by Ingo Schulze
It is dreams like these that are to blame for my continued efforts.
In the middle of June ’87, barely a year and a half after Vera filed her application for an exit visa, I received a telegram. “Leaving today. Neustadt Station,” followed by departure time and as usual, “Greetings, Vera.”
The telegram arrived around eleven. I normally would have left my place by ten at the latest. And since it was Tuesday I would have been in the library, except that when I got up the tap didn’t work, no matter how I played with it. A note in the building entryway promised running water by ten thirty. I had lain down again and didn’t wake up until the pipes began to spit and grumble, flooding the sink with a jet of rusty brown water. And if, as I was leaving the building, I hadn’t seen the messenger—who was scanning the doorbell register with his glasses pushed back up on his forehead—and asked him who he was looking for…yes, a miracle that I got the telegram in time.
It was one of my few train trips without something to read or work on. Although I stared out the window the whole time, I never even took notice of the valleys of the Saale or the Weinböhla.
I walked from Neustadt Station to Vera’s apartment. The windows were closed, no one answered the door. I left a note and took a streetcar to my mother’s place. No one there either. Finally, an hour later, they arrived together.
Vera had spent the whole day running from office to office; for the first time in her life Mother had called in sick and now dragged in two suitcases full of new shoes, underwear, and bed linens. She couldn’t understand why Vera wanted to leave with just a little traveling bag. And if it hadn’t been for photographs and my father’s handkerchief collection, she wouldn’t even have needed that.
“What am I supposed to do with all this?” my mother cried, dogging Vera’s footsteps until she locked herself in the bathroom and we all three stood around shouting. Mother was the first to start sobbing.
As I write to you about all this, it seems to me as if this were the first time I’ve ever recalled those hours.229
Vera moved through each room one last time, opening every drawer, as if she wanted to print it all on her memory. She’d really prefer to go to the station by herself, she said. Shaking her head, she watched Mother butter one sandwich after the other, as if we were going on a family outing. We walked to the streetcar stop together.
Mother had bought a pack of Duetts and was chain-smoking. We rode to the Platz der Einheit. Vera and I had taken a few steps in the direction of Neutstadt Station, when Mother called her back. “Vera! I can’t do it!” Mother was still standing in the same spot where we had got off the streetcar. Vera ran back, set down her bag, and I watched as—for the first time, or so it seemed to me—she hugged my mother. I could also see my mother caressing Vera’s cheeks. Then I noticed people turning around to look at them.
Vera said nothing, cast a glance into her compact mirror, and linked her arm in mine. I took her travel bag. Someone might have thought she was bringing me to the train.
Neither outside the entrance nor inside the station did I notice anything unusual. It was a few days before the start of school vacation, and there were long lines at the ticket booths. We slowly climbed the stairs. I was afraid that some of Vera’s girlfriends—and boyfriends—would arrive and we wouldn’t be alone.
We walked along the platform. People were standing shoulder to shoulder in little groups. Bottles of wine and bubbly were being passed around. Almost every group had children, each with a backpack and some stuffed animal to clutch. To me it looked as if all these white-splattered jeans outfits had reassembled at their point of origin.
Under an open sky, at the end of the platform now, Vera unpacked her sandwiches.
“The Stasi asked about you,” she said, without looking at me.230 I exclaimed much too loudly, “What?” Yes, I think I crowed that “What?” like a fourteen-year-old whose voice is cracking.
“That’s how it is,” she said, “if someone’s a little more interesting than the rest.” She used her thumb to lift the top of a sandwich and remarked that even after thirty years, it still hadn’t registered with Mother that she didn’t like blood sausage.
“Those idiots,” I said.
“Why idiots?” Vera asked, tossing a pigeon some bread.
“What else would you call them,” I said. Vera smiled—and fed pigeons, as if that had been the point of our coming here. The blood sausage hung like a tongue from between the slices of bread and finally landed at her feet.
