Letters From Prague

by Sue Gee

  ‘When are we going to get there?’

  He gave a little laugh. ‘Had enough?’

  ‘Well –’ She looked down at Marsha, between them.

  ‘I thought you wanted to see all this.’ He gestured at the towering blocks of flats, the mean-looking shops below. ‘If you find it unpleasant, think what it must feel like to live here.’

  She was made uneasier by his tone; she bit back a sharp retort.

  ‘This is communism,’ he said. ‘Socialism. Isn’t socialism what you believe in?’

  ‘Christopher –’

  ‘What?’

  She shook her head, not knowing what to do. She confronted him, and they had a full-scale argument, impossible with Marsha here, or she shut up. She shut up. They walked on.

  ‘We get another tram in a minute,’ he said. ‘Out to the factory, but it’s not far.’

  ‘Okay.’ She looked down at Marsha. ‘All right?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ said Marsha, looking straight ahead.

  The railway line ran through Marzahn, and from the tram they could see goods trains being shunted into sidings, and workers in overalls and luminous jackets moving along the track. Gigantic cranes swung above building sites, clearings in the midst of a tenemented district which would soon be gone.

  ‘This is where Dieter’s old factory was.’ Christopher indicated a maze of half-demolished cobbled streets off to their right, and Harriet looked out at soot-grimed warehouses. Windows were barred; signboards swung in the wind. The double doors of one building stood open; boxes at the entrance were being loaded into a waiting lorry squeezed into the narrow street.

  ‘So people are still working there.’

  ‘Oh, yes. In pretty grim conditions – it’s sweatshop land, really.’ The tram moved on. ‘Dieter’s new premises are on a development a couple of miles away. They moved there only at the beginning of the year: it’s still something of a wasteland, but he’s not complaining.’ He had been talking neutrally, generally, since they left the estate; now he turned to her and said, ‘What about you? Are you complaining?’

  She looked towards Marsha, across the aisle, her face turned to the window, and said carefully, ‘I don’t really understand what happened, earlier on. I didn’t mean to make a fuss, but you didn’t need to –’

  ‘I know. Apologies. I get irked by your holier-than-thou-ness.’ He smiled at her. ‘Have you always occupied the moral high ground?’

  ‘Always.’ She returned the smile with caution. ‘You must forgive me–’

  ‘I think it’s those on the moral high ground who have the power to forgive.’

  The banter was returning; she gave an inward sigh of relief.

  ‘Let’s call it quits.’

  ‘Let’s. And later we must talk.’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked away. Later, she must think. Across the aisle, Marsha’s face was pressed to the glass. If she were travelling with two parents, she might be used to differences of opinion expressed between them; she might be used to a quarrel, and a reconciliation. In such circumstances, this, now, would be the moment for Harriet to reach over and reassure: it’s blown over, you can come out now. They could all have an ice, or something, and forget about it. As it was –

  ‘Marsha?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re nearly there.’

  ‘Who cares?’ It was spoken to the glass.

  On the outskirts of the district, a piece of derelict land was crossed by a newly made road. Bulldozers were working on one side; on the other, a high wire fence surrounded a car park and low modern buildings beyond a barrier. A prefab cubicle stood at the gate and Christopher showed his card to the attendant, a thin young man in a peaked cap, who waved them through. They looked like a family, Harriet thought fleetingly, as they followed Christopher along the pedestrian path by the barrier. Businessman, wife and child. He raised his arm as they walked across the windy car park, indicating the outskirts of a small town a mile or so beyond the perimeter.

  ‘That’s the place I was talking about, earlier on. Where the refugee hostel is.’

  ‘Have you ever been there?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’ve never had reason to.’ He ushered them suddenly out of the way of an enormous lorry, moving towards the gate. There was lettering on the side: INDUSTRIELLE MATERIALIEN FÜR WEITERE WERARBEITUNG – RÜCKSTAND WIEDERVERWERTEN – NICHT SPEZIFIKATIONGERECHTES MATERIAL. The driver nodded towards Christopher, who briefly raised his hand, drawing them aside. ‘Somebody told me one of the hostel occupants scrawled up Azilant gut on the hostel door,’ he went on, leading them across the car park as the lorry left the compound. ‘I shouldn’t think many of the neighbours agree.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Marsha.

