– They want to close the dyeing factory.
A toast, a toast, a toast to the good times! The Three Roses is full to the brim. I’m worried about my bridge. I’m plagued by the thought that someone new might take my spot. I leave the bar before everyone else and reclaim what’s mine.
In the autumn there’s free fruit from people’s gardens and an extra blanket from the shelter. One of the cooks in the kitchen gives me a tip about a barn I could sleep in.
– In Mecklenburg, have a look there. You don’t have to be sleeping under no bridge, Frollein.
– I know Mecklenburg. I’ve still got a long way to go before I’m in the last hole!
The cook taps her temple.
– Daft.
I shower every day. I keep myself clean, unlike the customers of the Three Roses. I’ve even learned that the last shower has to be ice cold. Then you freeze a bit less. I usually sleep well with two blankets. It’s only when it rains and the canal rises that I get cold. The canal can overflow. It’s not even two metres wide and cradled in a concrete bed. When this happens, I spend my nights on the slope of the bank, buried in a narrow cavity between the bridgehead and the street. Strong rain does have the advantage of cleaning the canal. The stronger flow rakes up the dormant rubbish and the slurry-algae, the canal swirls fat and dark brown through Leibnitz. Even days after the rain the water is almost clear at times. And because the water hasn’t changed colour for seven days, I now know for sure: the wool-dyeing factory has shut for good.
Wrapped up on a bench in Schiller Park, I shift back in time to my beginnings. I scavenge serviettes from a food stand, a couple of pages of paper only printed on one side from a skip. I write on them to hold off awakening.
Black spiders had nested under the cellar stairs again. This was where Katka showed me her art. She explained the wild scribbles, taught me to see colours, lines, shade, light. Katka confessed to me that she had kissed a man.
– Who?
– Wanzke. Down by the canal. To say sorry.
– And?
– And nothing. It’s not a big deal.
Time and again I was repulsed by Katka. I couldn’t make sense of her. She didn’t look down on Wanzke the way I did. She was a member of the Free German Youth and said all sorts of things I couldn’t understand against the word state. I only surmised that she must have been against it because Wanzke kept her back after every civics class. I didn’t understand what was up with her, but I was drawn to her anyway: grubby, fat, cheerful and carefree.
Father went back to work at the clinic and operated on varicose veins. He had new teeth made and dyed his hair black. He didn’t touch another drop of Napoléon. Frau Schramm chalked it up as her success and keenly busied herself as a stirrer of milky drinks and tea. Father straightened himself out. He tried to be strict, to reign over the villa like he used to. He suddenly became interested in my schoolwork and paid attention to the company I kept. He didn’t allow Katka Lorenz anywhere in the vicinity of the villa.
– She’s a born loser.
I was supposed to go to extended secondary school after the eighth grade and then university. Wanzke explained to my father that this wouldn’t be possible for a non-member of the Free German Youth. Social organization was a prerequisite to study at a socialist university. Father shouted at Wanzke in the middle of the school. He wielded a strange power over him. Wanzke cowered, small and wiry as he was, before Father’s words about fairness and equality. I was on a flat Five in civics. At risk of having to retake the year. Father raged. His wrath was for the system, for the school, for my teacher Wanzke. If I had to retake a year, studying would be out of the question. Father’s violent temper, his behaviour at home and his endless school visits infuriated me. It wasn’t about me, it was about him. About his lost prestige. He wanted it back.
– Get your head down! he ordered. You’re going to learn all this history rubbish and stay on the right side of that rat Wanzke. The time will come when these big shots will be in for it, Ehlchen, and then you’ll see who we are.
– Who are we, then?
Father hit me. He’d never properly hit me before, but this question made him do it. From that day onwards I had no idea what I was doing. It all started when I put my hand up in the middle of civics, stood up and announced:
– Herr Wanzke, I know that you’ve been kissing a student.
Jeering laughter, from Katka too. The spindly Wanzke ducked down, fumbled with the register, wrote something in it. At break time he showed me a big red One in the space by my name.
– Do we understand one another, Gabriela?