“Maybe they are idiots,” Vera said, “but they do exist and nothing is going to change that soon.”
The train pulled in with no announcement on the loudspeakers. While the others stormed their cars, Vera distributed the rest of the bread. “But it’s possible to talk with these idiots,” she said. “Do you have anything else to say in that regard?”
I felt a need to sit down or, better yet, lie down. I almost said, “That’s for you to decide.” Instead of asking Vera the reason for her comments, I said nothing, which was perhaps the worst thing to do. I stared at the black platform and at the pigeons battling for bread as they hopped over each other, beating their wings. From the corner of my eye I could see Vera successfully unsnap her purse with her pinkie and pull out a brown-and-white-checked handkerchief, one of the perfectly ironed huge ones that had belonged to our father and always smelled of the drawer they were kept in. She calmly wiped her hands. Appetites whetted by the bread, the pigeons waddled around pecking at anything, even cigarette butts.
Suddenly Vera was holding the yellow imitation-leather silverware pouch that I had had to make in shop class, my gift to her at her Youth Consecration ceremony. “Here,” she said, “this is what’s left of my fortune.” The pouch was stuffed with currency.
Vera had halted in front of a car door. She kissed me first on the cheek, then on the lips. I handed her her traveling bag, and she climbed aboard—she was the last, I think.
The people in the aisle pressed against the windows to let her by. I accompanied Vera from window to window. I saw Vera light a cigarette right below the NO SMOKING sign. She held up the pack, Mother’s Duetts. Then the doors closed, which unleashed a new battle for places at the windows.
Whenever our eyes met, Vera smiled.
Without any announcement or whistle, the train suddenly lurched and began to pull out. The outcry along the platform was deafening. Anyone who could reached for a hand extended from a window. Even Vera allowed herself to be caught up in the hysteria. I saw her hand in the upper corner of the window, as if she wanted to give me the last half of her cigarette. She pressed her lips tight and shook her head, until I could see her no more.
Far too many people ran after the train in order to hold the hand they were grasping for a few more seconds. As idiotic as I found it all, what a grand spectacle it was when all those hands let go simultaneously.
From the end of the platform a wave of faces reddened from crying washed toward me. One woman threw her arms around my neck and was then tugged away. The last car thundered past, and in the next second each of us was all by himself—low voices, just an occasional sob. We left the platform one by one, as if observing some previous agreement.
I walked along the Elbe, following the shore upriver as far as the Blue Wonder Bridge, and headed up the slope, all the way to the grand villa with its circular flower beds.
Franziska opened the door as if she were expecting me. Her greeting was as warm, even fervent, as I used to dream it would be. From the cellar I could hear the music of Johann’s band, just a couple of bars that kept breaking off at the same spot. “All they ever do is argue,” Franziska said. I said nothing yet, because I could hear singing now. I understood hardly anything, and the singer—it wasn’t Johann’s voice—soon fell silent again as well. How I suddenly detested this riffraff, these church mice who never took a risk. What difference did it make what faith you sanctimoniously pretended to believe, or where you pretended it? Would Johann have been permitted to stu
dy theology if he had admitted he was an unbeliever? My revulsion surprised even me. Instead of bidding her an immediate good-bye, I followed her upstairs. The light went out on the landing of the stairs leading to their attic apartment. Franziska came back down to grope for the switch, or so I thought. By the glow of the streetlamp I could still see Franziska shove her glasses up into her hair, felt her press against me—and we kissed.
We barely budged the whole time, but the hardwood floor under our feet creaked now and then. Of course I had noticed Franziska had had a little to drink. But it wasn’t clear to me that she was completely drunk until she suddenly slumped and I was unable to keep her from slipping to the floor. I tried to sit her down on a step, and she almost fell off. Franziska held me tight. “It’s true, isn’t it,” she whispered, “you do love me, don’t you?” I said I did.231
The light went on, Johann was saying good-bye to his buddies.
