Seven Lies (11 page)

It seems Lotte was an attractive woman. She formed a liaison with a young Russian Comecon officer, a connection that gave the new household definite advantages in terms of
political protection and basic necessities. The affair ended abruptly when the officer was posted back to Moscow, leaving Fräulein Rust heartbroken, and pregnant with Kitty. She died of diphtheria when Kitty was six, entrusting the girl's upbringing to my mother, who fulfilled the obligation in her own fashion. When I was very young, I thought of Kitty as my older sister, but as I grew up I saw that her status in our household wasn't after all quite that of a fully paid-up family member. Though she was fed and clothed as well as the rest of us, and though there was never any mention of anything so vulgarly uncommunist as servants or mistresses, there seemed to be an understanding between her and my mother that she was to perform all the more menial of the household chores. It was Kitty who swept and dusted, who operated the People's Own Washer we proudly purchased in the sixties, hooking its hose up to the kitchen sink and standing guard for the hour and a half it took to heat up (someone had to be there in case its gaskets burst); Kitty who served the titbits at my mother's soirées, Kitty who was sent out to stand in line for bananas or toothpaste or the cans of
Schmalzfleisch
my father liked to have on his toast for breakfast. She never complained or showed any sign of resenting her position; in fact, she seemed deeply attached to us all, and strangely devoted to my mother, as though she had inherited her own mother's accommodating humility.

Humble, yes, and passionate too. The slightest emotional tremor would widen her flecked grey eyes and bring a flush of colour to her pale cheeks. Though she claimed to be intimidated by the ‘intellectual' tone of our home, and would often describe herself (with curious relish, it struck me) as an ‘ignoramus' or even an ‘idiot', she had more real curiosity than any of us. She read voraciously – novels, plays, art history,
books about ancient civilisations; anything she could get her hands on. Always, I discovered, with the sense that she wasn't quite getting the point, wasn't enough of an intellectual ‘like you or your mother' to penetrate into the grand revelations about the meaning of life that she was certain lay concealed beneath the surface of the text. She left school at sixteen and apprenticed at a state garment factory, meaning to take her
Abitur
and go on to a technical institute to learn apparel design, but getting sidetracked instead – into clerical work, administration, bouncing from one secretarial post to another, her neat and pretty appearance keeping her dependably in new bosses whenever she needed a change. And like many people I have met whose buoyant disposition and natural charm should have ordained them, by the laws of nature itself one would think, for a life of uncomplicated happiness, she seemed instead to be doomed to one of serial disappointment and devastation. One after another the men she fell in love with turned out to be shits, thugs, liars or, as in the case of the aforementioned Jürgen, outcasts who could offer her little more than a fleeting, anguished memory of themselves. A recurring motif during my adolescence was the sight of her at the kitchen table, weeping beside my mother, who would offer a selection of dry observations about the man in question and reprove Kitty for her poor judgement. Stony consolation, yet it seemed to be all Kitty wanted, or at any rate felt she deserved.

At one point, some time in her twenties, she made a determined effort to take herself in hand. She got a place to study textiles at a vocational school in Leipzig – a three-year programme that would lead to the
Abitur
and then, if she was lucky, to university.

After a few months in Leipzig she got involved with a
chemistry teacher who turned out to be married with three children. As soon as she discovered this, Kitty tried to break off the relationship, but the teacher declared himself to be unable to live without her, and at the same time threatened to orchestrate her expulsion from the school if she stopped sleeping with him. Confused and frightened, she allowed herself to be blackmailed in this way for several months, aware of a gathering tide of disapproval moving towards her from all quarters, as word of the affair got out. Finally she received a visit from the leadership of the school branch of the FDJ, who monitored, among other things, the development of ‘socialist personality' in the student body, and put it to her that she might benefit from some serious re-education in this department. A week later, distraught, ashen, her eyelids puffy and scarlet-rimmed from continual weeping, she was back with us in Berlin, her plans for self-improvement in ruins.

She lost some of her spark after that. Her ebullient curiosity gave way to an indifference that might have been merely protective at first, but eventually seemed to enter the actual pigment of her personality. She stopped reading, and spent her evenings watching West German soap operas on the TV instead. Her eyes began to look a little sunken in their sockets. My mother got her a clerical job at the
Demokratischer Frauenbund Deutschlands
– the women's organisation where my mother herself now held an advisory position. She cleaned our apartment assiduously every morning before work, and every weekend drank herself to sleep in her little bedroom.

