New Lives

by Ingo Schulze

  “You’re both crazy,” Michaela said, picking up her purse and getting to her feet.

  But I didn’t want to leave! At least I could see no reason whatever why leaving was any better than staying. On the contrary: I had all the time in the world! I didn’t need to write anymore, or read anymore.

  “Shall we finish it off?” I asked once our plates were empty. Aunt Trockel nodded. “It always tastes best fresh anyway.” She picked up our plates and toddled into the kitchen.

  Michaela stared at me. “You’re going to stop right now, if you please!” she cried. “You’ve got to stop, you’re going to kill her!”380

  Instead of our plates Aunt Trockel brought in the whole cake under its transparent plastic cover with a red knob in the middle for a handle.

  “Just one more drink,” I said.

  “Have a great time,” Michaela called out as she opened the apartment door and closed it behind her before either of us could say a word.

  Aunt Trockel and I ate the rest of the cake right from the platter, without plates. We tried to work at the same speed, both of us attacking our pieces from the center out.

  I don’t know whether you can comprehend it, but as I dived into the remains of the cake along with this potbellied, shriveled-up old woman, I felt liberated in some strange, unexpected way—liberated from all pressure, all stress, all claims on me. A peculiar calm took hold, a peace of mind that I attributed to the influence of alcohol.

  I awoke a little before four o’clock out of a deep, dreamless sleep that had left me completely refreshed, taking the last trace of my previous exhaustion with it.

  My “good mood” irritated Michaela. I evidently enjoyed tormenting her, she claimed. Whatever I did or said was cause for some rebuke or criticism.

  And then it began to snow. It snowed all evening and through the night and on into the next morning. From my window I could see children with sleds. Our neighbor was shoveling snow.

  Over the last weeks I had paid no attention at all to the weather, but I was as delighted as a child by this white splendor. I wanted to go out in it, and so I got dressed. Robert yelled that he wanted to come along.

  When Michaela, who was lying on the bed memorizing lines, saw we were ready to go, she put on her winter things too.

  We were a curious trio. Robert ran on ahead, I chased after him, with Michaela at my heels. As soon as Robert was out of hearing range, she began to lay into me—why was I suddenly so interested in Robert and was I trying to estrange the boy from her. “Why are you like this? What have I ever done to you? Why are you like this?” she kept shouting.

  We walked straight across the fields. The ground under the snow had not frozen everywhere, and sometimes we had to run just to keep from sinking into the muck beneath. Michaela’s sermon exhausted me more than the physical exertion. I would have gladly turned back. But Robert wanted to make it to “Silver Lake.”

  The pond was frozen over and smooth as glass. Robert and Michaela broke into a skidding competition. Several times I thought I heard the ice breaking. I turned to go, so the two of them could be together. But when I looked around once more, a snowball struck my right eye. It wasn’t just snow, as Michaela claimed, at least it hurt like hell, as if a pebble or splinter had wounded my eye. I couldn’t see a thing and feared the worst.

  Robert took my hand as if I needed to be led. He never let go of my hand as we crossed the field, while Michaela kept telling me to stop carrying on.

  Will you believe me if I tell you that as I crossed that snow-covered field I felt utterly happy? But that’s exactly how it was. Yes, I wept because my right eye hurt so bad, but I wept even more for happiness.

  How can I explain it?

  The pain had awakened me. I finally comprehended what I had known since that night at the crossroads and my visit with Aunt Trockel: my old life lay behind me. Or better: I could now really begin to live.

  Ever since my original sin I had played the miser with time—not a moment in which I had not been a driven man who lived solely to grind more writing, more literature—my works, my fame—out of each day, each hour.381

  I had finally freed myself from art, from literature, and thus from time as well. Suddenly I was simply just here, to live, to enjoy—I no longer had to create anything.382

  Robert and Michaela, the snow and the air, barking dogs in the distance and sounds from the road—I took it all in as if I had just set foot on this earth, as if I found myself in the midst of the world for the very first time. Ah, Nicoletta, will you understand me?383

  Liberated, at ease, and happy, I walked behind Robert. And when a big dog came running toward us from the village of Oberlödla and Robert and Michaela tried to hide behind me, I soon quieted the yelping mutt by scratching his neck and head until he pressed against my knee and closed his eyes.