I soundlessly freed myself partway from Franziska and pulled her glasses back down on her nose. But neither my presence nor Franziska’s condition seemed to surprise Johann.
“He loves me,” Franziska said, “he loves me!” But since she was glancing back and forth, now at Johann, now at me, it wasn’t clear whom she meant.
I waited in the kitchen while Johann attempted to put Franziska to bed. When he reappeared in the kitchen, all he wanted was a bucket, into which he ran some water, and then vanished back to her bedroom.
“She’ll be all right,” he said later, after he had drunk a glass of tap water and sat down beside me. He looked bone tired.
“I just brought Vera to the train,” I said. “She sends her good wishes.” I don’t know why I invented that. But Johann was happy to hear it.
In sequence I told him about the telegram, my trip home, about my mother and her suitcases and how she had called Vera back to her. I regretted that Franziska wasn’t at the table with us, since, or so it seemed to me, it was a great story. I had just got to the part about the pigeons when Johann leapt up and took off for the bedroom. As if in some film take, I watched him go and saw how the kitchen door swung farther and farther ajar.
And suddenly it happened—a feeling, a yearning, a certainty: I want out! I want to go to the West!
Maybe it was only my admission of a wish long latent within me. I sat there and enjoyed the clarity that comes with being governed by one single emotion. Yes, I too now loved the West with my whole heart—a love that flooded over me and coursed through me and that embraced Vera and all those people sitting on that train with her.
When Johann returned, we quickly said our good-byes—it was well after midnight. I ran the whole way to Klotzsche.
I was too exhausted to deal with considerations that would have led me any further. I wanted nothing more than to carry home with me this one decision, whose perfection would relieve me232 of every uncertainty.233
Your Enrico T.
Monte Carlo, Sunday, May 14,234 ’90
Dear Jo,
I’m sitting on the balcony of our room in the Hôtel de Paris, wrapped in a white bathrobe, gazing out at the casino and a swatch of sea to the left and right. I’m sick as a dog. My exhaustion is like a crying jag, but no sooner do I close my eyes than I’m dizzy. Writing is a good distraction. Vera hardly slept, despite earplugs. She’s out strolling through the hotel now and, if she manages to strike up a casual acquaintance, will probably end up in the pool. Vera is far more suited to this life. She’ll not be returning to Beirut all that soon. The latest bloodbath, although it took place on the “other side,” was the straw that broke the camel’s back.235
I’ve been asking myself the whole time why Barrista took the risk, why he pressed five thousand D-marks into my hand, paid for the flight and a hotel room, and in return demanded only that I not leave the roulette table until I had either lost my stake or doubled it. I’m gradually beginning to figure out what he had in mind.
Just taking off all by myself, boarding the flight alone, was something new for me. The flight, the Alps, the Mediterranean, Nice, palm trees, then Vera—as if I had landed in a Belmondo movie, as if the West still existed! Vera looks the same as always. She had flown via Damascus and Athens to Paris on Thursday, but arrived here just before me. She can fit what few things she has into two suitcases.
Barrista had recommended we take the helicopter. Like blasé secret agents we ducked under the earsplitting rotors, the doors were closed behind us, and we lifted off a moment later. Is there any better metaphor for our new life than being hauled up into the air? We flew out over the water; the sailboats below were like a herd of wild beasts. Suddenly Monaco in the noonday sun. The sublime view, however, was visible only over a buzz-cut conk.236 Once we landed, Barrista’s Hôtel de Paris was a magic charm that was rewarded with respect. While the buzzed head climbed into a taxi, someone opened for us the doors of a vehicle that Vera claims was a Bentley.
Palm trees, yachts, blue sky—just as I had imagined it. Following the route of the Grand Prix, we floated up to the hotel. The carpet in the entrance lent my gait a feathery spring. All the same I felt like a tourist at a castle. Vera, on the other hand, passed out currency in all directions as if it were an old habit of hers.
