New Lives

by Ingo Schulze

  Titus saw Joachim write “nonsense” in the margin of his report.

  Then it was time for the chronicle of the day.

  Titus tugged at his notebook, dragging it back along with Joachim’s elbow. But Titus had to write now, ten catchwords needed to be added to his notebook.

  “Disclosure in New York—with the help of Western countries Israel began developing nuclear weapons over twenty years ago. A crucial role was played by Israeli agents who had acquired fissionable materials from nuclear facilities in the USA. Others involved in these transfers besides the USA included the FRG and France.”

  “Right,” Dr. Bartmann said, “but too long.”

  “Greed knows no morality. More than 350 corporations in the USA, along with 500 British companies and 400 from the FRG have established offices in South Africa. A quarter of the moneys invested in South Africa comes from abroad.”

  “Very good. But let’s have some new news.”

  “In Italy mass protests are steadily increasing against the plans of the USA to produce a neutron bomb. On Tuesday thousands of Rome’s residents marched in the capital to protest this planned aggressive move, which in terms of world peace would…”

  “And so on and so forth,” Dr. Bartmann exclaimed.

  “New wave of rent increases in the FRG. Because of rising construction costs of up to 20 percent rents had to be…”

  “Something else, something else!”

  “More bank robberies in the FRG.”

  “No!”

  “An 8,000-ton freighter has been named in honor of Vasili Shukshin…”

  “Nyet, nyet, nyet.” Dr. Bartmann accepted the impressive strikes in Italy, but rejected torture in Belfast, a new phase of rocket construction in the FRG, the temporary weapons embargo against South Africa, and the poison bomb developed by the U.S. Navy.

  It wasn’t until the world reaction to the Panama Canal Treaty that Dr. Bartmann nodded and turned around briefly as if checking how many seats were left until Joachim, who the last time had suggested “Record number of visitors for Stolpen Castle”—for which Dr. Bartmann had demanded he supply his reasons. And Joachim had given a brief excursus on historical consciousness and how it shouldn’t always be limited to the most recent past, but requires experiences from all epochs, and Dr. Bartmann had let the visitors’ record be included.

  It wasn’t clear who Dr. Bartmann had pointed to; at any rate Joachim said, “Andreas Baader, Gudrun Ensslin, and Jan-Carl Raspe were buried on Thursday, October 27th, in Stuttgart’s Dornhalder Cemetery.”

  Dr. Bartmann smiled. “We covered that topic last week. Is this really so important?” Dr. Bartmann recalled that Lenin had said that the radical Left was the children’s disease of communism and did great damage to the cause of the proletariat.

  Instead of calling on Titus, Dr. Bartmann was now nodding at Peter Ullrich, who sat at the desk in front of them. Tears welled up in Titus’s eyes. He would have loved to have broken into sobs.

  Peter Ullrich talked about the underground explosions in Nevada and Great Britain’s antitank rockets. It was absurd to break into tears just because Bartmann had passed him over. How could he ever make a decision if he was a wimpy crybaby?

  He was afraid of what would happen during the next break, the five minutes until Russian class began. He had said what he wanted to say. If Joachim didn’t understand, if he still believed he would listen to him instead of his mother…

  “First,” Dr. Bartmann dictated, “an electronic computer of the EC 1040 series was presented to Havana by Robotron Kombinat. KOSMOS 962 was launched. Second, recruitment of Egyptian scientists by the USA and the states of Western Europe has reached dangerous levels. Seventy percent of such students don’t return home.”

  There were twenty minutes left for regular instruction.

  [Letter of June 28, 1990]

  Titus opened his notebook at the front and jotted down the date for the second time: Oct. 31, 1977.

  Dr. Bartmann wrote 9.1.2. on the blackboard. The nature of cap. society. 9.1.2.1. The nature of cap. exploitation. Followed by two columns, capitalists on the left, the working class on the right.

  From there on it was all a matter of who held up his hand. If no one did, Dr. Bartmann provided the answer himself. Joachim’s shorthand was so good that he not only kept pace with Bartmann, but even got ahead of him at the end of every passage.

