New Lives

by Ingo Schulze

  Up onstage talk turned immediately to procedural matters, how far ahead notification needed to be given and so forth. In the end the date was set for November 4th.

  On the drive home that evening we stopped in Leipzig and went to the Astoria—I showed it to you, the luxury hotel right on the Ring, next to the train station. They let us in, showed us to a table, and fed us a regal meal. “Actually, we’re doing quite well,” I said. That the street in front of the Astoria was the same one where thirteen days before a military cordon had been drawn up, where six days before seventy thousand demonstrators had marched—that seemed equally as absurd as the assumption that there might be fighting in the streets here come tomorrow.

  On Monday I was at my desk in the dramaturgy office by ten, read a little, went to the canteen at noon, and drove home at two. I did some household chores, went shopping, lay down for a while, and later prepared supper. After that I joined Robert to watch television. It was reported on the news that a hundred and fifty thousand people had taken to the streets in Leipzig. Not a word about arrests or street fights.

  Michaela, who arrived shortly afterward,319 stood beside us, her mouth agape. “Really?” she asked. “A hundred fifty thousand?” She kept staring at the television, although something entirely different was on by then.

  On Tuesday morning, then—since Jonas hadn’t been at the theater on Monday—Michaela and I sat waiting in his office. At half past he called us in, asked his secretary to bring three coffees, and leaned back in his throne, which came from props. His smile remained as good as unchanged while Michaela informed him about the “Berlin resolution” and demanded that he notify the authorities of a demonstration for free speech and a free press.

  “Was that all?” he asked. Did we realize what we were asking, were we really serious, and did we actually expect him to go to the police and notify them of our demonstration. He didn’t give a tinker’s damn about such “re-so-lu-tions” (he provided the quotation marks by emphasizing each syllable). We could go right ahead and continue to make ourselves unhappy by announcing as many demonstrations as we, as private citizens, thought necessary, but should be prepared to put our heads on the block and not ask for his help later on because—and he was telling us this in advance—he would be unable to do anything else on our behalf, not one thing.

  Michaela wanted to verify one last time, as she put it: He was not therefore prepared to sanction a demonstration here in Altenburg that had been approved in Berlin by the union representatives of every theater?

  He knew nothing about any union resolutions. He could, of course, give union headquarters here a call if we liked, maybe they would know what we were talking about.

  “So that means no?” she asked.

  “It most definitely means no,” he said. We exchanged smiles. “Well then,” Michaela said, and stood up just as the secretary appeared with three cups of coffee.

  After rehearsal, we went to see the police,320 rang the bell, and within moments were standing before the two officers on duty, one black-haired, the other blond and chubby-cheeked. From seats behind their desks, they gave us a once-over.

  “We want to give notification of a demonstration,” Michaela said, then introduced us and repeated the same sentences she had used with Jonas. The black-haired cop reached for the telephone, the blond looked out the window and grinned.

  A minute later and for the third time that day Michaela was using the phrases “Berlin resolution” and “meeting of working theater professionals.”

  Even when he spoke, the Altenburg chief of police, a tall, skinny man with hunched shoulders, seemed somehow distracted—looking up, if he looked at us at all, only briefly. After a longish pause he said something about traffic safety, which, “given current staffing,” he could not guarantee, and then complained about the short notice we were giving him. After which silence reigned. I examined the traces of dark red wax along the baseboard of a pale wall cabinet and black streaks left by the mop.

  Suddenly the chief of police asked what would be the theme of our activities.

  “Sanctioning of the New Forum, free elections, secret ballot, freedom of information and the press, freedom of speech, freedom to travel—in fact, all the things that are guaranteed in our constitution,” Michaela said. The chief of police pushed himself up from his desk, took up a position at the window, and crossed his arms, hunching his shoulders even more. There was a holstered pistol at his hip.

  Michaela and I crossed our legs simultaneously, which I found a little embarrassing.