  ‘Tell you later,’ said Harriet, feeling that to give one of her state-of-the-world lectures to Marsha now would bore her and risk reopening the earlier argument with Christopher. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked, trying to take her hand. ‘It’s nice to hear you speak.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Marsha kept her hand to herself.

  They accompanied Christopher across the compound. Harriet was aware of the change in the air – a faint smell of something industrial she couldn’t identify, which wasn’t very pleasant. Then they were at the entrance of one of the first buildings, where a sign for Wilkendorf und Scheiber, and the logo, was nailed to the door.

  Harriet said to Marsha as they went in: ‘You’re being wonderful. I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Your birthday. You name it, it’s yours.’

  ‘A kitten? The little tabby?’

  ‘We can’t take a kitten to Prague …’

  Marsha moved away.

  Christopher was talking to the receptionist. They were in an open area floored in pale vinyl, with a few low chairs upholstered in a beige moquette. Plastic flowers stood on a plastic table; there was a drinks machine.

  Christopher returned as Harriet looked about her. ‘Okay, Dieter’s expecting us. Follow me.’

  He led them off to the right. Marsha looked longingly at the drinks machine.

  ‘On the way back,’ said Harriet.

  On one side of a corridor windows overlooked the car park; on the other was a long line of partitioned offices, featureless boxes adorned here and there by plants and postcards. The occupants sat at bright green computer screens surrounded by sheaves of print-out. Phones rang, keyboards tapped, a man in a cheap suit came out of a doorway carrying files and hurried past them, with a nod.

  ‘Dieter’s in here,’ said Christopher, and knocked on the glass of the next office. A dark-haired man in shirt sleeves swung round from his desk with the phone in his hand, and made a gesture: one minute. Then he saw Harriet and Marsha and made another: half a minute. Harriet smiled. He beckoned them in.

  ‘The last office we visited was Hugh’s,’ she said to Marsha, as they went through the door.

  ‘I know.’ Marsha looked round the prefabricated piece of twelve-by-twelve in which she now found herself.

  Dieter Scheiber finished his call and rose to greet them. He was a short, well-made man – dwarfed, like most people, by Christopher, with whom he was clearly on good terms. They were introduced; he greeted them in English.

  ‘Welcome. My apologies for detaining you. You would like some coffee –’ he turned to Marsha ‘– some Coke, maybe?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘This way, please.’ He led them back to the reception area, making polite enquiries. They were enjoying Berlin? The hotel? His uncle was looking after them, he hoped. Good, good. And now –

  ‘Our dazzling choice.’ He made a sweeping gesture at the vending machine. ‘And then I will show you the shop floor, if you are interested. I have the right expression?’

  ‘It’ll do.’ Christopher was feeling in his pocket for change. ‘And my friend is interested. I have been telling her of your new set-up.’

  They took their drinks to the low beige chairs.
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  ‘I understand you have had quite a few changes,’ said Harriet.

  ‘In Berlin?’ He laughed.

  ‘In Berlin, but also for you, yourself. You were working in a nationalised factory. Now –’

  ‘Now –’ He spread his hands. ‘Now we are capitalist at last.’ Another laugh. ‘The world waits for Wilkendorf & Scheiber. But seriously. We are doing okay. My friend here is helping us a little.’

  ‘You don’t need to bore her with details,’ said Christopher. He had not sat down, but was smoking and drinking his coffee, looking out of the window. He frowned. ‘Is something happening out there?’

  ‘There is always something happening here.’ Dieter turned and looked over his shoulder. They exchanged a glance. ‘It is deliveries only.’

  ‘No – I don’t mean the lorry. Outside the fence. You seem to have visitors, Dieter. I think you’d better –’

  Now Dieter was frowning. He got to his feet and looked out. ‘A little problem, only. Excuse me.’ He nodded to Harriet and went quickly over to the reception desk, speaking quietly in German.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Marsha asked.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Harriet stood next to Christopher at the window. Outside the compound, beyond the perimeter of the high wire fence, a group of demonstrators was marching towards the gates, shouting. They carried a banner, and placards; she could see the company logo, W & S, violently crossed through in red. There were slogans, but these she could not understand. There was a skull and crossbones-

  ‘Christopher?’