I gave our names to an elderly gentleman who stood up to greet us with a smile and was immediately certain that there would be no reservation for us.
“Bienvenue, Madame Türmer, bienvenue, Monsieur Türmer”—and like a bride and groom we sank into armchairs opposite him. Mirrors set in the wainscoting and patricianly dimmed by time reflected only our faces.
John, yes, his name was John, recommended we reserve a table for the Grill that evening. We agreed, without any notion of what we were getting into. I passed on Barrista’s good wishes—“Makes no difference who you run into there, they all know me”—whereupon John spread his arms and bowed, as if only now had he recognized us. The crown at the top of this page of stationery is warranted if solely on the basis of his demeanor and tone of voice. John accompanied us to the “belle chamber” and explained how the telephone and remote control, light switches and refrigerator function. He was outraged by a full ashtray left on the balcony.
I couldn’t find it in my heart to dispose of a gentleman like John with a tip—though Vera assures me that was a mistake. She had not only given away all her francs, she didn’t have any cash whatever left.
After our luggage arrived—I hadn’t touched it since Nice—we went across to the Café de Paris for “lunch,” as Barrista would call it. Just that hour and a half on the café’s terrace would have made the trip worth it. But I have more important things to write about.
Before falling onto our king-size bed for a siesta, we bought me a bow tie and a pair of sunglasses.
When I woke up it was twenty till eight. I instantly panicked. The very idea of risking all that Western money seemed ludicrous. I didn’t calm down until I was under the shower. I put on fresh clothes as if suiting up in armor. These were the socks I would wear, and these the under-shorts. Every button I buttoned became a token of security. Except that the top button wouldn’t close.
That bit of bare skin called everything else into question. It’s more than likely that I don’t own a single shirt whose collar button I can button.
While Vera got herself ready in the bathroom, I put on my bow tie—and behold, a miracle! Le nœud papillon hid the blemish, was my seal of approval, so to speak.
An hour later I was confident I had discovered why I was here. This wasn’t about the casino, this was a totally different game. Here, in the Grill, on the ninth floor, vis-à-vis the castle of the Grimaldis—this was where we had to pull it off, to hold our own.
Doesn’t it require courage to pass in review before a phalanx of waiters, each repeating with the most cordial of smiles, “Bonsoir, madame. Bonsoir, monsieur.” Doesn’t it take bravery to fall blindly back onto a chair without reaching for it, in utter trust of a waiter’s dexterity? And what is valor if not a tranquil smile when confronted by s
uch a menu? Although I admit I did warn Vera, whose menu contained no prices, about the Iranian caviar. At that point I couldn’t have brought myself to order an appetizer that cost over a thousand francs. On the other hand I repressed my thirst for beer and demanded the wine list. While I searched for a red wine under four hundred francs, Vera discovered that the footstool between us at the corner of the table was an ideal spot for her purse.
Our curiosity annoyed the waiters’ hypersensitive organs of perception. Just a fleeting glance or a careless gesture brought them bounding over, to no purpose of course, since our glasses were appropriately full, the ashtrays empty, both raisin and olive bread in plentiful supply, and they had only just now crumbed the tablecloth.
Isn’t there some form of meditation by which you cleanse your soul with a sequence of the most exquisite dishes? Rich people live healthy lives, Vera says.
At this point I thought that I might pull a fast one on the baron and be able to cheat him. Because the eighteen hundred francs that I gladly placed on the silver tray could not be taken away from us, either by him or the casino.
How naive of me! As if there were any emotion, any thought that was not included in the baron’s calculations. The more abundant, the more contradictory my own responses might be, the more successful his lessons proved to be. Presumably if Barrista had this letter in hand, he would first point out by way of critique that I’ve already mentioned prices three times.
Unfortunately Vera and I messed up at the end. My paying in cash had itself caused bewilderment, but our departure proved so abrupt that our personal waiters, who had intended to pull our chairs back, just raised their hands in reproachful disappointment.