New Lives

by Ingo Schulze

  Just so I wasn’t to be surprised, he whispered on the stairs, he had a visitor.

  Geronimo preceded me, the kitchen was empty. He opened the pantry. “It’s Enrico,” he said, and held the door open as if he were presenting me with his Golem. Nothing happened for a few moments. I sat down—and stood right back up again. Because he had to duck to get through the doorway, what I first saw was just a white turban, a bandaged head. And out came Mario, Mario Gädtke, the reddest Red in our class, who had left for the army as if setting out for summer camp. The left half of his face was swollen. We shook hands. “Nice coincidence,” he said, “here we are all together again.” Mario sat down on the sofa and pulled a stationery notepad from under his sweater. I waited for an explanation, including why he had vanished into the pantry at the sound of gravel against the window.

  “He’s just been released,” Geronimo said. Mario pursed his lips, the same way he always had.

  “Released from where?”

  Mario sat there smiling to himself.

  “The special alert police,” Geronimo answered for him. They had nabbed him the evening before and hadn’t sent him home until two hours ago.

  “He brought that with him,” Geronimo said, pointing to the bandage. Mario raised his head. I asked about Franziska.

  “She’s in no danger,” Mario said, and smiled again.

  “She’s working on a conference for the Hygiene Museum—‘Bicentennial of the French Revolution,’” Geronimo explained. In such situations only one of them left the house, the other stayed with Gesine. He was about to go on, but Mario had begun to read—so loud that Geronimo got up and closed the kitchen door.

  Mario’s report is reprinted in Geronimo’s book,293 naturally with some changes to what I heard that day. In his foreword Geronimo describes how he had barely recognized Mario—he was so badly battered and wearing that head bandage. Mario had drunk one glass of water after another before he was capable of uttering a word. At that moment, Geronimo writes—that is before he learned anything from Mario—the thought crossed his mind for the first time that all this would need to be documented. Then comes a lot of stuff about forgetting and preserving, about guilt and justice and atonement and forgiveness. One gets the impression, moreover, that Mario had come to him because Geronimo was just the man one turns to in an emergency, a rocky refuge in a tempest-tossed sea.

  In his description of the evening Geronimo omits my visit. And in fact I said hardly anything. But as you’ll see it would nevertheless have been appropriate to have mentioned me, if only in a minor role.

  What Mario read to us sounded at first like an accident report already officially on file, a statement of grievances addressed to whomever. First the date, time (8:15 p.m.), and the statement that he had gone to the Central Station in, he emphasized, “a totally sober state,” plus an enumeration of his “personal effects”: ID, wallet, cigarettes, matches, house key, handkerchief. This list made its way unaltered into the printed version. There it reads: “My goal was personally to witness what truth there was or was not to the reports of friends, neighbors, and colleagues. Near the Central Station and along Prager Strasse several thousand people had gathered. Prager Strasse and especially the area adjoining the Rundkino had been cordoned off by security forces. Several areas had obviously been declared off-limits. A canine unit was posted directly in front of the movie theater. There was no untoward rowdiness that I could see. As nearly as I could ascertain the security forces were made up of units of the special alert police, the transportation police, as well as the National People’s Army. One could hear chants coming from in front of the movie theater, about where the music instrument shop is: ‘Father, no billy club! Brother, no billy club!,’ ‘We’re here to stay!,’ ‘Nonviolence!’”

  I asked if it shouldn’t be “No violence!” but Mario insisted it was “Nonviolence!” Missing in the book is his commentary on “We’re here to stay!” He had thought it necessary to explain that the slogan was meant to set them off from people wanting to leave the GDR and was in no way meant as resistance to a police order to vacate the area.

  “A passerby took a picture of the barricade in front of the Exquisite Clothing Shop. In response 2 uniformed men approached him; the passerby attempted to flee, but appeared quickly to resign himself to being grabbed. He was roughly pulled behind the barricade, his camera ripped from his hands. It all happened in double-time. The security forces now advanced, clearing Prager Strasse. Anyone who didn’t run fast enough ahead of them was ruthlessly apprehended. Before each successive phase of their advance, they rhythmically rapped their truncheons against their shields, first slowly, then faster and faster, until they broke into a running charge. This obviously raised the level of fear and dismay among those fleeing before them.”