This was a period in which our whole household seemed to be in decline. As predicted, my mother had revived her soirées, on cue to garner the maximum admiration for her pluck without risking disapproval for an unseemly lack of grief over her misfortune. Uncle Heinrich still came, so most
of the former habitués still thought it worthwhile to put in an appearance. But there was little pretence, now, of it being anything other than an act of calculated sycophancy. The atmosphere was that of a morgue – a morgue presided over by the king and queen of the underworld, in the shape of Heinrich in his dapper suit, gold party pin in his lapel, and my mother in her ice-blotched crown. I learned somewhere that the Japanese language used to have a particular verb form, the ‘play form', reserved for addressing the nobility. Decorum required one to suppose that everything these privileged beings did was motivated by pleasure alone. Instead of saying,
You're building a new palace
, one would say,
You
play
building a new palace
. It seems to me that life at home during this period was qualified by a similarly attenuating form: not the play form but the
posthumous
form.
Posthumously
, people stood about at our soirées making glacial conversation. They nibbled posthumously on little underworld nuggets served by Kitty, who drifted posthumously among them like a pallid wraith. To the relief, no doubt, of everybody, no mention was made of my poetry, though I might well have posthumously gone through that rigmarole again if anyone had suggested it, so passive had I become.

The lines of force that had once seemed to plunge from the very source of meaning directly into our lives, shaping and patterning everything we did, had somehow been torn from us. We were unmoored. Events of a freakish, arbitrary nature had begun to occur, though in our posthumous condition we barely even registered their oddness. My father, for instance, began reappearing in the apartment, turning up unannounced, and staying for longer and longer intervals. My mother neither welcomed nor objected to his presence. She tolerated it, sometimes sitting with him in the living room
as he silently reclined in his old armchair, sometimes ignoring him. He never stayed the night, and he avoided the soirées, but he was a fixture again, and though nothing was ever said, it was soon evident that he and my mother had re-established their marriage on a posthumous basis, him diminished beyond his already enfeebled stature, her in a position of unassailable yet entirely futile dominance.

Meanwhile, posthumously, my mother and I maintained the fiction that I was the family poet-intellectual. I stayed on at school past tenth grade to prepare for my
Abitur
. Posthumously, I sat through my classes, did my homework and took the exam. I was in bed with terrible flu when the results arrived. Through the bleary glaze of my fever I was aware of a subdued commotion in the apartment. I realised my mother was frantically making phone calls. Snatches of her conversation drifted into my throbbing head:
do something for Stefan? . . . too sensitive to perform well under that kind of pressure
. . . Gradually I understood that I had done poorly. In a dim, remote way, I felt my mother's anguish – another humiliation for our friends to enjoy – but I myself was indifferent. I burrowed back down into my fever, luxuriating in the oblivion, wishing it could last for ever. By the time I emerged from it, my mother, true to form, had warded off the calamity by sheer force of will, securing me a place to study philosophy at Humboldt University.

I had never shown the slightest interest in philosophy, but the subject was undersubscribed at that time, owing to a crack-down in the department. The notorious Professor Havemann had been ousted for introducing heretical texts into the syllabus, and a forbidding Marxist-Leninist orthodoxy now prevailed, putting off all but the most dedicated or desperate young men and women. In this way my mother found herself
permitted to mention, casually, whenever the opportunity arose, her son ‘the philosophy student, yes, at Humboldt.'

But Kitty.

One summer my mother took us off for a vacation on the island of Rügen. It was just the three of us: herself, me and Kitty. Otto had decided to pursue a career in the military – another turn of events that at one time would have stunned us; would have had to be discussed, analysed, cocooned in acceptable phrases, until it could be honourably accommodated into the grain of our identity as a family, but which we now, in our benumbed, posthumous fashion, accepted with a shrug as part of the general unexpectedness of things – and he was away on manoeuvres.

The weather was good. The Baltic waves seemed to relax from their solemn and exclusive duty as the concealers of Soviet submarines, and emitted an occasional gratuitous sparkle.

We stayed in a concrete beach hut rented out by a state hotel in Kühlungsborn. It was peaceful enough that we could each settle into our own rhythms, and a characteristically posthumous, atomised little holiday seemed set to ensue. My mother had taken up oil painting, and spent the days on a sand dune painting seascapes. Kitty lay on the beach listening to the radio and sunning herself. I stayed in the little house most of the time, smoking cigarettes in luxurious defiance of Dr Serkin's orders, and reading about Joseph Stalin. As a student at Humboldt I had access to books that were otherwise unavailable, including a large trove of both pre- and post-1956 (the year Khrushchev denounced him) tomes on the illustrious tyrant, in whom I had developed perhaps the only genuine intellectual interest I have ever known. I was reading about the years before the revolution, when his
personality was just beginning to declare itself. In 1913 he was exiled to a remote region of Arctic Siberia. The temperature fell to minus forty in the winter, and swarms of mosquitoes made life almost as unbearable in the summer. An occasional care package arrived from the Alliluyev family in the Caucasus. Once, in a letter thanking them, Stalin asked for postcards with scenes of nature on them. ‘I have a stupid longing to look at some landscape,' he wrote, ‘if only on a piece of paper.' I was struck by the unexpectedly plangent tone of this. That this ‘grey and colourless mediocrity', as Trotsky called him, could have possessed anything so poetic as a capacity for yearning; that the man in whom, later, a casual whim of displeasure could result in fifty thousand political prisoners in Bamlag being wired together like logs, trucked into the wilderness and shot, could ever have experienced feelings of longing for the natural world, was fascinating to me. I was lying on my bed reflecting on it – not in an analytic spirit so much as an aesthetic one – idly revolving it as one might a scene one has been unexpectedly struck by in a film or novel, when Kitty came into the room in her swimsuit.

