New Lives

by Ingo Schulze

  If it hadn’t been for the creaking of the bed I would have thought I was deaf. I snapped my fingers. Not a rustle, not a breeze, not a bird. I had broken into a sweat and knew that I wouldn’t go back to sleep.

  Naked as a jaybird, I stepped out the door. Everything seemed frozen in place. With each little noise I made, silence closed in all the tighter. The more intensely I listened, the more impenetrable the hush, until finally I thought I could feel it above my head like some giant black block of stone.

  I tried several times to take a deep breath, but my lungs felt only half full of the air I sucked down into them, as if I were several thousand meters above sea level. It didn’t help to sit down either. I felt a rippling, swirling sensation around my heart. I was amazed I didn’t panic. At least I could distinguish between the deep black of the trunks of the firs and the grayish darkness between them. I was on the verge of saying a prayer or humming a tune just to escape the silence, the hush. Suddenly it seemed incredible that I should be sitting all alone at night in a stock-still woods—the only restive thing in a mute world. I thought I might be dreaming or losing my mind. My own laughter gave me a fright.

  And like some stroke of grace a fly joined me. It whirled around my head, and suddenly I could see an illustration from a physics text before my eyes: an electron orbiting the nucleus of an atom.246

  The fly landed on my left shoulder—I flinched and then held my breath. Had I scared it away? The fly dared not abandon me, it had to stay, the only living creature standing guard with me, my sole companion. When I felt it stir, I again held my breath and relished its touch as if it were a caress. Have you ever let a fly crawl over your shoulders and back? In the midst of my fear that sooner or later the fly could forsake me, for the first time in my life the idea crossed my mind that the world, just as it is, might end up lost to me.

  It was not fear of nuclear war, of the end of the world. It was the fear that everything from which I took my bearings could be lost; the structure of the world to which I had adapted the permutations of my thoughts and emotions, might vanish from one day to the next, leaving nothing more than a great emptiness behind. Just as I had feared I would be inducted into the army too late, so now I feared that before I could fire my gun all the real game would be slain and only mice and rats would be left for me.

  It was an absurd thought, but no less absurd than sitting naked in the woods, happy and grateful for the companionship of a fly.

  Only the fly and the pain just above my heart seemed to exist, the sole realities at my disposal, the one thing that prevented my thoughts and emotions from evaporating into weightlessness.

  On those spots where my sweat hadn’t dried I sensed a draft, and I felt chilled. With empty brain, with empty heart, yielding to my fate, I crept back to bed.

  When I awoke, it was warm and flies, a whole swarm, were buzzing above me.

  I presume that by now you think I am indeed crazy or at least more than a bit odd. But viewed from the present, that nocturnal experience is one of the few episodes that I can look back upon with sympathy for the person I was at the time.

  But to return to Altenburg, to which I traveled in early September ’88, before starting my last year of studies.

  Flieder’s rehearsals of Julie deserve a chapter of their own. Read the Strindberg play again yourself and pay attention to the breaks, to the steady flow of staying—going—staying—going. In a certain sense it was so much about me that it was eerie.

  No less eerie was the realization of how closely related directing and writing are. From Flieder I learned that the purpose of dialogue is not to communicate something, but rather to clarify the relationships among the characters. That it doesn’t matter what the characters are talking about as long as you know what you want to say. That there is hell to pay if you neglect even one of the relationships, that not one item, not a single step in the choreography can be ignored.

  Is there anything more beautiful than a plausible character? If I were able to attain Flieder’s level in my own writing, my novella would be a masterpiece. But then why, I anxiously asked myself, isn’t Flieder a famous director?

  But what would Flieder’s rehearsals have been without Michaela! I was allowed to gaze at Michaela, to observe and study her, and no one, including her, could reproach me for it. One of my tasks was to devour her with my eyes. I dreamed that Michaela and I were a couple. This fantasy collided, to be sure, with my desire to leave the country as soon as I could. But I kept postponing taking the step—out of concern for my mother, only because it seemed better to first get my degree, because I hadn’t heard from Vera since her departure. And I had put on blinders to the fact that day after day Michaela arrived and departed with Max (our Jean). From her first marriage she had a son who sometimes waited for her in the canteen, where he painted or played cards with the kitchen staff.