The rumour of the kiss soon got legs at school, more Ones followed. I decided to join the Free German Youth. At dinner, Frau Schramm’s knife fell from her hand and Father instantly left the table: I’d shown up wearing a blue shirt, with a written commendation in my schoolbag.
– Have you gone mad? Frau Schramm plucked at the blue material as if to check it was real. Father ranted that I was a stupid Binka! I’d sufficiently punished Father and had enjoyed defeating Wanzke. Everyone was astonished by my behaviour. The director summoned me to his office and congratulated me on my new standing in the class.
– Top notch, Gabriela Haßlau.
– Von Haßlau.
I knew what I was saying, and also didn’t know, or I knew that I didn’t know, and said anyway:
– Von, fffon Haßlau.
The director changed the subject: he’d heard that I might know… well, he meant I might be able to say whether Herr Wanzke…
– YES! I said clearly and loudly. YES.
My mouth spoke of its own accord. Yes, I knew. Civic education was postponed for the foreseeable future. A new teacher couldn’t step in right away.
– You finished Wanzke, said Katka.
– Yes.
– He got time.
– Yes.
– Do you know how he kissed?
– Yes.
Katka left me standing there. I was suddenly alone. Wanted to get away. Where to? Wherever you want. I walked through the city. The city ended at the canal. The city always ended at the canal. Where to now? Yes or no. Wherever you want. I don’t know where I want to go. Yes. No. I’ve never been kissed. Don’t lie. On the canal there’s a little house. Who lives in this little house? Yes or no. Steer clear of it. Why? Don’t know, wherever you want. Dance by the canal. I can’t dance. Completely unmusical. You don’t know who you are. Yes. No. I walked and walked and couldn’t go any further.
There was a poster on the advertising pillar in Leibnitz’s Theatre Square:
ANTONIO VIVA LDI
VIOLIN CONCERTO IN A MINOR, OP. 3
SOLOIST: MARIA ELKE POPIOL
It can’t be. Madness. My teacher. My first kiss. I can play the violin. No, I can’t. Ran home, changed my clothes, broke open my piggy bank.
– Where are you going?
– Wherever I want.
Back to Theatre Square. The concert is about to begin. I sat among a crowd of people, my body felt strange and meaningless. I feared that I was dreaming and Maria Elke Popiol wasn’t my Frau Popiol. Then she came on and played. The red wig, backcombed into a heap, left me breathless. It was her. What music, sounds from an entire other world. She played effortlessly well, witch, conjuror of fairy tales – that was music. Something unfamiliar to me.
– Play what I play, Gabriela!
And Frau Popiol played, the audience applauded, thunder, dachshund yapping, that’s a vi-o-lin, music fades, where am I? Frau Popiol was famous, how could I have underestimated her, who is this woman? Vivaldi, Violin Concerto in A Minor, Opus 3! Her red hair blew all around, come with me! It was my violin playing that music. I buried my face in my hands – I never wanted to wake up again, never wanted to hear anything else. Why didn’t I know who Frau Popiol was?
After the concert I lurched into the night. I wandered around the concert hall. Evening, the first time out on my own, I’ve ended up someplace or other. Frau Popio
l and her son Kurt. I ran into her arms.
– Gabriela! cried Frau Popiol.
Kurt, appallingly grown, slapped his hands together.
– How did you like it? Frau Popiol stroked my hair, admired its blackness.
– Yes. I was horrified. How obediently this YES came out of my mouth, but this time I meant it. I wanted to walk Frau Popiol home, the famous violinist, who had let me experience my first happiness…
– Go home, Gabriela.
Frau Popiol gave me her hand. In the darkness her hair was black like mine. I wanted to tell Frau Popiol that only she could help me, that only she knew what was to become of me – and the kiss, she doesn’t remember? – no, I’ve never kissed a boy, and the records, don’t you remember?… I clung onto her arm. Kurt became distressed, angry. His supple, chubby hands struck against me. Frau Popiol freed herself from my grip.
– This has gone too far, Gabriela.