My room led to the shower, and that appeared to be where she was heading. But before she got to the bathroom door, she came to a halt, slowed involuntarily, it seemed, by some thickness in the air. She stood rather vacantly for a moment, then peered at me.

‘It's dark in here.'

I could tell from her voice that she was in an odd mood. It was early for her to be returning from the beach, and I wondered if she had had too much sun. She blinked in a bewildered, sunstruck way. I could smell the sea on her, and the oily sweetness of her tanning lotion. Her cheeks were a
hectic crimson. She smiled distractedly, then moved on towards the bathroom. As she opened the door, she turned back.

‘Where's your mother?'

Again something quizzical and involuntary in her stance, as though she had been struck like a bell, and these words were what chimed out.
Where's your mother?

I shrugged. ‘Out.'

As I said this, my eye met hers and something unexpected and momentous travelled between us.

I barely noticed Kitty in those days. She was just a part of the neutral human furniture of my life, as I assume I was of hers. It was a shock, then, to find myself staring into the grey depths of her eyes, which stared back in a manner both startled and intrepid, as if daring me not to look away and pretend that what had just happened had not. And as though some barrier between us had just been removed, I was suddenly physically aware of her as a woman.

It was she who broke off the look, moving on into the bathroom to take her shower. I returned to my book. It didn't reveal whether the Alliluyevs ever sent Stalin the postcards he asked for. I knew that he later married the daughter, Nadezhda, and that after they quarrelled at a party in the Kremlin, she went home and killed herself, though rapidly, as the effect of Kitty's look kept expanding inside me, all of this started to seem quite far away, and I found myself in a strange state comprised equally of arousal and anxiety. It occurred to me that Kitty's innocent question about my mother must have touched on some latent veto lodged in each of us, setting it flashing like an alarm light, and that it was this that had given our look its peculiar intensity. I saw her eyes again – the transparent grey like heat shadows on a wall – and a great jolt of desire went through me. I tried to read on about Stalin. Even
in that godforsaken place, he chose to cultivate aloofness rather than sociability, pressing his granite-like ego against the fellow Bolshevik who shared his hut, till the man moved out. I remembered how Otto had once admitted to me that he fantasised about Kitty when he jerked off. He was always very frank about sex; said he liked to imagine doing it to her from behind, one hand over each of her breasts. The image of him sneaking up on the ‘upward-aspiring' Kurt Teske bronze in our living room and groping her billowy breasts came back to me on a strange, rippling current of hilarity. I exchanged the Kurt Teske for Kitty in my mind's eye, then Otto for myself, half consciously donning his free and easy personality over mine – a psychic mask. At once I felt startlingly alive; full of odd, crackling powers. Kitty came out of the shower wrapped in a towel, her darkened, steel-coloured hair straggling over her cheeks. I looked at her with a brazenness that stalled her and seemed to confuse her for a moment. Then, to my amazement, she giggled and ran out of the room. Without thinking, I got up and went after her. She ran into the dining room, looking back at me with bursts of high, breathless laughter, and before I knew it I was chasing her around the furniture like some priapic satyr pursuing a scantily clad nymph, until I caught her and we fell together on the sticky plastic of the living room sofa. As I held her there, my hands on the soft muscles of her arms, she looked up at me with an expression of calm and – to my eye – somewhat sceptical curiosity, as if to say,
So? And now what are you proposing to do?
I was more or less inexperienced in these matters. I had exempted myself from the sexual fray at Humboldt, in the belief that, damaged as I was, entering it would only result in pain and humiliation. Now, as Kitty looked at me, I could feel a multitude of blurry uncertainties beginning to teem. I found myself
picturing Otto in the raindrop camouflage of his NVA
Felddienstuniform
and thinking of how I had been rejected from military service because of my TB, and had served instead with the Construction Brigade – the
Bausoldaten
– clearing woodland for army barracks, in the plain grey uniform of the noncombatant, my ignominious little shovel-insignia gleaming at my shoulder. For an anxious moment these images threatened to pry away the Otto-self with which I had armoured my own, but then – such was my peculiar cast of mind at that time – I was fortified by the sudden, reassuring memory that Stalin too had been turned down for military service, because of a childhood injury to his left arm, and with a feeling of cold, brutal lust, I tore the towel off Kitty and began ineptly mauling her naked body. She lay observing me dispassionately for a few moments, then sat up, putting her hands over mine with soft firmness.