  “The goal of capitalist production is the achievement of the highest possible surplus value, that is, profit, by intensified exploitation.” A box with the words “appropriated profit,” from which two arrows extended right and left. Left: personal use/luxuries; to the right: capital for buying new machinery to constantly generate more surplus value.

  “At the risk of his own ruin,” Dr. Bartmann declared, “every capitalist is forced to modernize production and do battle with other capitalists. This competitive struggle results in constantly intensified exploitation.”

  Dr. Bartmann dictated quickly, but as soon as a hand was raised, he would repeat the second half of the sentence. “…constantly intensified exploitation. That is the brutal law of capitalism. That brutality results in a) the continued expansion and contraction of the powers of production, b) increased exploitation and destruction of large segments of the peasantry and capitalist entrepreneurs themselves, c) a battle for markets and raw materials, open parenthesis, wars, neocolonialism, close parenthesis.”

  Dr. Bartmann erased the box of appropriated profit. “That leads to 9.1.2.3. The fundamental contradiction of capitalism, new line, quotation marks: The bourgeoisie has, dot, dot, dot, created more massive and colossal productive forces than all preceding generations, period, end quotation, open parenthesis, Marx, Engels, Manifesto, close parenthesis. And now don’t write this because it’s from our next class and merely for you to mull over.” And then Dr. Bartmann wrote on the blackboard without comment: “The contradiction between the soc. nature of production and the priv. appropriation of cap. is the fundamental contradiction of capitalism.”

  He stepped to one side of the blackboard, pointed with an open hand at what he had written, and said, “This is the source of the antagonistic class dichotomy between the working class and the bourgeoisie.” He shouted over the sound of the bell, “The upshot of which is the abolition of capitalist conditions of production—friends, one and all!”

  The first students to look up returned the greeting mutedly, as if talking to themselves.

  Dr. Bartmann jotted something in the grade book, buried the newspaper clipping in his briefcase, closing it with a click.

  “I have a funny feeling,” Joachim said, standing beside their desk, waiting, “a very funny feeling.”

  Titus packed up his things. But when he looked at Joachim he realized that their friendship had only a few hours left. Joachim would say that you can’t wash your hands in innocence and that one must be prepared to leave Father and Mother.

  Joachim talked as they descended the stairs, went on talking even after they had taken their seats in Russian class, so that Titus had not yet unpacked his stuff when the toxic blonde, as Joachim called Frau Berlin, appeared at the door.

  The toxic blonde took her time. The longer the “hullabaloo” and “ruckus” lasted, the more relentless she would be in the hour ahead.

  “Zdrastvuitye!” the toxic blonde announced, and the class responded in chorus: Zdrastvuitye! They stood there immobilized, no one resumed their seat. The toxic blonde gave them a wink. “Khorosho, zadityes, poshaluista, and who was it said you can teach a young dog new tricks. Vot!” And after a brief pause while she opened the grade book, she addressed them desk by desk. “Vy gotovy? Vy gotovy? Vy gotovy?” Each time she let her chin drop for a second, wagging her head and blinking like a simpleton. Titus had nodded as her gaze shifted in his direction. He thought she had asked him if he was ready for the lesson. But when she followed up with, “Kto khotchet?” he felt flushed.

  “Uh-oh,” Titus whispered, “we forgot about the dialo
gue.”

  Peter Ullrich and his benchmate began to reel off the memorized exchange. Joachim shrugged. Of course it was beneath his dignity to have prepared for this. A dialogue was something for students who, like Titus, had already been given a D.

  The class laughed. Peter Ullrich was good in Russian; he had spent a few months in Leningrad and liked to show off his cooing pronunciation.

  “I’ll start it,” Joachim whispered. And even if he started a hundred times, it wouldn’t help him, Titus, one bit. Excuses didn’t count unless you offered them up front.

  The toxic blonde asked questions and Titus tried to take note of Peter Ullrich’s answers. Peter Ullrich was awarded a “yedinitsa,” his third, as the toxic blonde herself remarked in surprise, but that was only befitting an officer’s candidate. His benchmate likewise received a yedinitsa—it was her way of honoring spontaneity, the toxic blonde remarked.