The nights are getting colder and my blankets are damp. My trousers and shirt have holes and yellowed spots. Need to get a warm jumper from the clothes bank at the shelter, leather shoes. Preparations. For what? Leibnitz has almost completely shut down. Only the brewery and the old industrial plant are still in operation. You have to get to the Three Roses before six o’clock to find standing room. Semmelweis-Märrie has taken on Klunker-Lupo as a glass-washer.
– He’s out of the woods, the others say, and Klunker-Lupo washes glasses like he’s possessed. It’s warm in the Three Roses. But Semmelweis-Märrie doesn’t want to hear about ‘staying open all night’.
– I’m not your mama.
The only way I can get to sleep is if I eat something just before bedding down. A half-empty stomach stops me from falling asleep, then I freeze, even with two blankets. The canal rhubarb has withered, it hangs in the water like brown guts until it’s yanked out by the current. Good for making a fire, though. Next to the bridge, a really small one that doesn’t bother the cops, that scares off the rats. Now and again I think it might be good to hang out with the others. But who are the others? Down-and-out illiterate tramps! I’m not destitute, just trying to prove myself. And anyway. The blanket up over both ears. The canal murmurs. Stars blink in the autumnal sky. The first snow falls at the beginning of December. It freezes overnight. Wake up, red and blue fingers and toes, the top half of the blanket frozen from my breath. Keep writing. Writing more, that will help. I find a little corner in the canteen at the shelter for a couple of hours. The chaos disturbs me. They’re all gawping at me, jostling, joking. Everyone’s bored and just about keeping down their beer-dulled rage. When the shelter’s closed we loiter down by the food stalls. Press ourselves in under the narrow roofs, right up against each other to fight off the first snow, a beer for breakfast, a can, two cans, three. The other more wholesome customers crave chips and bratwurst, greasy things, along with beer and bad coffee. Every now and again they drop something: a charred bit of sausage or a half-cooked chip; then it’s a game, a competition, us versus the pigeons that hobble around on crippled feet, witlessly nodding, picking at scraps, the fatty junk, and we, because it’s warm here, keep on the good side of the kiosk owners and keep asking for beer and keep chatting through the shit times because it’s fucking cold. The first snow is always colder than the last, that’s what they say, the ones who’ve survived a year already and don’t wash any more because it stops you from cooling down, the feared sudden death, it always comes when you’re doing all right. That girl Angschelick has already shuffled off. We rub our fingers together, new people come, everyone calls themselves something or other. They call me Binka.
From Theatre Square I walk in the direction of Schiller Park. The shortest way home. All hair is black in the dark. Kurt is stupid. The sky is full of violins. This has gone too far, Gabriela. Repeat after me: too far. I walk faster. The park: black, full of strangeness. The first night just for me. I wasn’t allowed to follow her, she was famous, Maria Elke Popiol, the blues and Vivaldi, the kiss and Father’s voice: She’s sick.
– Give me your red hair, I said loudly into the darkness. I sat down on a bench and noticed that I’d been crying the whole time, gently and warmly. I closed my eyes.
They come from behind. One drags me from the bench, the other wrestles my bag from me. Lying in the foliage, I feel my head being pressed between two bare legs. The legs clamp around my throat. I only see leaves and grey Silastik socks with sagging elastic. The one holding me like a vice gathers up my hair, roughly divides it into three strands, braids a thick, long plait. I can still see only leaves and socks, both men groan and growl like animals. Now the other one kneels in front of my face in the leaves, his trousers pulled down to his ankles. I see the rod, while the one pinning me down swings the plait, makes it swish, back and forth, up and down, like a horsewhip. I close my eyes: white leaves, everything is just white leaves. My skull grips the plait tightly, he whips it: Faster! faster! The white leaves burn, my head is tugged upwards: Keep your eyes open! I see everything doused in lightning flashes, then the leg vice releases me. I lie in a soft autumnal bed. The one with the Silastik socks turns me onto my back, rips my skirt at the seam, forces my thighs apart. Mygoodgirlmydarlingmybeauty, he whispers. Pain to the tip of my plait. Lightning. The man’s body falls onto me. He’s heavy and warm underneath his shirt. Mygoodgirlmydarlingmybeauty. He twitches limply. Come on! the other shouts. It’s a stupid Binka! I lie there free for a handful of seconds. Then one of them grabs my arm and the other a knife. They cut a cross into my arm between my hand and elbow. One says: I didn’t want that to happen. The other: Come on, will you! She’s just a Binka!
