well have sensed that, for on future occasions he changed his ‘tactics’, as he said: since then it was Irmtraud who greeted him with ‘be at home’ and called him ‘Menodear’ or ‘my dear’, which for a long time he assumed was a bizarre term of affection, softened in the Saxon manner, until he saw it at the beginning of a letter and realized she was speaking English.
But he recognized the bat-cap on the clothes stand, and listened for what was being said in the living room instead of to Irmtraud singing the praises of the roses, and since it was what he expected to hear, it wasn’t long before it came: Judith Schevola’s gravelly laugh. Philipp was showing off, Meno heard that as well; Irmtraud now, with a mute and conspiratorial gesture to the stairs down to the basement kitchen, left him to his own devices. A brief, warm greeting, a gesture of invitation and then the guest could, if he was a friend of the family, spend the time until the official part of the invitation (the beginning of which was announced by a dinner gong or a little bell, such as the chairman of the television Professors’ Forum, of which Londoner was a member, rang) doing as he liked: sit in the wing chair in the living room and browse through one of the magazines set out there (among them Literaturnaya gazeta and the Times Literary Supplement), leaf through the books or, if there were two of you, play a game of ice hockey on the slot machine in a niche in the basement; there was always a supply of ten-pfennig pieces there; if you put one in you could use a wheel to make the red or blue lead figures, with sticks that had been bent by the steel ball, revolve. You could also go home again, as Eschschloraque had once done: immersed in a book-covered wall on the stairs up to Londoner’s sanctum (‘The Haunted Chamber’ it said in English and in cursive letters on an oval pottery sign), the dramatist had been gripped by a scene, glassy-eyed and waving his arms about (Meno had quickly put a pencil in his hand) he had drifted down to the little telephone table, where, without success and ever more desperate, he searched for a sheet of paper (he didn’t find one; there were printed sheets of paper by the million in the Londoner residence, blank ones the old man stored in the ‘Haunted Chamber’ and kept a strict watch over where they were left; do not leave anything handwritten lying around in the house, no addresses, no notes that might be misunderstood – a maxim from the time when he’d been active in the underground), until Meno, who always put some in his pocket when he went to see Londoner, gave a sheet to Eschschloraque; in a world of his own, the Marshal of Moderation had picked up the phone, rolled out iambic lines and belaboured an imaginary public with the receiver; at that moment Londoner had come down the stairs, he too glassy-eyed, he too with accumulations of word, thought and deduction within reach, had shuffled over to the telephone, where instead of the receiver he took the pencil from Eschschloraque, nodded, stared at it intently and, shaking it in his raised hand, carried it off, leaving Eschschloraque staring uncomprehending at the receiver before leaving the house without a word and still wearing the house slippers he’d put on.
They were discussing things that were often discussed at the Londoners’: the history of the working class, economics, appropriately for the occasion the history of the Christmas roast, dates and events in the history of the Communist Party. Judith Schevola was sitting, an amused expression on her face, beside Jochen Londoner, who, in his rocking chair, had got so carried away that he kept losing one of his tartan slippers, which Philipp fitted back on his foot, addressing his father, as did Hanna, by the familiar form of Josef: ‘Seppel’ (Irmtraud was called ‘Traudel’ by her husband and children). Jochen Londoner would certainly have preferred not to be repeatedly reminded of the mortality of euphoria (let the slipper fly wherever it wanted!); in Judith Schevola there were unknown ears that had never been exposed to the Londoner fount of knowledge, at least not the old man’s one that delighted in the world around. A glass of port, filled while rocking in the middle of an extensive drilling-core analysis of the ‘main task’ and handed to him with neither comment nor eye contact was sufficient greeting for Meno; out of amazement at Schevola’s presence and a creeping feeling of discontent at the elegance and self-evident pleasure with which Philipp basked in the splendour of the house, bobbing up and down like an excited schoolboy, Meno had already poured the glass down his throat and was now perched like a tawny owl, limed to the heavy wash of the wine, in the wing chair opposite the old historian. Now ‘Londoner-speak’ flew between three points round the room, giving Meno the feeling he was sitting by the edge of sparkling electricity; Irmtraud asked when dinner should be served: ‘When kenn I servier ze roast herr, my dear?’ And Seppel, deep in a description of the starvation conditions created by the beasts of prey in the Manchester cotton mills, spread his arms interrogatively, indicating democracy – which Philipp took up instead of Judith Schevola, who was snorting with laughter, and Meno, who, assuming Londoner’s son had a bad conscience, sat there in silent ill-humour, with ‘We love you dermassen, Traudel, you are ä Heldin, denn I sink there’s not matsch fun in de Kittschen?’