  After a rehearsal at the beginning of my second week, as always I gave Michaela a good-bye hug—and our cheeks touched. I was about to stand up straight again, but she held me tight—for an eternity, or so it seemed to me. And then as always Michaela climbed into the Wartburg with Max. I took that long hug to be part of the ragtag intimacy typical of the theater. The next evening, however, the same farewell repeated itself. This time I likewise held Michaela until she couldn’t stand tiptoe any longer. After Wednesday’s rehearsal we ran into each other in the entry to the canteen, or better, we ran toward each other. I still had my notepad in one hand. It would be too much to claim that the way she moved told me everything, but it would be no exaggeration to say that we virtually flew into each other’s arms—we were lucky not to have stumbled on the rippled linoleum.

  “Do you know how to drive?” was the first thing Michaela whispered in my ear. She asked me to wait, stepped into the canteen, and returned with the keys to the Wartburg. It belonged to her, or actually to her mother, but neither of them had a driver’s license.

  I drove Michaela home that evening for the first time. The light was on in Robert’s room. She called back to tell me what time to pick up her the next day, and ran off. The heels of her shoes echoed in the horseshoe of the new apartment building—and for whatever reason it filled me with pride. I stood at the open driver’s door, one elbow propped on the roof—it was as if I had won first prize in a raffle.

  The next morning she asked me if I was a free man, whether the difference of seven years—she had found that out somehow—mattered, and whether I realized that she would always have to take Robert into consideration. Before I could answer, she gave me a kiss, and then Max rapped on the windshield.

  I waited by the car for Michaela after rehearsal. When she finally appeared I could tell she wanted to leave with me. She said that I had on the shirt she loved to see me wear. I turned the ignition on, she slipped her left hand under my collar, I drove off, and we both stared straight ahead as if into heavy fog.

  We scurried past the front desk; I had intentionally not left my room key with them. In the elevator Michaela said she felt like a fraud for having been taking the pill all this time. Robert wouldn’t be home before four thirty, so we had a little time. She pulled an alarm clock from her purse, and set it.

  Once in the room, Michaela pulled down the blinds and drew the curtains. She extricated herself when I started to unbutton her blouse. She wouldn’t even let me watch her undress and called me out of the bathroom only after she was lying in bed with the covers up to her neck. At first I thought it was a game, but Michaela had very definite notions of what all I was and was not allowed to do.

  Before evening rehearsal began, Flieder said he had done some rescheduling and needed only Max and Petrescu. Michaela and I drove to the hotel, and once again I waited in the bathroom until she called me. I asked her why she was embarrassed in front of me. I’d learn that soon enough—or maybe not—Michaela said, holding a hand over my mouth before I could ask the question I was on the verge of asking.

  Later on we fell asleep and didn’t wake up until after midn
ight. In sheer panic Michaela could barely dress, but insisted that I turn my face to the wall.

  The light was on in Robert’s room. I waited and listened again to the echo of Michaela’s footfall.

  During the days left before semester began, we saw each other only at rehearsals. It was now Max who was again driving her between home and the theater.

  A few weeks later Michaela revealed to me the reasons for her puzzling ritual. “It has to do with Robert,” she said, “with his birth.” I didn’t understand. “A C-section,” she said, and stared at me almost in fright, only then to suddenly bark at me, “It left a scar, a big, ugly scar.” I said that was no news to me, but only now had I made the connection.

  “Well everybody doesn’t have to see it!” she cried angrily.

  You’re probably asking yourself why I’m telling you all this? What does our love story have to do with my confession?247 Just be patient.