  The mangy animal escorted us all the way to the road. Robert waved a car down, and it took us to the polyclinic. Outside the entrance I ran right into my physician, Dr. Weiss. He probably assumed I had found some pretext for him to attest that I was still too ill too work. Which is why he treated me a bit condescendingly. But when I told him that, no matter what happened with my eye, I didn’t want any more sick leave and he then practically forced my right eye open, it was Dr. Weiss’s friendly face that I first viewed with both eyes again.

  And with that I am at the end of my story. You yourself know what happened then. And now it should actually be your turn. As for me, there’s nothing to stop me from a trip to Rome.

  Your

  Enrico Türmer

  APPENDIX

  THE SEVEN TEXTS collected in this appendix were found on the reverse side of twenty out of a total of thirty-three letters addressed to Nicoletta Hansen. The right half of each of these manuscript pages was left blank to leave space for corrections. This explains the smaller size of these texts in comparison to the letters they accompany. Although Türmer occasionally mentions his own works in some detail, he never comments directly on what is on the back of his letters. His letter of July 9, 1990, contains the sole reference to these texts: a rather dubious explanation of the origin of these two-sided pages. One might speculate about Türmer’s motives and intentions. I have chosen merely to document the chronological connection between the “reverse pages” and the letters they accompany.

  Türmer evidently considered it important that his works be read, otherwise the chronology of the letters would not match the chronology of the individual attempts at fiction. They are printed in the sequence Türmer himself chose.

  I. S.

  [Letter of March 9, 1990]

  Schnitzel Hunt

  …and lots of hellos to you all from Thalheim. Something’s always going on at camp. There’s never enough time to write. But it’s been raining all day today. The mood here is really great. Adelheid, our group leader, always helps out, even if it’s just somebody who still doesn’t know how to make her bed right. She certainly has shown us how often enough. The girls from the other groups are jealous of us because of Adelheid. Although at the end of the day when we’re in bed and the lights are turned out, she’s nowhere to be found.

  We often have chores to do, working in the kitchen or cleaning up. I get along with everybody. We’ve had dancing two evenings already, and tomorrow there’s another dance. All the older girls are in love with Rolf, Herr Funke’s assistant. He has a moped and a helmet. Herr Funke always says Rolf is his right-hand man. Rolf played the trumpet at the memorial stone in honor of all the fallen. Before that we had subbotnik and pulled weeds.

  Yesterday we had a schnitzel hunt. Maik was on the verge of tears when he was told to step forward. Frau Borchert read his letter aloud to us. Maik doesn’t want to be at camp. Frau Borchert asked him what he wanted to do at home, since everybody would be working and nobody would have time for him, and all the other kids would be at camp. We all had to laugh. Herr Funke had asked why he wanted to play at home and not here at camp. He should tell us what he doesn’t like a
bout camp. And of course he didn’t know. First he writes letters like that and then doesn’t say a peep and he’s always just goofing off. Adelheid says Maik looks like he just might run away. Kids like Maik like to make a run for it and then the police and everybody else have to go looking for them. And of course all sorts of things can happen in the meantime and nobody’s around because they all have to go looking for Maik.