‘You really don’t have tomatoes on your eyes,’ said Traudel, confirming his observation. ‘Bleib sitting, my dear’ (that to Judith Schevola), ‘de patätohs are alle geschält bei now, än I sink de Rosenkohl is quite reddy.’
‘Okäh,’ the paterfamilias decreed, ‘zänn I sink we take sammsink zu nibbeln in de Zwischentime.’
A call on the upstairs telephone and the trucks of the Michurin complex on Gagarinweg were on their way with a selection of snacks. Irmtraud hadn’t wanted that, even though Jochen had made the offer several times, as Meno knew from Philipp, who by now was casting revolting sheep’s eyes at Judith Schevola. As at the time when they’d been going to see Eschschloraque, Meno felt like inquiring about Marisa; perhaps she was having Christmas with fellow Chilean exiles or playing with Judith Schevola’s knife in Philipp’s room opposite the cotton mill. Meno observed Philipp: did this man have any idea at all what he wanted? Surely you’re not jealous? He waved the idea away with a vigorous gesture that set the hand with the ring on the index finger in motion, offering Meno a bowl of pretzels; without interrupting his flow of speech or taking any notice of Meno’s reaction (perhaps Jochen Londoner took it for acceptance), the scholar continued his Manchester speech. Philipp had put a Gorbachev badge on the table in front of him, the head with its birthmark on a red background; the tin disc had a pin on the back, ironically it came from the West; Philipp had brought it back from Berlin, where these ‘sweet liddel provocations’ (as Jochen Londoner called them, he had examined it closely, praising the quality of the soldering of the pin) had been on sale for several months.
Philipp, the child of heroes.
Who wanted to keep the Party pure and to uphold the ideals for which his parents had fought and suffered one (Meno could not imagine the pair of them separately) of the terrible destinies of that century: all of Irmtraud’s and Jochen’s relations had been murdered in the Nazi death camps, they themselves had escaped by hazardous routes to England (‘mit nothing in de pockets and hunger, my dear, immer hunger’), where he had worked for the British Museum Library and she as a cleaner in Guy’s Hospital before they had been interned as ‘enemy aliens’. Philipp, who attacked corrupt officials and believed in socialism as something sacred – in discussions he would never be prepared to go beyond a certain limit, to call the whole system in question, as Richard did (and Anne? had she not been brought up in the same way as Philipp and he, Meno Rohde, the bearers of a proud name in the hierarchy of communism? … at that moment she was probably in church to hear Pastor Magenstock’s sermon and see the nativity play); Philipp never doubted that socialism had the better, the more hopeful future. Everything for the welfare of the people … Philipp donated a significant part of his salary to a workers’ retirement home in Leipzig; while a student he had worked on the Baikal–Amur railway. And his science? It served the people, for whom socialism had been thought up and planned; Meno was convinced that Philipp regarded his science, his professorship, as a contribution to the strengthening of socialism and would have relinquished them without hesitation had that seemed necessary for the defence of the ‘just cause’ (as people here liked to call the dictatorship of the proletariat).