  Robert fought me all the way. Plus he hated everything that had to do with the theater. And I had to admit Robert annoyed me. I wasn’t used to taking anyone else into consideration. I wanted to read, write, attend the theater and exhibitions, see movies. And that’s what Michaela wanted too. But I’m getting ahead of myself. In those first weeks the very idea of my spending the night at Michaela’s was out of the question. And in case I tried, Robert threatened to run away from home. The first time I paid an official visit, he locked himself in his room and wailed so loud that after ten minutes Michaela asked me to leave. There were times when I traveled to Altenburg to see Michaela for just half an hour. And even then Robert was the center of attention.

  My first overnight came at the end of November, and that was because Robert had thrown my shoes out the window and they had to be dried on the radiator.

  And it wasn’t just that Robert was a mischief-maker, he was a blemish on Michaela. I was in no way on Robert’s side, but at times I wished he would win out. Because I had had a different idea of a love affair.248 What was more, I didn’t want to stay here, here in Altenburg, here in this country. At least that’s what I wrote to Vera.

  When Michaela glowingly announced that Robert had agreed to travel with her and me to Dresden—he wanted to meet my mother too—I couldn’t have been more conflicted.

  My mother had baked and cooked, our beds—Robert had my room all to himself—were decorated with chocolate animals and licorice sticks, the kind I hadn’t seen for years. The towels were new and soft, and each of us was given a pair of slippers. Robert had apparently expected nothing less. While we sat drinking coffee he roamed the apartment, knocked over a vase, and peeked in every cupboard and drawer. Mother wasn’t upset and helped calm Michaela down. They competed at chain-smoking, and Mother gave her the pair of shoes she had bought six months before, on the day Vera left. Every few minutes Robert presented us with another one of his discoveries. He found not only my old teddy bear and children’s books, but also my first cartridge pen, the cap of which revealed distinct teeth marks and that had been such a trusty friend that it was as if I had laid it aside only a moment before. Finally Robert dragged over my grandfather’s compass set—the compasses resting in shimmering blue velvet. Robert asked if he could keep it. To my horror my mother said yes. But Michaela’s “No!” was so determined that I didn’t have to intervene. Then it was time for photo albums, and that evening Robert cracked every egg we had in a skillet and called the result an omelet.

  Shortly before we left the next day Robert insisted on playing badminton with me in the courtyard. Yes, only with me. On the way back he fell asleep, so that Michaela could snuggle up against me. It was then that it first struck me: I have a family—a family. And I didn’t know if it was a dream come true or if I was caught in a trap.249

  Saturday, May 19, ’90

  Dear Nicoletta,

  It may perhaps amaze you when I say that the next eighteen months—from the day of our weekend together in Dresden until May ’89—was a happy time. The internal conflict that I described still existed, but it wasn’t hard to live with. I kept postponing applying for an exit visa—no, I was saving it as a kind of reward that I would first have to earn. The longer I stuck it out in the GDR, the more I would ultimately have to show for myself in the West. Besides which I regarded family life as a new experience. It was a marvelous feeling to watch Michaela shave her legs, and it felt like the proof of intimacy to hang our laundry on the clothesline or to take it down.

  The strain between Robert and me remained. I met with Robert’s approval only sporadically, for instance when I succeeded in holding the spout from our laundry spin-drier directly over the bucket. To do that I had to throw myself on top of the machine. My mother on the other hand was accepted without qualification, which was why we made frequent trips to Dresden.

  My studies came to a lusterless end. A few months before my oral exams I came very close to being dismissed from the university without my intending it, because I had tacked a page of “concrete poetry” on the bulletin board.250 As liberal as it sometimes seemed, the university had never really become so.

  After defending my thesis, my last task as a student, we—Michaela, Anton, and I—went to District Military Headquarters. I had to cancel—or to put it more correctly, change—my address. Michaela listened while I was told that as a driver I had a good chance of being called up again after two years. (Which would be now.)

  That threat charged both my school novella and my army book with new energy.

