Kruso

by Lutz Seiler

  ‘The picture, yes — a picture is certainly the least of it all here. But never mind. I’m happy you’re here. I’m glad that Alosha had a real friend on the island.’

  Ed wanted to answer, but Rommstedt parried. He asked Ed to light the candle on Kruso’s desk.

  ‘Yes, they were here, even before I got here. But what does that mean? Presumably, they are always around, they know everything, see everything, who knows. They came for the first time after Sonya’s death, or rather, let’s say after her disappearance. Alosha was nine years old. At the time, they interrogated each of us, even Alosha, who was completely devastated. For a long time, he didn’t say a single word.’

  The professor fell silent. Maybe he was in a state of shock. He seemed to have been waiting for Ed or for someone else. He wore a heavy black jacket and baggy brown corduroy trousers. He looked as if he had just finished working in the garden. Ed couldn’t see his face clearly, just short silver-grey hair.

  ‘That summer, the two of them had their own sandcastle, down on what today is the waiters’ beach. They’d written on the castle with stones, white stones, black stones, gravel and basalt, a kind of mosaic they had worked on all day long, a real work of art. It had their birthdates and their names, Sonya and Alosha — Alosha from Alexander, his mother had called him that.’

  ‘The artist.’

  ‘They were on the beach. Alosha had seen his sister go up to the water, but certainly not more than that. “Wait here long enough and don’t go anywhere” — that’s what she said to him. That he should wait there long enough for her, in their sandcastle. Nothing more. Later, he told us the story in tears. He waited, but she didn’t return. And fundamentally, he’s still waiting, even now. He won’t go anywhere, he’s waiting for her. Perhaps you know what I mean?’ Rommstedt bent forwards, and Ed saw small tufts of grey hair that grew from the professor’s ears, as if his hearing were sending feelers into the darkness.

  ‘Losh never talked about that.’

  ‘I know. Losh from Alosha, right? Losh and Ed, these two.’

  Ed wondered if Kruso had talked about him, had mentioned him now and then when he talked — ‘Ed’ like ‘um’, nothing more than filler.

  ‘When their mother died, my brother-in-law sent the children to live with us. They were inseparable. But actually, it went deeper. They were made for each other, their entire difficult history, their tragedy had destined them for each other. One couldn’t live without the other.’

  Ed leaned against Kruso’s desk, on which a few books were piled. More than half of the titles were missing from the worn dust jackets. From the remains, Ed recognised Benno Pludra’s Little Matten and the White Shell, and Camus, the brown Reclam edition of The Plague. Nothing forbidden; no books from the West.

  ‘What was strange,’ the professor continued, ‘was that on the day she disappeared, two or three greys were out patrolling on the water, not far from shore, closer than usual, in any case, surprisingly close as the islanders recounted later. Actually, no one was worried about the ships. They’re a daily sight, you don’t even notice them. With time, one hardly notices the border either.’

  It was silent in the tower. The candle flickered, and the professor’s easy chair seemed to move away slowly, drifting off into nothingness.

  ‘Only with difficulty did we get Alosha out of his sandcastle. He stood there as if rooted to the spot, staring at the sea, trembling like an aspen leaf. At night, he would run back to the beach, to the same spot. The greys were still out there, at anchor, with their lights. He screamed, and we had to pick him up and carry him. He lashed out, and we finally had no choice but to bind his hands and feet. We put him in our handcart and pushed him home, across half the island. He screamed the entire way, I don’t believe there’s a single person on the island who didn’t see us then.’

  ‘Who are the greys?’ Ed asked.

  ‘The patrol boats. Border troops. I thought you’d been initiated. From then on, Alosha kept a kind of logbook. Until they came and confiscated everything, we didn’t understand what he was up to. I would never have dreamed of reading his diary. He rarely spoke to us, and even less to his father, the general, when he came to visit. I believe Alosha hated him, but he hated us, too, ever since we carried him off the beach like a piece of luggage. But I beg your pardon, I have no way of knowing what Alosha, I mean Losh, has already told you about — these things. I mean, about his sister.’