  Never budging, he finally instructed us to go back downstairs and fill out the necessary forms, gave a nod toward the door by way of a farewell, and then went back to staring out the window.

  The blond cop was still grinning. On his desk lay two blank forms for “Registration of Open-air Activities.” Michaela frowned. “There’s nothing else,” said the black-haired cop, whose lips glistened and whose bowed eyebrows lent him a girlish look.

  For number of participants we entered ten thousand, for time frame we gave from one to three p.m., and on the line asking about music we wrote “undecided.” There wasn’t enough space at the line for “Location of Activity.” In describing the route we decided to keep the same one as had been taken on Thursday, except that we wanted to begin our demonstration at the theater. We both signed. When we asked about any further formalities, the blond told us to return the following Tuesday and cast a quizzical glance at his darker colleague, who shrugged and repeated, “Next Tuesday.” Michaela extended her hand first to one, then the other—they shot up from their seats. I shook their hands as well. The doorkeeper greeted us excitedly, as if we were old acquaintances, and buzzed us out the main door. “The only thing we forgot to do was ask them for their guns,” Michaela said once we were outside.

  On Wednesday I waited for Michaela beside the car—she was later than usual. I heard someone softly call my name. The general manager’s secretary had opened her window just a crack and was waving at me as if she had a dust rag in her hand.

  “Well, do you hear the chains rattling?” Jonas called out to me as I entered the administration offices. “Haven’t you heard the tanks yet? You can forget your demonstration. Krenz is the new general secretary!”

  To this day I don’t know what provoked Jonas’s outburst. He evidently mistook my smile for mockery. He turned red and he bellowed, “Krenz was in China!” And when I continued to say nothing: “He was there three weeks ago, just three weeks! You don’t get it, you just don’t get it.” And slammed his door behind him.

  In fact I had to agree with him. I also thought a “Chinese solution” was a possibility, yes, in a certain sense the next logical step.

  Michaela and I ran into each other at the main door. She was furious with Amanda in props, who had given everyone a hug before rehearsal and announced she had to say good-bye—off to the West. “All this time she’s been waiting for her exit visa to be processed, but kept her mouth shut, and now she’s as free as bird!” There had been squabbles in the canteen. Allegedly management had proposed that the Gotham premiere be called off. “Because of Krenz,” so people said.

  Sitting beside me in the car, Michaela played with her purse handle. She couldn’t be talked out of attending a meeting of the New Forum. She might well be safer there than at home, she said. Afterward she wanted to return to the theater, just to make sure the resolution got read at the end, especially today of all days. “That would give the wrong signal,” she said. I offered to drive her, but she thought it best for me to stay with Robert.

  Shortly after seven, we were lying in each other’s arms. Michaela caressed my cheek, the palms of her hands were cool. “I envy Amanda,” Michaela said, and was about to kiss me—when the doorbell rang. We froze. Robert soundlessly opened the door to his room. We all looked at each other and waited. The second ring was a short one too.

  Standing at the door and blinking wildly was Schmidtbauer, the founder of the Altenburg New Forum. At his si
de were a short man with a beard and beret—the only one who smiled—and a fellow with a long beard and glasses that greatly magnified his eyes. I didn’t even get a question out or tell them they could keep their shoes on—no, as if nothing could be more perfectly obvious, they marched in in their stocking feet.

  The sight of their shoes next to our doormat didn’t please me, in fact it was unsettling. Besides which I was annoyed at how their mute invasion seemed a matter of course. On the spur of the moment, Schmidtbauer had relocated the “meeting” to our apartment. Since we didn’t have a phone, we, of all people, had known nothing about it.

  In the entry Schmidtbauer turned around to ask me if we could come to an agreement that socialism should be reformed, but not abolished.

  “No need,” I said, “to come to any agreements with me.”

  I was chiefly annoyed that Michaela let all three of them address her with informal pronouns.

  While I set out teacups for them, Schmidtbauer said, “The meeting of the New Forum of Altenburg, Thuringia, is now open.”