  Martina Bachmann at the desk in front of them raised her hand, and the toxic blonde cried, “Behold, a miracle!” Titus was grateful, because there was now a only slim chance they would be called on. Martina Bachmann wanted to explain why she hadn’t been able to prepare the lesson. “Am I supposed to swallow that?” the toxic blonde interrupted.

  Titus was hoping she wouldn’t allow the excuse and test Martina Bachmann anyway. But the toxic blonde turned away when two students in the second row raised their hands, to which she responded with a “You too?” But they wanted to take their turn and kept up the dialogue so long that the toxic blonde sat down on her desk, crossing her arms, smiling with satisfaction. And when they were finished, she didn’t ask them any questions, gave them both an A in the grade book.

  That left only his row. Titus didn’t know where he should look, and felt how little the last class of the day and his report mattered, if only he could survive this hour in one piece. Then he heard a name, not his and not Joachim’s. The toxic blonde had called on Mario, because she thought she would be doing her Mario a favor. Mario shook his head. “I’d rather wait till next time,” he said. The toxic blonde smiled. “What a shame,” she said. “It’s still very easy at this point, I’ll expect more the next time.” She called on Sabine, and Sabine immediately began, and the Sabine sitting beside her responded, and so it went back and forth between the two Sabines. Each row had now had its victims, and Titus thought he knew what the toxic blonde would say in conclusion: Close the mouths and open the books. Of course she’d say it in Russian.

  “Chto?” the toxic blonde squealed. “Chto?” Peter Ullrich and a few others laughed. After the next sentence by Sabine number one, Joachim laughed too. Sabine number two replied. The toxic blonde had jumped to her feet. Sabine number one was blushing and attempted a smile. “Chto?” the toxic blonde squealed after the next sentence as well.

  By the time Titus finally realized that Sabine and Sabine had skipped a line in their memorized text and been exchanging nonsense, Sabine number two was crying. The toxic blonde damned them both to a D, but with the possibility of improving their grades the next time. Now Sabine number one likewise broke into tears.

  “Let’s go,” the toxic blonde said, giving Joachim a nod.

  Titus saw Joachim shrug and heard him say, “Khorosho.” And then he pretended to lift something up onto his desk, reached for an invisible telephone receiver, and moved his finger in circles. He dialed, and when he was finished, leaned back. Titus felt sick to his stomach. Joachim went, “Ring ring.” Titus pretended to pick up a receiver too, someone laughed. Titus waited a moment, then he said, “Allo?” It was in God’s hands now.

  “Zdes’ govorit, Joachim, zdrastvuitye!”

  “Zdes’ govorit, Titus, zdrastvuitye.” With his right hand to his ear, Titus propped his elbows on the desk and stared down at the surface.

  “Fsyo khorosho?”

  “Fsyo khorosho,” Titus repeated.

  “Ya khotchu priglasit tebya…” The rest was unintelligible.

  “Oh, spasibo,” Titus said, and then a word came to mind that he had never spoken before. “Otlitchno!” he boomed into the receiver. It came to his lips so perfectly naturally that he repeated it. “Otlitchno!”

  The toxic blonde erupted in a sharp squeak.

  Titus didn’t understand Joachim’s answer, but he hadn’t heard a time of day, and so he simply asked: “A kogda?”

  Joachim made several suggestions and ended with the question: “Eto udobno?”

  Titus repeated the words without knowing what they meant: “Da, eto udobno.”

  Joachim went on talking. When it was Titus’s turn again he simply said: “Ponimayu. A chto ty khotchesh?” That always worked.

  “Chto ty khotchu?” Joachim asked.

  “Da,” Titus quickly replied.

  Joachim talked about books, records, theater, and said something about soccer too, which once again evoked laughter.

  “Muy idyom f teatr,” Titus replied, as if it were up to him to straighten things out.

  Joachim followed with another long sentence Titus didn’t understand. Titus stuck to his guns: “Muy idyom f teatr.” Joachim pretended to be upset. Evidently he didn’t want to go to the theater. Titus could sense people around him getting ready to laugh.

  “Kak ty khotchesh. A ja khotchu kushat tort.”

  Joachim had to wait a moment for the class to settle down. “Do zvidaniya,” Joachim said.

  “Fso khorosho?”

  “Fso khorosho,” Joachim declared.

  “Spasibo,” Titus said. “Do zvidaniya.”