  ‘I have a photograph, it’s …’

  ‘A photograph of Sonya!’ the professor interrupted him. ‘That’s good, yes, that’s very good. Excellent.’ He was surprised and tried to hide it.

  ‘At any rate, for seven years he noted down every one of their movements, coast guard, gunboats, minesweepers, every manoeuvre. Kind, time, the boat’s course, and always whether or not there were lights, what kind, what colour. They asked him repeatedly why he had drawn an extra circle around each green light. Until the end, they couldn’t explain it. Today, I’m sure that he saw them as a kind of sign — a sign from Sonya. He believed in the green light.’

  Ed thought of Losh’s question. If he had seen Sonya ‘out there’.

  ‘Naturally, they convicted him. Suspicion of border violation, desertion of the republic, treason, whatever term they were using at the time; he had just turned seventeen that year. One said that we’d raised a clan of border violators. From their point of view, we’re the ones who cause injury: to the homeland’s skin, to its sensitive body. Like bad blood, a pus-filled boil that suddenly bursts, that wants out.’

  Ed wondered if he should tell the professor about the inspector from the sanitation department, but the feline shook its head slowly. It was a continuous and comforting denial, which completely captivated Ed. He thought of Matthew. His wounds were buzzing, and he would have liked to lie down and sleep on the spot.

  ‘I made a few discoveries in the field of radiophysics, as you no doubt are aware or perhaps even can sense, if I may put it that way. After our foster-son’s arrest, that was finished. All my experiments were suspended and my colleagues transferred to Berlin. The equipment is still here, well taken care of. Once in a blue moon, there’s a case like yours, then I turn on my power station, and, yes, you were an unusual patient, Mr Bendler, a great sigher before the Lord, if you’ll permit me.’

  Rommstedt laughed softly.

  A pitch-black tone was audible in the professor’s bitterness, and Ed resolved to heed it.

  ‘What happened to the diaries?’

  The question seemed stupid and superfluous.

  ‘Alosha was sent to a youth residential home, to Torgelow. Actually a prison. The Nazis interned deserters there. They released him after half a year, relatively early. Not everyone has a general for a father. We took action, too, but that’s beside the point. He was expected to prove himself in the socialist-mode production and so on. Strangely, he himself suggested the Klausner. He had often been there even as a child, the seasonal workers liked him. Now and then, he helped collect glasses and wipe down tables, and they would give him ice-cream or lemonade. He spent a lot of time there. He was their little mascot, and most of them knew his story. Of course, there’s no one left there from those days. Good people, scattered to the four winds. No matter. He was offered training as a skilled worker in gastronomy. But Alosha turned them down. He just wanted to be a dishwasher, an unskilled labourer. In the end, they agreed. I believe they saw it as a kind of penance, the Klausner as work camp, washing dishes as special treatment, penal labour, temporarily. Something that would knock the nonsense out of him, a good precondition for him to make something of himself later, a recognised member of society, ‘my hand for my product’, along those lines. An absurd idea from today’s perspective. But, back then, things were different here, the country was different, the island was different. There was no society outside of society. There were seasonal workers, fine, but not this caste and all their f
uss, some of it is simply tasteless, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ve hardly been a part of it, until now.’

  ‘Didn’t you ever spend a night in the Buddhist tree?’

  ‘Losh said it wasn’t really necessary.’

  ‘Not really necessary, very good! That clever young man spent ten years washing dishes, his brain all foggy, his hands sodden, and without producing anything — not really necessary, right?’

  The cat rubbed its large, round head between the professor’s thighs. This time, it was nodding, nodding hypnotically.

  ‘In the winter, I keep him officially as the caretaker of the radiation ward. It’s absurd when you consider that he has refused to enter the main building since his return from Torgelow. That’s when he moved into this brick building, the old transformer house, used even before our time as temporary storage for lab waste. He calls it the tower. In the winter, it gets icy in here, but that never bothered Alosha. It’s his fortress. He sits at the telescope, writes, and forges some plan or other.’