  ‘It’s okay – just a little local demo.’ But he was still frowning.

  Behind her, the receptionist was speaking on the phone. Then the barrier at the entrance was raised, and a lorry pulled out, rather fast. The gates swung to behind it, and the barrier swiftly descended.

  ‘Excuse me for that.’ Dieter had rejoined them. ‘Shall we begin our little tour?’ He gestured towards the entrance.

  Harriet looked at Christopher, stubbing his cigarette out in a tubular ashtray. ‘What was all that about?’

  He ushered her forward. ‘Tell you later. I’m going to go and talk to a few people now, okay?’

  Dieter was holding the door at the entrance: they went out and he led them across the compound, away from the gates. A smell hung in the air as they approached the factory itself, and Marsha covered her mouth.

  ‘My apologies,’ said Dieter. ‘Some of these industrial processes do cause unpleasantness in the atmosphere, but –’ he shrugged – ‘Soon we shall be improving this side of things.’

  They followed him in through heavy swing doors: at once, the smell became worse, and the noise was deafening. A foreman gave them earmuffs, and led them through more swing doors. Even to Harriet’s untutored eye it was clear, as she put on her earmuffs and looked around, that what was here was a mixture of ancient and modern: enormous hunks of ironmongery, thick with decades of black grease, stood alongside sleek, scaled-down Nineties machines equipped with sophisticated calibrators. They followed Dieter round, greeted with nods by the operators. Vats and powders and chemicals were everywhere.

  ‘You see we are still in the transition,’ Dieter shouted. ‘We have much outdated equipment still.’

  Harriet nodded. ‘I don’t know much about these things, but –’

  ‘But you can see, yes? Some of this machinery we have since the 1960s. In time we shall be completely modernised. Well –’ They were nearing the door again; he looked towards Marsha, who was watching thick liquids swirling in enormous vessels. She looked pale and bemused. ‘You have seen enough, now?’

  ‘Yes yes, thank you for showing us. I’ll fetch my daughter.’

  She made her way over and touched Marsha on the shoulder. She jumped.

  ‘Ready to go?’ mouthed Harriet. ‘Are you okay?’

  Marsha nodded dazedly.

  ‘So,’ Dieter said to her, as they came out into the fresh air once more. ‘You have enjoyed our factory, Marsha?’

  ‘I feel a bit sick.’

  ‘I am sorry. That unpleasant smell?’ He reached into his pocket. ‘Your mother allows you a peppermint?’

  ‘Her mother allows her anything today,’ said Harriet. ‘She’s been wonderful, a true travelling companion. In a couple of days we’re going to Prague, did Christopher tell you?’

  ‘To Prague?’ They had reached the main office building: he held the door. ‘So he can show you around there, also. Or perhaps you know it well?’

  ‘No, it’s our first visit.’

  ‘They’re going on a mystery tour.’ Christopher was waiting for them, looking out of the window again. ‘Your friends seem to have gone for lunch,’ he added.

  Dieter followed his gaze. ‘Very good. So –’ he looked at them questioningly. ‘I have one or two phone calls, and then perhaps you will like some lunch in our canteen? You will wait here, or you will go direct –’ He indicated another passage, behind the reception desk.

  ‘I want to go to the loo,’ Marsha told Harriet.

  Dieter pointed them in the right direction, down the passage away from the canteen.

  Inside, Harriet said, ‘You’re not going to be sick, are you?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Marsha went into a cubicle. She wasn’t sick, but she still looked pale when she came out.

  ‘Better now? Want to sit down?’

  ‘It’s all right.’ She dried her hands and moved out of the way as a young woman in overalls, from the machine room, pushed the door open. ‘Let’s go.’ She went out; Harriet followed, feeling that Marsha was lost to her, and feeling, once again, the mixture of guilt and irritation which had begun to be a feature of the last few days. Out in the passage, she said, ‘I know this isn’t exactly fun, but could you –’

  Marsha ignored her, striding ahead.