  The premiere of Miss Julie that September251 was a flop. When Michaela led Flieder onstage there were a few bravos, but three quarters of the audience was already waiting for their coats. We coerced four curtain calls. Smiling up into the empty balconies, Michaela curtsied each time like an opera diva. In Berlin this Julie would have been as celebrated as Danton’s Death or Macbeth had been.252

  It was not until we were driving home after the cast party that Michaela burst into rage. She had been stuck in Altenburg way too long, and all the talk about how the theater here was a stepping-stone had never been true. “I can’t take this Podunk any longer!” she shouted. Her despair reached the point that she declared she was ready to join the Party if that was what it took to get a role in Berlin. Half her friends at the Gorki or the Berliner Ensemble were comrades—none of them someone you would ever have guessed was.

  “And what about West Berlin,” I asked as we turned down our street. “In an instant!” Michaela cried, and stared at me with eyes open wide. “In an instant,” she repeated.

  When we got home she handed me a package—her premiere gift. It contained several smaller packages, which I had to open one after the other until I got to the last one wrapped in gold paper—a pack of Club cigarettes, but filled with peppermints. A note slipped inside read, “Smoking is dangerous for expectant mothers and fathers.” We hadn’t yet managed it, but we were trying to give up smoking.

  Miss Julie had five or six performances. In Michaela’s eyes the fact that her Julie wasn’t on the season’s consignment list253 was pure censorship. There were a few scattered reviews, the local paper’s was scathing.

  When I began working full-time as a dramaturge I was assigned a one-and-a-half room apartment in the home of eighty-eight-year-old Emilie Paulini.

  We two shared a chemical toilet, halfway up the stairs, and a kitchen whose sink was my ersatz bathtub. The cellar, however, was filled with briquettes. I needed this refuge because Robert’s television habits, plus a cassette recorder that never stopped playing, literally drove me off. I had moved in with just a table and a chair—deeply disappointing Emilie Paulini. She was afraid, you see, of being alone “when it comes time to die.” To fall asleep some night and never wake up, that’s what she hoped for. But there should be someone close by. In my honor she wore a wig, usually perched like a lopsided beret. At regular intervals she would wave me into her parlor, invite me to have a seat, and then hand me a framed, brown-foxed photograph of a beautiful young woman. Did I have any idea who that was? She woul
d then giggle, thrust her bewigged head forward like a turtle, and ask very loudly, “Well?” I would glance back and forth between her and the photo and finally say, “But of course, Frau Paulini, that’s you!” Emilie Paulini would screech, fling her arms into the air, and jump up to fetch me a piece of pastry from the kitchen.

  Emilie Paulini didn’t like Michaela because she was a “theater person” besides which, she was to blame for my not living at her place.

  Her daughter Ruth came to visit on Wednesdays and picked her up every Sunday for dinner. Ruth spoke very fast and, rather than pausing between sentences, let out a long high-pitched “aaah” or “nooo” that fell slowly on its column of air. In the kitchen she told me (“Herr Türmer, what all I could tell you, Herr Türmer, aaah, but there’s not enough time—nooo—so much, so much”) about how, while fleeing in April ’45, they had “fallen into the hands of the Russians” in Freital near Dresden. Her mother had always sent her away and told her to sing. “Whenever the Russians came, I would be sent out to sing. Aaah! Those are stories, Herr Türmer, stories…aaah! Even though our mommy was no longer young, but that didn’t help. Stories! Aaah, Herr Türmer. She arrived here pregnant, at age forty-three, pregnant! Nooo, and with no husband, just imagine it!”254 Ruth dabbed at one corner of her eye with a lace handkerchief she always kept at the ready.

  I couldn’t figure out the point of the singing, but since Emilie Paulini never left us alone for long, I didn’t get around to asking Ruth about it until some time later. “Aaah, Herr Türmer, it’s really very simple. It eased her mind. She at least knew I wasn’t being molested. Aaah, nooo, stories!”

  It was Michaela who initially suggested I turn the tales of the two Paulinis into a play, a monologue. For her as an actor it would of course be better to have Ruth narrate the whole thing, but a mother-daughter piece was also a possibility. If I could get them both to tell their stories, the piece would write itself.255