  “Why Thuringia?” the long-bearded, big-eyed fellow asked.

  “There’s a very simple answer to that,” Schmidtbauer replied. “Because Altenburg is located in Thuringia. And its people feel they’re part of Thuringia. Ask anyone you like.” All the while he played with the push button on his ballpoint.

  Only the long-bearded fellow disagreed with Schmidtbauer when he moved not to announce the various committees of the New Forum at the open church assembly the next evening, but to wait and see what Krenz would do.

  “What does Krenz have to do with it?” Long Beard asked. “Can someone explain to me what this has to do with Krenz?” His huge eyes moved from one person to the next, and finally landed on me too.

  “I can explain it for you,” Schmidtbauer said. “All of us sitting here right now, you”—he aimed his ballpoint first at Michaela—“you, you, and me, can be arrested at any moment. If Krenz—let me finish—if Krenz gives the order, God have mercy on us.”

  Long Beard raised his hand like a schoolboy and fixed his eyes on Schmidtbauer. “Well, what is it,” Schmidtbauer grumbled, and finally aimed his ballpoint at him.

  “I have another question to ask you, Jürgen. May I?”

  Schmidtbauer nodded.

  “Aren’t you proud to be in the New Forum?”

  “What?” Schmidtbauer looked from one person to the next, as if everyone should see how difficult it was for him to keep from bursting into laughter.

  “I can only tell you that I’m proud to be,” Long Beard said. “And I don’t care who knows it.” He sat up erect. “Do you know what I did yesterday?” Then he told about how the construction outfit he works for had sent him to do some repair work at the Stasi villa. He had eaten in their canteen at noon and had run into a couple of acquaintances. He had told them, “I’m in the New Forum. Take a look at our agenda, you won’t find anything wrong with it. And then I said I’m proud to be in the New Forum. I don’t care who hears it. And if I’m allowed to head up the economics committee, I don’t care who hears that either. So, Jürgen, you can go ahead now.”

  After I brought them a pot of tea, I closed the doors to the living room and kitchen. I cleaned up and for a lack of anything better to do began mopping the floor, until Michaela called for me. They were all sitting in front of the tube.

  When I saw Krenz, I knew that nothing was going to happen. His spiel about developments that had not been understood in their full reality, about how the country was hemorrhaging, and about his newfound compassion for the tears of mothers and fathers had a calming effect even on Schmidtbauer. Maybe I was so surprised by Krenz, by his facelessness, only because I had never really taken a good look at him. This pitiful creature spoke as if every word he said disgusted him, as if his speech were some sort of slop that he had to choke down while the whole world watched. Plus I had never seen him wear anything but a Schiller collar—my mother’s term for the way our functionaries wore the collar of their blue shirts321 turned out over the lapels of their gray jackets. In a white shirt and tie he looked like a circus bear.

  When the trio had left, I opened the window, and Michaela said that she no longer needed to go to the theater now. Along with Jörg, the short fellow with the beard and beret, she would be heading up the New Forum’s media and culture committee. I asked if people like Schmidtbauer were worth her being put in danger on their behalf. Michaela said that Schmidtbauer’s wife had moved out, leaving him with two little children. How would I react if suddenly tomorrow morning all the lug nuts had been loosened on the car?

  Why couldn’t Michaela see that Schmidtbauer was really small potatoes, not see his craving for recognition, his callousness. But the more I got upset about him, the more ridiculous I appeared in her eyes.

  And the next morning things kept moving in the same direction. Since Michaela had rehearsal that evening, I was supposed to stand in for her at the church and talk about the Berlin meeting and the demonstration permit we had applied for. I refused. “And why?” Michaela asked. She sounded as hard, as cold, as if I had been cheating on her. “Am I allowed to know why?”

  “Because I don’t want to have anything more to do with these people,” I said, mimicking the pretentious downbeat nods of the bass player.