  Out in the reception area Christopher was smoking, his back to the desk. Harriet walked up beside him, and looked out of the window. The barrier was still down, and the gates were closed, but the group of demonstrators had gone.

  ‘What was all that about?’ she asked him again.

  ‘Dieter’s had to lay off quite a few people in recent weeks,’ he said. ‘And not just him – quite a few factories on this estate are finding things difficult. It’s what we were talking about – out in the open market, things get tough. A lot of local people had high hopes when industry moved out here; they get a bit heated when jobs have to go, or they’re put on Kurzarbeit – short-time work.’

  ‘And that’s who those people were? But Dieter’s supposed to be doing well.’

  ‘We’re in a recession, remember? Nothing’s guaranteed. And Dieter has to be careful – his other half wants to see his money well invested.’

  ‘Wilkendorf.’

  ‘Wilkendorf, indeed. Anyway, the moment seems to have passed. Where’s Marsha?’

  ‘Right here.’ Harriet turned to where Marsha was seated on one of the low beige chairs, swinging a foot. ‘I think she’s had enough.’

  ‘Sure. Well go back after lunch, yes? And continue our conversation?’ He looked down at her. ‘You realise, after all my talk last night, that I still know almost nothing about you at all?’

  ‘Yes. Well …’ She looked round, as Dieter rejoined them.

  ‘So. My apologies again. Let me show you our canteen.’

  They lunched on meatballs, fried potatoes and salad in a new canteen – all white tiles and shining saucepans. Harriet, looking around her, observed among the men and women in middle age faces which she felt instinctively that you might see on any street in Eastern Europe: the faces of people who had queued for too long, done without for too long, smoked too many cheap cigarettes and had about them in consequence an air of grey fatigue which in these optimistic new surroundings made them look washed up from another era.

  Marsha had a plain bowl of chips and a bottle of mineral water. She ate in silence as the grown-ups talked. Harriet, without thinking, asked Dieter about local unemployment, and feelings abou
t the industrial estate. He gave a little frown, looking at Christopher.

  ‘These things are inevitable,’ he said, taking salad, ‘I am afraid that sometimes there is no choice.’

  ‘It’s none of my business, of course – I’m just curious.’

  ‘Naturally. You are visiting the Third World.’ He raised his spoon, and she blushed. He smiled: he was joking, she must not take him personally, please. ‘I explain to you before, we are in transition. It is not so long since I was carrying the party card, you know. Some of the people I had working for me now are my friends from a long time.’ He paused. ‘Except, of course, that in East Germany we were cautious friends, you understand. There were informers in every workplace.’ He shrugged, finishing a mouthful. ‘Perhaps still. It is a risk I take, like others. I do not like to see people without jobs, but in the end I must look to make a profit, to succeed. It is the same for the other factories here. That way there will be a future. So.’ He turned to Marsha. ‘They are good, your chips?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Your family have been very kind to us,’ said Harriet. ‘Particularly to Marsha. Haven’t they, Marsha? Tell Dieter about the kittens.’

  ‘You tell him.’

  ‘Marsha –’

  Dieter ignored this exchange, but he picked up on the change of subject and began to talk at some length about his uncle and aunt and their new way of life, now that the hotel was theirs. He did not ask about Harriet’s life, or her work, or about Marsha’s school, and she commented on this to Christopher when he went to fetch coffee.

  ‘It’s as though he has no curiosity about us at all.’

  Christopher shook his head. ‘It isn’t that.’ She could see him think about lighting up, but they were, out of deference to Marsha, in the non-smoking part of the canteen, and he took his hand out of his pocket. ‘You must understand that for decades people looked for the meaning behind every question. It’s true what I was saying earlier on – and he’s just mentioned it, hasn’t he? Even your own mother could be informing on you – people learned to be very suspicious of questions, and it wasn’t good form to ask too much. You can forget all the London chat: and what do you do, and where do you live, and oh, really, and how long have you lived there? If people want to tell you things, they’ll tell you. They assume you’ll do the same.’ He watched Dieter coming back towards them, carrying a tray. ‘And also, of course, he’s enjoying the opportunity of telling you about his family’s success.’