  As I recall the passage about the sound the truncheons made, it was considerably longer. There were comparisons. In one of them Mario confused Roman legionnaires with gladiators. Whenever he fell silent he would tug his pursed lips to one side.

  “Around 10:30 p.m. units of the army took up positions in the street along the front of the Central Station, roughly where the bus station is. Tightly linking arms, they spread out the full width of the street. There were approximately 10 to 15 rows, one behind the other. To a loud unison, ‘Left, 2, 3, 4,’ they set out at a quick pace, marching down the street in the direction of the Zeitkino. At this point, however, only a smaller group of citizens were gathered in front of the Central Station, where the situation could be described as relatively calm, whereas chanted slogans were coming from the direction of Leningrader Strasse.”

  Something happened now that I hadn’t in the least expected. Mario smiled and shoved the pages across the table to Geronimo. I at once saw what I should have noticed all along: it was Geronimo’s handwriting, not Mario’s, which I had always envied for its even flow, the way it filled paper like an engraving.

  Mario leaned back on the sofa. Geronimo arranged the pages to suit him.

  “As a witness to the truth of my testimony,” Mario dictated, “I can mention my former classmate Johann Ziehlke, whom I met by chance on Prager Strasse. Do you have any objection?” Geronimo shook his head as he wrote. Mario spread his arms along the back of the sofa and, laying his head against the wall and gazing at the ceiling, continued to dictate. I also recall this passage differently and think I can spot the omissions.

  “Nevertheless the uniformed men continued their relentless march and to no obvious purpose cleared the street before the Central Station (including the intersection). Behind them came an army vehicle called a Ural. Objects trailing smoke came flying from it and rained down on the crowd. I quickly realized this was tear gas. For about 10 to 15 minutes I couldn’t see much of anything, my eyes burned terribly, the stuff attacks mucus membranes—despite the fact that I immediately covered my face with a handkerchief. At that moment I realized that upon arrival earlier in the evening I had noticed the uniformed forces were equipped with gas-mask bags, but had paid the matter little notice until now. A short time later more men in uniform moved up from Prager Strasse, so that they had now encircled the large lawn across from the bus station. I had in fact previously moved to this open spot because only a very few citizens stood scattered across it.”

  Did you catch it? During the minutes that Mario saw nothing or hardly anything, the scene goes blank. But that’s not how it was. Plus it was precisely at this point that the report lost its semiofficial tone. He and Geronimo had linked arms because they were afraid of being “collected like ladybugs with wings stuck together.” There were two, three humorously grotesque sentences in which he described the two of them running around blindly—there was mention of drunken chickens and the stench of rotten eggs. Suddenly Geronimo’s arm slipped out of his, he groped for him, shouted his name, and finally decided they were safely out of the tear-gas cloud. In the end he assumed Geronimo had remained behind, had turned back to look for him.

  Geronimo hadn’t even looked up when
Mario removed his arms from the back of the sofa, stared at him, and said, “You’d vanished from the face of the earth.” I thought Geronimo was just finishing up the paragraph before offering his explanation. But instead Mario resumed his previous position, put his head to the wall, and went on dictating.