The whistle of Black Mathilda was heard, at which Jochen Londoner, taking a sip of sherry, interrupted his peroration and made Meno prick up his ears with a drawn-out ‘… by the way …’; mostly this preceded an important tip about everyday matters, as was the case this time as well. It had struck him, he said, that the energy-saving programmes on the Republic’s television had been on the increase again, Meno ‘and you too, my dear’ (Judith Schevola came back with a start from the contemplation of the many original prints on the walls between the rows of books) would be well advised to order more coal in time; if necessary he could help them in that, they only had to ask. And if there was anything else … ? This offer was to be seen as a ‘liddel advance’ on the presents that were to be distributed later. Meno took it up, he had thought of doing so before setting off and asked whether Jochen could do anything for Christian, transfer to another unit, for example, a post as headquarters clerk; Londoner said sorry, that was the army, he could do nothing there, nothing at all, he had enough to do sorting out Philipp’s idiotic petty bourgeois/educated middle class comparison on Hiddensee, the comrade had played the stool pigeon and reported him; dangerous, Jochen Londoner said, but it could presumably be sorted out. And, by the way, was the telephone working again? Groaning slightly, he pushed himself up out of his rocking chair; the expression of intent listening returned as Londoner grasped his chin between thumb and forefinger. Irmtraud raised the stick of the dinner gong and said, ‘The gong is gonging.’
Meno watched as Londoner shuffled over to the telephone, hesitated a few moments before lifting the receiver and, with a concentrated expression, put it to his ear. ‘Oh, could you come round some time. Yes, I can’t get a connection when I dial. It would be a pity about all those conversations, wouldn’t it? If I can’t talk to people on the phone, you’ll have nothing to record, don’t you have your plan targets too? Goodbye and a merry Christmas.’ He remained standing while Irmtraud served up the roast hare. ‘Let’s have a liddel feastolos,’ he said in Londoner Greek.
After the meal, the presents: Meno watched Schevola, who spoke less than usual, maintained her reserve even at the old man’s sly compliments; they weren’t suggestive; Londoner liked talking and liked listening to himself (‘with crit’cal love, not that I can’t see through myself’), well aware that monologues can hold people’s attention, but not for long. Schevola was watching Philipp and the old man, as she ate her assessing gaze went from Irmtraud’s pearl necklace to the Meissen porcelain, the serviettes with monograms (all that vaguely illuminated by the first candle, lit too early, on the menorah); Meno suspected that, like himself, Judith Schevola was waiting for the moment, the ‘characterology of moments’, of which the moment would consist: the translation of the old scholar from professed revolutionary (who served the juiciest portions of the roast to his wife and Judith) into property-owning bourgeois. Would the smile on the Liebermann portrait above the settee be any less fierce, would hints of forbearance, of weariness even, an awareness of the darker side, cross the painter’s wide-awake, pitiless expression with its glint of wit? – A clearing of the throat, embarrassment, reluctance. Jochen Londoner stood in front of the tree and invited the family (his heavy eyelids pushed the word ‘guests’ aside) to join him, passed his hands, searching, over the tweed of his jacket, found a pair of glasses and, with appeasing words, much furrowing of the brow and ‘So – for you’ and ‘There – for you’, handed out envelopes that, as Meno knew, contained cheques for considerable sums of money. ‘No, no’ – Londoner raised his hands to wave away objections that hadn’t even been made – ‘warm hands, children. / Not with cold hands should you give your gifts, / the young need wings like these to fly. No, no, take it, forget it, buy yourselves sammsink. You know you shouldn’t give us presents. We don’t want any. Not one word more. But there is something’ – he nodded to Irmtraud and turned to Judith Schevola – ‘we would like from you.’ Irmtraud opened Judith’s novel, The Depths of These Years, with the mark of Munderloh’s publishing company that was so familiar to Meno, and asked for a dedication. Judith Schevola was not in the least embarrassed. Jochen Londoner read it out in a disheartened voice, ‘Since you’ve decided to be a horse – then pull.’
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ Irmtraud Londoner suggested.