  Maik started to bawl. He should have thought twice about it. It was scary, because Maik had broken camp rules. Herr Funke asked him about it—but of course not a peep. Herr Funke said he had no choice if Maik wasn’t going to talk. Maik had brought it on himself. But he was going to give him one more chance anyway. It was a way for Maik to prove himself, and Maik nodded and then said okay. We marched to the athletic field and fell in for roll call. As the brigade leader I always give the report of present and ready. It’s so crappy when I have to be the last to report in because somebody’s chattering away and just won’t hush up. We had to discuss Maik. Maik swore an oath before everybody that he wouldn’t run away. But he’s got to make up for it, for writing letters like that! What if they had ended up in the wrong hands, Herr Funke said. Children all over the world long to go to a camp like we have here, but they have to go to work and never get to attend camp. And they don’t have enough to eat, either. But we get to come here every year. Everybody was in favor of Maik having to do it. Herr Funke asked if anyone didn’t agree, but we all wanted Maik to do it, and even he raised his hand, so it was unanimous. Then he took off, just like he was, in his shorts and undershirt. We all counted out loud, eight, nine, ten, bango! Bango marks the start. Maik ran off carrying the sack, up the hill into the woods. Herr Funke called out to keep in mind that he’d sworn an oath. Then Herr Funke gave a little speech and said we shouldn’t disgrace ourselves. A half-hour head start was a real long time. But we had to keep practicing until we got it right. Just keep practicing, every day if we could. A schnitzel hunt is a fine thing, after all, Herr Funke said, and it helps the kitchen out too. If it were up to Herr Funke there’d be a lot more schnitzel hunts, throughout our whole republic. We formed four groups. The older boys divided into two groups. We were supposed to gather pinecones. Adelheid had put everything in a sack and closed it tight, and the boys took it along with them. Herr Funke came too, of course, and Rolf. We kept our eyes peeled here. You never know what somebody like Maik may do. What if he sneaks back around and suddenly he’s here and we’re all in the woods? We kept our eyes wide open and collected wood. We piled it at the kickoff circle, right at the center of the athletic field. It was a little eerie in the woods, but nobody wanted to be a scaredy-cat. Just yell, Adelheid said, if Maik shows up, just yell. Nothing’s going to happen. He’s a good two inches shorter than me. So yes, we just kept our eyes peeled. We collected more than enough wood. There’d be no gripes about that. And then we heard the siren. Herr Funke had taken the camp siren along. And so we knew that it had turned out okay. Then we took off, along with Adelheid and Sylvia, whose hair is so long it reaches her rear end. She’s always one of the first to be asked to dance. Sylvia’s the prettiest girl in camp. She has a broad belt with a golden buckle, she’s going to have her parents get one for me when we go home, because her father can arrange things. Then we’ll both have one. We went at least a kilometer into the woods. Adelheid showed us the poop of deer and other animals. We want to learn stuff like that over the next few days, and to identify bird calls too.

  We waited by a little shed with lots of signposts. Then Herr Funke and the boys arrived with Maik. Two boys in front, two behind, and Rolf kept trying to show them how to rest the branch on their shoulder without it hurting. Herr Funke told us how really angry they had been. Maik hadn’t resisted much. Even though he promised he would. Then he just sat down on a tree stump with the empty sack across his knees. Pine trees all around. Maik ran away when the boys started throwing. Didn’t do any good, of course. Especially when Herr Funke is with them. He can throw from a hundred yards away, and still hit his target. They all threw at the same time. Herr Funke said it was like what used to be called an organ, like those big “steel organs” the Soviets had. Maik kept his undershirt on, so no matter where he ran he was easy to spot. They just had to aim for his undershirt. Maik didn’t have any shoes on, either, but his eyes were wide open. He bumped into things a couple of times anyway. When Herr Funke realized we all wanted to be part of it, he said we had the right stuff. Herr Funke is strict, Adelheid always says, but he’s fair. It’s pretty rare for him not to have something to gripe about. But we did our job because we worked together with Adelheid. We stood in formation around Maik just like at morning roll call. Herr Funke said he was proud of us. Everybody had done his job.