  ‘There are people who claim they saw Sonya that day, on the street, in the village.’

  ‘There’s a lot of talk on this island, my young friend. There are twenty current rumours about Sonya’s disappearance, and every long winter a new one is added. Don’t forget that Alosha is now very well-known here, maybe the best-known person on the island. After Torgelow, he started speaking with absolutely everyone. He must have brought something back with him, something that has been driving him since then. He only talks to us about places to sleep in the main building, clandestine quarters for the poor devils who come to the island with nothing at all, just themselves and their longing for the wide world in their bags, every year there are more of them … No matter. And, yes, I’m sure he only wants to do good. But they all take advantage of him, every one! Nonetheless, he tries to win over every single drunken esskay for …’

  ‘… the organisation, for rescuing the castaways, for their enlightenment and …’

  ‘Lord, yes, those are his concepts — homeless, castaways, the sacred places, all that. Alosha played pirates and castaways as a child, constantly. Maybe, please forgive me, maybe it would be better if you paid a bit more attention, observed things more closely, and drew your conclusions a bit more carefully.’

  ‘I have always stood by Losh, at his side, that is …’

  ‘Yes, of course, you misunderstand me. There’s no doubt it was good for Alosha that you … stood by him. I’m convinced that he sees you as a companion, above all in his — how should I put it — in his despair. As obsessively as he kept his diary back then, so conscientious and deluded was he in creating what he later came to call the Band of the Initiated, I was told. A kind of underground to accumulate inner freedom, a spiritual community, something of that sort; without the injury of borders, without fleeing, without drowning. No small illusion, rather an elaborate delusion, which makes me very sad, as you probably understand.’

  ‘You’re mistaken.’

  ‘Alosha is a young man full of longing. Are you one too, Edgar?’

  ‘Losh helps others!’ Ed’s sense of justice, white-hot.

  ‘His despair, his bitterness, it was all longing once. His longing is simply too vast.’

  ‘Losh takes care of everyone! That’s what he does. He is brave and full of … He took me in and not just me. He taught me a lot. It’s certainly not possible to understand everything right away, and sometimes I was too weak or simply too scared and …’

  ‘And now you’re his friend. Now you want to help him. That’s understandable and quite wonderful, and that’s the only reason I’m talking to you. That’s the only reason I’m telling you this story instead of throwing you out of this house, reporting you, or …’ he gently stroked the cat’s large head, ‘setting this baby on your throat.’

  The professor smiled and for an instant Ed saw a row of black-lined teeth. Irradiated, Ed thought.

  ‘We must have faith and hope for the best. I simply wanted to teach you a few things, to warn you, perhaps. The map is gone, as you can see. And Alosha won’t return for a very long time, if ever. What would you think of a walk through the radiation ward?’

  THE OLD LIFE

  18 August. He stood for a while and stared at Speiche’s bag. (Arrested.) Then he closed the armoire, sat on his bed, and pulled his own bag from under it. (For a very long time, if ever.) The zippered side compartment, where he kept his diary: he hadn’t made any entries for weeks. His diary had fallen asleep. (Torgelow.)

  He leafed through it. Blue lines, empty days. The rough paper that gave him a furry feeling in his mouth. SR for sunrise. SS for sunset. And the old appointments. ‘23 April: consultation with Professor W. about the Romantic exam; introductory topic Novalis, 1.) The “Encyclopedia”, Attempt to redefine the world and its knowledge, 2.) “The Meaning of Illusion for the History of our Will”, 3.) “Europe and Christendom”.’ ‘8 January: A film about Max Ernst in the Film Club 66.’ What had made the deepest impression on him were the pictures of the house being built in the desert, sun and wood, the painter’s own house, as he had planned and built it, creating a cave for his work, far from everything, undisturbed. Every six weeks, a gallery owner from New York came to check if anything had been accomplished in the interval. ‘3 May: Dissertation defence of Knut Mewes, an old friend of G.’s.’ A few times, he had visited him on Wolfstrasse, a heavy man with big eyes and heavy beard, informal, a Wieland specialist. ‘2 February: coal.’ ‘14 March: Veterinarian.’ ‘25 August: Yatra.’ A film? Indian music? In any case, something he had written down and planned months before. Like the trip to his parents’ bungalow (to work, if possible). Entry from 30 June, long past. He had noted the train times from Halle to Zeitz, from Zeitz to Meuselwitz, the bus from Meuselwitz to Kayna, by foot if necessary, it wasn’t far.