‘What have I done wrong?’ Schevola whispered to Meno in the hall.
‘Touched on a sore point,’ he whispered back.
‘How stupid of me, how tactless,’ she said.
‘Child’ – Irmtraud Londoner plucked her sleeve – ‘you couldn’t know. Don’t let it worry you. If you’re going to be part of the family it would be best if you got used to these swings of mood now. We are all very unstable,’ she went on, switching to English. ‘Isn’t that so, my son?’
‘It is so, my sunshine,’ Philipp agreed, helping his mother on with her coat.
Outside Jochen Londoner tried to divert attention away from the scene, discussing the book, praising its dense atmosphere, the figure of the father, applying the ‘you don’t have to be long-winded if you vant to say sammsink ernsthaftly’ that hung, in Londoner English, over his desk, to Schevola’s novel – Meno recalled reviews Londoner had written for Neue Deutsche Literatur and Neues Deutschland, in which he indulged in high-sounding phrases and empty grandiloquence without having more than sampled the books; Schevola seemed to feel that his praise was honestly meant, for she pushed it aside with a reaction Meno had seen in other authors (and they weren’t the worst): she pointed out weaknesses, played the novel down by not simply mentioning parts of the plot she felt were not quite successful, but showing them in a critical light (in East Rome the street lamps worked) in order not to appear presumptuous. What did Meno as an editor have to say to the book, Londoner asked cautiously. – Meno replied that he really couldn’t say anything since he didn’t know the book, at least in its printed form. Meno behaved as if he were having difficulty lighting the tobacco he’d tamped down in his pipe. – Had he not received it? Schevola asked in alarm. She had asked for a copy to be sent to him.
‘We read good books,’ Londoner said, waving a shopping bag and lending Meno a box of matches, ‘with a sense of security.’ He regretted that it hadn’t been possible for it to appear in the country. If it was any comfort, if it gave her any encouragement, he too knew what a muzzle felt like, he’d had to wait six years for permission for what was probably his most popular book, A Short Critique of Soap, to be printed. Did Meno know
(‘by the way’) that after the book had appeared Ulrich Rohde had sent him a whole carton of the substance? After a lecture on astronomy in the Orient at Arbogast’s place. ‘You know’ – Londoner merrily hit himself on either side of his chest with his unencumbered left hand – ‘here the medals – and here the Party’s punishments, that’s the way things are; don’t imagine people like Barsano or even our Friedel Sinner-Priest can do their work without receiving such correction for their own good.’
Meno was surprised at what Londoner had said. Some of the passages he’d remembered from Schevola’s book contained strong criticism of the Party, a few were even openly aggressive … There it was again, the schizophrenia he was familiar with from Kurt. If they ever talked about such matters at all, it was the Party that punished but those it punished fell to their knees and would not say anything against the Great Mother. Even when facing the firing squad, condemned men had shouted, ‘Long live Stalin, long live the Bolshevik Party, long live the revolution.’ Meno recalled what a shock it had been for him when Irmtraud, who hadn’t worked for ages now, had talked in a casual conversation about her previous job. She had been a censor for ‘books of philosophical content’, she had even rejected Philipp’s dissertation for ‘deviant readings’. They were both, as Philipp put it, ‘coldly curious’ as to whether their children would ‘make it’ and at the same time well-disposed towards their dreams: ‘We will help, but you must do your fighting yourselves.’ And now they were both praising a book that Irmtraud would have rejected and Jochen Londoner, had he had to speak in an official capacity about it, would have classed as ‘ideologically unclear’, perhaps even as ‘harmful’.
‘ “The world’s abuzz with rumour, / The truth they would deny. / Hearts may lose their way, / We have climbed so high!” ’ Judith Schevola broke off; for a moment, so it seemed to Meno, Londoner was about quote another verse of Becher’s Tower of Babel himself, but remained silent instead. Philipp and Irmtraud were ahead of them, Philipp gesticulating.