  The boys carried him up onto the porch where Herr Funke and Herr Meinhardt, the caretaker, were standing. Adelheid said Herr Meinhardt had said how great it would be to have a nice little devil like this delivered every day, that would sure make things easier for the kitchen. Then it all went real fast, because everybody wanted some. Herr Funke praised Herr Meinhardt for being so good at his job and always remembering to bring the basins to hold underneath. The boys were busy the whole time. We got the bread sliced and carried the tea bucket out to the athletic field. We used the wheelbarrow and the boys brought the frame for the spit. And Rolf got the fire going for under the spit. Herr Funke laughed at how unrecognizable Maik was now. It took a real long time before we could dig in, well after our usual bedtime. But I like sausage anyway. It tastes better than schnitzel. Herr Funke went on for a long time about how things used to be and how hard they had fought and all their sacrifices, but how they had always believed in victory no matter what. That’s why we have an honor guard too. And then Herr Funke played his guitar, and Adelheid sang, and so did we. I kept thinking about that belt. If only I could have been wearing it. And then Herr Funke said: Who would like to see the head? And he pulled it out of the sack it had been in all along. Who wants to carry the head? Herr Funke asked. I grabbed Maik’s head the way Herr Funke showed me, by the hair. It was really heavy, and I didn’t want to get my hands dirty. I never thought Maik’s head would be so heavy. Holy cow, I thought. Because it was so heavy we took turns, Sylvia and me. Sylvia is my best friend. We want to visit each other when we get home.

  All the best from your Sabine, Group M 4

  [Letter of March 24, 1990]

  Hundred-year Summer

  His hands in the pants pockets of his dress uniform, Salwitzky is standing between the door and the table, staring out the window. Because of the afternoon sun and the heat, the blackout drape has been drawn halfway. Vischer is sitting with his elbows on the broad windowsill, his back to the locker, a book in his left hand. It’s as quiet as a day in the country. Except occasionally you can hear the shuffle of boots or the high-pitched whine of the troop carrier’s fly-wheel. The company is out taking target practice.

  “Quarter till five,” Salwitzky says, pushing the bill of his cap back even farther and wiping his brow with his hand. “And?”

  “Nothing,” Vischer says.

  “You’re not watching.”

  “I can see if anything moves.”

  “If you don’t keep an eye out, you can’t see anything.”

  There’s a whistle, but not from their hallway, then the scraping of stools upstairs.

  “If they come back and see us here and laugh themselves silly, I’m going to raise hell.”

  “Go ahead,” Vischer said softly, laying his open book aside. He gets up and takes a writing pad and ballpoint from the locker, sits back down. He shifts the lined paper into position.

  “What’re you doing now?” Salwitzky walks just far enough around the table to be able to see the grayish blue door of the officers’ barracks—the handle is broken.

  Vischer’s head is cocked down over the page.

  “What’re you up to?”

  Vischer glances at his book and then goes on writing.

  “I asked you something.�
�

  “Dammit, Sal, you can see for yourself.”

  Salwitzky turns around. He jiggles the lock on his locker, moves his briefcase from the stool to the table, unzips it, and then zips it back up again. He airs his cap and wipes his forearm across his eyes and brow. The armpits of his light gray shirt have darkened.

  “You writing an official protest?”

  “Nope,” Vischer says, turning the page. He crosses his legs and bends down again.

  “I’ll never do it again,” Salwitzky says, “this sort of thing’s not for me. I want to take my leave with the whole company or not at all.”

  “You’ll get home all right.”

  “I don’t believe it, not when I see you sitting there like that.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen before five o’clock, you know that.”

  “If I don’t catch the eight twenty…”

  “You won’t make it, you know.”

  “You’re right. Shit!” Salwitzky gives his stool a kick, sending it crashing into the bed and toppling over. Salwitzky sets it upright and gives it another kick. The stool ends up just short of the door.

  “This is what they call a hundred-year summer, Visch. A hundred-year summer, but not for us! We’re hanging around here, and out there…Never be another like it!”

  “Nothing you can do. Not even if you stand on your head, Sal…”

  Salwitzky whips around. “That’s just like you. Sal standing on his head, you’d go for that.” Salwitzky picks the stool up and shoves it back to the table. “You’d really go for that, man oh man!”

  Salwitzky throws himself onto one of the lower bunks in the middle of the room; his dress shoes are on the cross brace at the foot of the bed. “Got problems, Visch? Did she dump you?”

  Vischer thumbs some more in his book.