I crawled through the damp leaves, my arm brown with blood and dirt. I crawled across the Leibnitz cobbles to the police station.
– I’ve been attacked.
– Sit down. Name! Address! Age! What are you doing on the street alone at night? Concert? Attacked? Where? When? Comrade Paffrath, take down the details. In the park? What’s that, show me.
– They cut it into me.
– Who? When? Cut what? Are you mad?
– They called me Binka.
– Wait a minute, Comrade Paffrath. What did they say? Binka? Impossible. You’re lying. You’re making it up.
– They had a knife, that’s how they cut me, and they said Binka!
– Give it a rest, girl. Are you telling us everything? What did the men do? One thing at a time, in the right order!
– They attacked me, two men, in the park, the knife, they said Binka and cut me.
– You’re trying to slander the state. You’re lying. You cut your own arm. We’ll get to the bottom of this. Comrade Paffrath, write down: self-mutilation.
– They attacked me, two men. They said Binka!
– Where do you live? Father? What, a doctor? Ah, that fits.
I was taken to the clinic. The wound needed dressing.
– Clean incision, it will scar.
The doctor snipped the last stitch, dabbed the wound clean.
They came to see my father and said: Your daughter cut her own arm. You will have to suffer the consequences. Defamation of the state, Herr Doktor von Haßlau. They went to see Mother and Samuel and said: Your daughter cut her own arm. Self-mutilation. Mother didn’t believe them, Samuel showed them the door. They went to see Samuel at the theatre and told him that his employment at the municipal playhouse was no longer required. They came to see Father and said: There’s a scar, your daughter’s showing it off, you will suffer the consequences! They came to see Frau Schramm in the kitchen and asked her if she was willing to work for this family any longer. They went to see Mother and asked whether she would rather see Samuel again or her daughter. They came to my school and asked Grumert-Thomas, Dreyer-Petra, Lorenz-Katka and all the others what kind of pupil I was, what my behaviour was like. They came to see Father and said: If you don’t get rid of your daughter’s scar you’ll soon be replaced. They went to see Mother and said that they knew what happened to her brother Georg… They went to
see Mother and couldn’t find her at her apartment. They came to see Father and asked: Where is your ex-wife? They came to my school and escorted me home. And said: You shouldn’t tell lies. You’re lying! They came to see Father and Father took me to the clinic. None of his colleagues were willing to do it. Father transplanted a circular piece of skin from my upper thigh onto the place on my arm. After the operation they still came to Father, to school, to Frau Schramm. And they came to me and said:
– This won’t be the last time we see each other.
– You’re a Binka! squawks Klunker-Lupo from behind the bar. Everyone laughs, grinning toothlessly, frozen. I write crouched against the heater, sentence by sentence.
– She can write, roars old Fisherman-Kurt, plagued by a hacking cough, through the haze of the barroom.
– I want to be in your story!
I can fend off all this grunting for as long as the Three Roses is open, for as long as it’s warm and dry. Better to suffocate than to freeze. Semmelweis-Märrie takes me under her wing.
– She’s not all there, but she’s harmless.
She sends us away just after midnight. She shows no mercy. Once she let Klunker-Lupo spend the night behind the bar. We beat the hell out of him the next day – right in his ugly mug, wants something better, ha! He knows his way around, not with us!
Since then Klunker-Lupo dutifully stands with us under the kiosk roofs and only works evenings for Semmelweis-Märrie, which we’ve graciously allowed him to do in return for several rounds of beer. My latest training regime is called ‘night shortening’. For this, you have to sleep during the day, in a bus shelter or on the bog in the Caritas shelter. It rains under my bridge. I’ll go mouldy if I spend any more time there. So I lump together with the others, even though they’re the last resort, the last hole. But I have my calling, they have their beer.
The Dance by the Canal Page 5