  And so on.

  He felt as if he were leafing through a dead man’s appointment book. And again, he felt as if his old life were still there — a strange feeling. He had snuck away from the life that had been planned for him. Now it seemed unfamiliar, but still destined for him. He wondered if that life were waiting for him there, in the room with the two shabby armchairs and the Vertiko dresser, and the lemon geranium.

  Lonely and left behind, Ed thought. My old life, leaning against the oven. It was left standing there, by itself, alone. What an affront.

  He paged through the book some more and began to count: sixty-eight days since he arrived on the island. Sixty-eight days. Not even a year, although years had passed, without a doubt.

  He wasn’t thinking this way explicitly, but at some point he began counting off the days until the end of re-registration period for the new semester. He added them up again. He had only missed three weeks of the most recent one, not more. He could have been ill. Of course, he didn’t have a medical certificate. But the special circumstances, his unstable condition, some kind of diagnosis, psychological problems.

  He had begun thinking of G.

  He could think of her again without hearing Trakl and all the rest. He pictured her hand balled into a fist to write, and the little smiling animal (like a mouse) that she drew in her signature with flourishes and dots when she left him a note. ‘Come to the Corso after the demonstration. Can’t wait to see you!’ And under that, the mouse. It was 1 May, the holiday celebrating workers and their struggle, a lovely afternoon off after the parade, and their tradition: first the Café Corso and then to the bar called the Gosenschänke.

  ‘I had psychological problems,’ Ed practised saying. It sounded convincing.

  Ed thought of Krombach.

  ‘So, you’re healthy, really healthy?’

  Then his lies.

  He just pretended. He had wanted to disappear, disappear completely. This was impossible in a country in which every position was somehow connected to another — university, registration office, sanitation dep
artment? But not the Klausner, Ed thought, not the ark! He shook his head, but his head was still heavy and it made him dizzy.

  HIS OWN SOUND

  SR. Four forty-nine a.m. It was still dark when he left. He crossed the woods and took the concrete path. Through the soft soles of his suede shoes, he could feel the signs. It was as if he were standing on his father’s feet again and his father were walking forwards, the old game, Sunday afternoon after he had finished his exercises. They started after breakfast, around nine. Around ten came the first tears. Ed lost the ability to add two plus two. Then the worst: his father’s resolution to explain mathematics to him again from the top, from the very beginning. ‘What can you possibly hope to do without the foundation on which everything is built?’ What followed was impatience, fits of anger, a rushing sound in his head. Sidelong glances at the clock. It had to end at some point. And then it was over. Ed’s father lifted him up and held him close. Then he set Ed down, feet on top of his own in slippers. They strode in big steps across the orange rug (Ed with his arms wrapped around his father’s hips) to the balcony and back to the bedroom door, back and forth, with big steps counter to their own internal walking. With each step, Ed had to surrender his own sense of direction, grounded deep within his body: resistance, abandonment, relief, in each and every step, and rejoicing — after all, it was a game … Letting yourself go, Ed thought.

  No one seemed to have seriously considered the possibility that he might leave the island.

  In fact, neither the island police officer nor the inspector had said anything that would have required him to stay, anything that would have implied he was under arrest. They found him suspicious. And he was ill. And he belonged to the Klausner, practically forever. Something made them feel certain. Maybe his face. But his wounds were healing even though he still looked like a marked man. As if I had no life of my own, Ed thought.