  “Very quickly, however, I realized that the uniformed men, banging away on their shields with their truncheons, were still advancing. Coming now from the direction of the bus station as well, they were moving down the street in a broad phalanx—there was no escape. Three or four youngsters tried to slip away to one side. A uniformed man made a dash for one of them and, lunging at full speed, purposely and brutally upended him. Then he began to whale away mercilessly with his truncheon, even though the fellow wasn’t even trying to defend himself. Another uniformed man hastened to lend a hand. Together they dragged their bundle back out of the way.” Mario described the actions of the uniformed personnel, the ebb and flow. Finally it was his turn. “Storm troopers started hunting and snatching up the last citizens still standing scattered about, dragging them inside their closed circle after first working them over. I heard someone shout: ‘There’s one!’ I didn’t notice that 3 soldiers were rushing me until it was too late. I turned around, looked around—no one else nearby. I realized—they’re after me. I took off. But because of that pause in my train of thought they were faster at getting at me than I was at getting away. So I just stood there, raised my arms, and shouted: ‘I’ll come voluntarily, I won’t put up a fight.’ Two uniformed men grabbed me, one put a head hold on me and squeezed very hard. The other pulled my right arm painfully up behind my back. They slugged me in the back 4 or 5 times and bellowed: ‘Shut your filthy mouth! Not one word, or you won’t be talking for days.’ They dragged me into the circle. ‘Don’t go easy on him. Or else I’ll help out!’ another soldier yelled. I was thrown to the pavement, with a booted kick in the back for good measure. Other citizens were already lying there, maybe 10 people. Somebody roared: ‘Face to the ground, arms spread above your head, legs spread, ass down!’ A man in uniform gave my rear end a kick and shouted: ‘Lower, flatter!’ I was able to read my watch. It was 12:25. The cold ground was slowly penetrating my clothing, I was freezing. Trucks (W50s) pulled up after a while. We were now frisked, all the while forced to hold the position I’ve described. To our right another soldier flung 2 bottles, one after the other, to the pavement. Some of the splinters flew dangerously near our heads. Soon, starting on the far right, they began dragging us one by one to our feet.”

  Mario had spoken in a monotone until now, lowering his voice only at the end of each sentence. Given the already extraordinary situation, I wondered why neither ever looked at the other. As Mario described the tortures he was put through his voice grew more lively. Sometimes, as with the kick to his rear end, he even burst into laughter. Geronimo, on the other hand, bent farther down over his paper like a poor student. I remember Mario’s account, especially what comes now, as far less clumsy than it reads here:

  “We were led to the truck and forced to climb in. That earned me more blows. 4 citizens were placed next to me. Swinging their truncheons 2 men in uniform sat down across from us. A soldier outside roared: ‘You’ll get yours, you filthy bastards!’ During the trip we weren’t allowed to look out the rear window and were ordered to hold our position. The trip lasted about 15 minutes and took a lot of curves. The 2 guards banged their truncheons against their bench as a threat. The truck halted. We were told to jump out. This was to be done in sequence, one by one. But on the other hand it didn’t go fast enough for our uniformed guards, they helped with a shove. We were on a military base. It was raining. We 5 were told to line up, hands clasped behind our heads, legs spread. I don’t know how long we stood there. Then we had to run up some stairs into a building, hands still behind our heads. We entered a room. Each of us had to stand with his forehead against the wall, legs spread wide but not touching the wall, hands behind our heads. We were frisked a second time. Each time, the uniformed men used the opportunity to make it even more painful to have your forehead bear your entire weight. Pockets emptied. After that each of us had to step up to the table and identify ourselves. Then we went into a larger room (the Officers Club?) with hardwood floors. Position: legs spread, face to the wall, hands behind the head. The room was filling up. I was able to glance at my watch again. It was 1:45 a.m. (Oct. 7th, ‘Republic Day’). We were guarded by 2 men. From somewhere in the background one of them gave us our instructions: ‘You are in a militarily secured location. Attempt to flee and you will be shot.’”

  Mario gradually began to show some theatrical qualities when doing quotes. He seemed especially taken by the word “shot,” which he repeated several times. From here on I had the impression he was speaking more and more to me.