  Michaela let air pass through her nose with such disdain that I knew what awaited us. Five minutes later she said, “I don’t understand you, Enrico. I simply don’t understand you anymore.” I said nothing, but that evening I attended church.

  Actually, it was all just like I had once pictured my future fame would be. I had to walk to the front through a veritable guard of honor to my left and right, people recognized me, and some even called out to me. Someone demanded that I should take the reins here. A spot had been reserved for me on the aisle in the first row to the right. It was not pleasant to discover Michaela’s name and our address clearly visible on a large well-placed poster inviting people to join the media and culture committee.

  They began after a little delay—speeches, music, speeches. Forty-five minutes later it was finally my turn. The hush was so total it was as if people were literally holding their breath. I reported about the meeting in Berlin. That took about one minute. As offhandedly as possible I added that we had officially registered for a demonstration on November 4th. This was once again cause for jubilation, people once again moved out onto the street, Pastor Bodin was once again unable to get a word in. And once again, as I came out of the church, there were the two policemen. The blond smiled. The black-haired cop was so excited he literally spun on his axis. We shook hands. The same route as last time, I said. And with that they climbed into their Lada. I offered Robert as my excuse and drove directly home.

  From that point on I find it difficult to tell one day from the next. I no longer took part in any of it, and Michaela was too proud to ask me to.

  When I was alone, I lay in my room, a forearm across my eyes, and tried to steer my thoughts as far away as possible from myself and the present. Usually I thought about soccer.

  You may have heard of the legendary quarterfinal game for the European Cup between Dynamo Dresden (the team I hang my heart on) and Bayer 05 Uerdingen, played on March 9, ’86, one day after International Women’s Day. Even today I have no idea where Uerdingen is. Dresden had won 2 to 0 at home and was strutting its stuff in Uerdingen—the “Dresden top” was spinning. I still remember how Klaus Sammer, our trainer, jumped up from the bench when Uerdingen scored a goal against themselves, making it 3 to 1. He bounded over an ad banner and waved good-bye—a gesture meant to imply, “That’s all, folks.” Watching on television, I wondered why people were still in the stands.

  Dresden could have been scored against four times in the remaining forty-five minutes and still have made it to the semifinals. In the fifty-eighth minute Uerdingen scored a goal. In the mood in which I found myself I regarded that goal as corresponding to the magazine Sputnik being banned and Ceauşescu’s being award
ed the Karl Marx Order. I equated the 3 to 3 that followed shortly thereafter with the election fraud of May 7th. Uerdingen’s 4-to-3 lead was more or less the same thing as Hungary opening its borders, and the 5 to 3 corresponded to the Monday demonstrations. There was no doubt at that point that it would soon be 6 to 3. Which is what happened, and Dresden was eliminated. But what would 6 to 3 be in the autumn of ’89? Freedom to travel for everyone? And 7 to 3? The final score of 7 to 3 was now no longer of any interest to me.

  Scored against six times in one half. That was the most improbable and the worst possible turn of affairs. At the same time those goals seemed to have an inevitability about them, as if it were perfectly natural for the ball to bounce into the net every seven minutes.

  I was surely not the only person who recognized that game as the handwriting on the wall.

  On Monday, the 23rd, a letter from my mother arrived. After Michaela and Robert drove off to Leipzig—Robert needed to see history in the making—I read the closely written pages. It was all about the clinic and the reaction to her having taken sick leave. They had in fact checked up on her to see if she was actually resting in bed—and she hadn’t been at home. Her sick leave was rescinded, and she was to be docked one week’s vacation. The remarks of her colleagues, which she provided in minute detail, were likewise unpleasant—“When you stick your nose into everything, you shouldn’t be surprised to get it punched at some point.” What worried me, however, was her tone of voice and her obsession with having to quote all of it for me. Of course it was clear to me that her arrest and torture (what else could you call it?) couldn’t help having its aftereffects. And of course she had already seemed changed to me during her visit. But there was something ominous about this letter.