  They both put their imaginary receivers down at the same time. The toxic blonde said, “Otlitchno” and “spasibo” and sat back down on her desk. She pointed out two mistakes Joachim had made, praised him for the liveliness of the conversation, and said, giving Titus a wink, that with a little effort one can achieve one’s ends even with somewhat limited means. She even said something about acting talent and noted Titus’s poker face. As she entered the grades in the grade book her hand made the same motion twice.

  What a wretched little creature he was, looking for salvation in a grade, a good grade in Russian. He had pleaded with God for that? And Joachim, to whom he had lied, to whom he had not yet admitted that he would read the report—that same Joachim had just rescued him. Wasn’t that a sign? An unexpected turn of events that he wouldn’t have dreamt of in his wildest dreams? Wouldn’t God, if He were on his side, have led him just as He had now? Wasn’t Joachim his best model? Didn’t he want to be like him?

  Titus stared at the new vocabulary words they were drilling in chorus. He joined in, but they were meaningless sounds and syllables.

  For a moment he dared the thought that, as a reward for his own honesty, God would favor him with abilities like Joachim’s. Couldn’t he decide all on his own to do what needed to be done?

  “Poker face,” Joachim whispered when the bell rang. Titus liked hearing the words “poker face” coming from Joachim.

  and went “Ring ring.” In that same moment Titus felt something icy brush up against him, curdling his blood.

  “Ring ring,” Joachim went for the second time. Why was he dragging him into this? Titus pretended to pick up a receiver too. “Allo?” He didn’t know whether the class was laughing at their act or because his voice sounded so pitiful. “Zdes’ govorit Titus, zdrastvuitye.” Titus propped his elbow on the desk, pressed his knuckles to his right cheekbone. He stared at Martina Bachmann’s back, at the spot where her hair almost touched the back of her chair.

  “Fso khorosho?”

  “Fso khorosho,” Titus repeated.

  “Ya khotchu priglasit tebya…” Titus hoped it would all be over soon.

  “Spasibo,” Titus replied.

  Joachim strung sentence after sentence together. Pirouettes, Titus thought. The last of them a question. Titus nodded. He wanted to show: I know, it’s my turn now. He had even understood the question. But he couldn’t make it work that fast. He wanted to say that of course he accepted the invitation and wanted quickly to finis
h his homework so he could help Joachim get things ready for the party. He wanted to ask who else was invited besides him and if he should bring anything and whether Joachim had any definite wishes as to his birthday present.

  Joachim said: “Nu?” and started over again. There was a few laughs. Titus said, “Da.”

  Joachim went on chitchatting. Titus managed one more “Spasibo.” It made no difference whether he spoke or not. Titus could feel his own hand on his cheek, he could even see himself. Joachim whispered something, but since no one else was speaking they all heard it too. He wasn’t going to repeat it. His pride wouldn’t let him. Titus heard his shoe tapping the floor.

  Joachim talked about books, records, theater, and even mentioned something about soccer. Titus didn’t want to say anything more. She should just give him his F and leave him in peace. Her nickname shouldn’t be Toxic Blonde, but Band Saw, she had a voice like a band saw. Joachim fell silent.

  When the toxic blonde demanded he look her in the eye—those little eyes—he raised his head. He didn’t care what was coming from her blurry mouth. “I forgot,” he said, only making things worse. Compared to him Martina Bachmann was a hero.

  He had had better things to do than memorize this bilge, which he would never use anyway.

  Titus saw himself in the bright world where he had lingered yesterday, a world with no place for a toxic blonde.

  All the same Titus was surprised when she did in fact give him an F. Why was she still picking on him? You don’t kick someone when they’re down, he thought. But of course she wouldn’t know that. What was he supposed to apologize for? He had forgotten, and for that he’d got his F. He said not a word. The toxic blonde flung her silver ballpoint across the desk, sending it bouncing off somewhere. Someone picked the pen up and brought it forward to her. She didn’t say thanks. They opened their books.

  How could he have imagined he would get away with it? From one moment to the next he forgot the weekend as if it were a dream. He wouldn’t be allowed to stay in school with a D in Russian on his next report card. So graduation was out of the question now. Would God give him a second chance?