  “During this period of standing we were frequently maltreated and humiliated. The man standing to my left had his legs pulled out from under him, he fell flat on his face on the hardwood floor. Any movement was repaid with blows by a truncheon. A fourteen-year-old young man requested that his parents please be informed, and added that he had kidney problems and had to take medication. For that he was beaten and led away. When you could no longer stand, you had to kneel down on the backs of your hands until they swelled up. I had to listen to things like: ‘They’re all ringleaders, we’ll be giving them a good hard look.’ And: ‘His won’t be the first skull I’ve cracked, or the last.’ We were called ‘Nazi swine’ and heard threats like ‘Now it’s time to play Chile.’ Around 5 a.m.—my watch had been broken during a beating—we were regrouped several times. The large window was opened. It was drafty. I no longer had any feeling in my arms and legs. I fainted at one point. That was when they bandaged my head, but it wasn’t long before I had to return to my row. After another regrouping my row was shoved into another room. There was a bucket of tea. One of us then had to crawl around on his knees and clean up the mess on the floor. Then we were given bread and lard. Then regrouped again. Finally we stood for a long time in a hallway, near the kitchen. Another identification check. Then we were called out one by one. My name was included, too, my real name. Until then they had just called me the Indian. ‘What, y’mean to say we got Indians here too?’ A police lieutenant in civvies, lent for the occasion from the criminal division, did the questioning. Then it was back down to the room. As before, 1 or 2 guards stood in the doorway. They were charged with making sure no one slept. Whoever showed a sign, even the slightest sign, of dropping off, was hauled to his feet and freshened up, which meant special treatment out in the hallway. ‘Tired? Well then, wake up!’ They made sure we could hear them going about their business out there. Those who received special treatment came back with no blood left in their hands and for several minutes couldn’t even hold on to a mug of tea. One well-dressed gray-haired man sat inert on his chair, staring apathetically straight ahead. One side of another man’s face had been badly beaten, it was swollen and bloodied. An older man very plainly dressed had hands that looked like pulp. At the end of my interrogation I signed a statement. A woman in uniform, a captain, gave me my ID back, handed me a notification of disciplinary proceedings that I had to acknowledge with my signature, and asked if all my personal effects had been returned. After being advised to cut a wide path around the Central Station, I was released at 6:30 p.m.”

  Toward the end here—there is no reason to keep it from you—I have departed from the printed version and relied more on my own memory. But even with my changes there is no way of capturing the eeriness of it all, which grew sentence by sentence, almost word by word. Mario was sweating. Toward the end he started and concluded almost every sentence with a burst of laughter. He downed what was now a cold cup of tea in one gulp.

  Geronimo stared wearily into space. Mario insisted we break this up. I don’t know why I didn’t stay behind with Geronimo and wait at least until Franziska returned. We hadn’t exchanged two sentences with each other. I led the way down the stairs, and he
ard Geronimo lock the apartment door behind us.

  Mario asked for a ride to the center of town. Just when I thought he had fallen asleep, his eyes flew open and he asked whether I still wrote poems.

  At an intersection between Fucík Platz294 and the Kupferstich-Kabinett we caught up with the demonstration. I stopped and let Mario out. Our good-byes were brief. As chance would have it, someone took a photograph, and so that’s how I ended up in Geronimo’s book. Except I’m the only one who knows that. In the photograph at the top of page forty-five, I’m the driver standing beside the open door of his Wartburg.

  I had just waved to Mario, who had called something back to me over the tops of other people’s heads—my eyes were following his white turban—when I heard my name spoken behind me. I turned around and there he was, coming toward me on raven legs, shoulders raised, smile askew, his hand extended. His feet looked like they were still stuck inside his father’s work shoes. I shook Hendrik’s hand. “I’m looking for my mother,” I said. We should get together sometime, he said. I asked whether he wanted a ride home. He no longer lived in Klotzsche, he said. Shortly thereafter I lost sight of him too.

  As always when I was home alone, I lay down on my mother’s bed and soon fell asleep with her nightgown tucked under the pillow.295

  Your Enrico

  Monday, May 28, ’90

  Dear Jo,

  If you were a local politician you’d be calling every day to announce you’ll be mailing us a letter—or maybe will just drop it off yourself—in a last desperate attempt to get on the list of candidates for a five-minute audience with the hereditary prince. Thanks to two pages on “His Highness,” our latest issue sold better than our scandal sheet.

  The first resolution of the first meeting of the first freely elected people’s deputies in a little less than sixty years was an invitation to the hereditary prince—Barrista had more or less made the matter conditional on a unanimous vote, since “His Highness” did not want his wish realized in the face of any opposition or reservations. Even our members from the Party of Democratic Socialism thrust their arms high. They were all grateful that they could begin their work with an act so pregnant with symbolism. First they praised us—the visit carries the epithet “organized by the Altenburg Weekly”—and then themselves for attempting to revive a tradition eminently important for the city and region after its having been suppressed and suspended during the decades of socialist dictatorship. At the local dance school they’re already practicing curtsies.