Someday We'll Tell Each Other Everything (7 page)

9

I've been neglecting
The Brothers Karamazov
. I left it at the point where something dreadful happened. Fyodor Karamazov is dead, murdered, and all the evidence suggests his son, Dmitry, is the culprit. But in the midst of the greatest adversity, and when he no longer cares about anything, Grushenka shows him her love. There are times when love saves everything.

Before I start the next chapter, I take out Henner's note and read it. “Come stay with me, just for a day . . .” Every time I read his words it's as if the ground has fallen away beneath me, and every time I feel like running away and leaving it all behind, even Johannes. But I don't. I harbor the same sense of foreboding Zossima had when he bowed down before Dmitry. I have no idea what it might be,
Henner's future suffering, but I fear it may have something to do with me.

Downstairs they're sitting all together at the breakfast table. The children have been absorbed by the farm. They romp about in the animal sheds and in the meadows, and only appear at mealtimes. I don't feel like eating. I'm completely full; Henner doesn't leave room for much else. Johannes is telling them how he met me: at that first demonstration in P. Thousands of people were there; the march was so long we couldn't see where it began or ended. Carried by the throng, we surged past the big department store and then headed for the marketplace. “We are the people! We are the people!” the masses shouted, and it felt the same as it had when I was in Pioneer Camp, except that there the feeling had been even stronger, perhaps because of the torches and songs.

Katja and I were exhausted from all the chanting and were about to slip away to the ice cream parlor when suddenly we noticed a water cannon just a few meters away. People started screaming, others kept chanting “We are the people!” and somehow I lost Katja and she lost me. A woman was pushing a pram alongside me. Police with machine guns were everywhere. Aiming at us. Then came the jet of water. The woman with the baby stumbled, the pram shot off sideways and rolled into the crowd. A man stopped it and took out the child. The baby was screaming its head off, the woman was on the ground, howling and howling, and when the man pulled her up, the baby almost slipped from his grasp. I put my hands in front of my face and didn't move. Everyone was running all over the place, but nobody ran away. They're going to shoot, I thought. They're just going to take aim and whoever's at the front is going to get it. I was at the front. Katja hadn't reappeared. But now Johannes was beside me—we'd known each other since kindergarten—and he wrenched me away, through the crowd, then into a side street. We ran and ran, without knowing where we were going, and behind us there was a huge commotion. Something
had happened, but we couldn't see anything anymore. He dragged me into a doorway, pushed the door open, and shoved me inside. And there he kissed me for the first time. It was October 1989. It felt as if we'd escaped with our lives, even though in hindsight it turned out that nothing serious had happened.

Gisela is staring in astonishment, and also in slight disbelief, as if Johannes were recounting a fairy tale. She must think he's been exaggerating. But she's wrong. Johannes tends to play things down; he hasn't even really captured the drama of the story. But it's obviously enough for Gisela. Seeing how shocked she is by this makes me wonder whether Hartmut actually told her the truth about prison. Does she know that they left him for three days with a high temperature and pneumonia before fetching a doctor? That's what he told Siegfried, who told Marianne, who told Johannes, and now I know, too. But I'm not sure about Gisela. Has Hartmut kept that from her? And if so, why?

But then I think about my own secret and realize that there are things that can be said straightaway, others that need time, and some things that cannot be told at all.

Of course there was more to this story. At some point we began our long journey home and found Katja at the station. When she saw us she burst into tears and threw her arms around me. We took the forty-five-minute train journey back and she walked back to the village. I went on with Johannes to the Brendels', to the barn, where we spent hours kissing in the hay. Katja was given the task of telling my mother.

A few days later we were summoned to the headmistress's office, each of us in turn. I had to explain where I had been on the day of the demonstration, and ultimately what my reasons were for being there. I still don't know who betrayed us, but Katja spent less time in the office than I did.

It was a time when I often stood out from the crowd. I had decided not to take part in the state initiation ceremony and got confirmed
instead, putting a stain on my otherwise spotless CV. Siegfried was wrong when he said I had an unblemished record.

There were several reasons for my refusal to attend the initiation ceremony along with everyone else from my class. Back then I was a regular at the parsonage. One of the pastor's sons, David, came to our house quite often, too. He used to climb over the fence and bring me presents. The pastor's family had frequent visitors from the West, and David was well supplied with things like chocolate, gummy bears, posters of rock stars, and sometimes records. We'd sit in my mother's bedroom and listen to banned music. I was madly in love with him. I'd have supper with his family every few days, and when we said grace before dinner—“Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest; and bless what you have bestowed”—I uttered the words more fervently even than the pastor's children. None of them was in the Pioneers, nor in the Free German Youth; they talked about subjects that were new to me, and they were smarter than anybody else in our village. My admiration for them was boundless.

And then—this was still long before the Wall came down—the whole of Class 8 were given the initiation pledge to learn at home. We were supposed to prepare ourselves for the forthcoming ceremony; the text began with the following words:

David told me I couldn't say that in all seriousness, and that I ought to think about what I
would
actually say. He also claimed there
were people who just disappeared because they were hostile to the state. He'd heard this from his father, and his father would never lie. And around that time, one of my mother's brothers had come to visit and told us of a friend who had been arrested two years previously for the possession and distribution of imperialist literature, including the works of some foreign philosophers. He was imprisoned in Bautzen, released a year later, and died shortly afterward of a particularly rapid and aggressive cancer. He was twenty-nine and the father of two children. There was lots of whispering between Mom and her brother, and from what I could make out they believed it had something to do with the prison—they'd made him ill while he was inside. I couldn't get this man out of my head, and now I did find the words
great and noble cause of Socialism
unutterable. The postwoman's son disappeared, too, after he'd clambered blind drunk up a flagpole in the village, yelling “Fucking country!” over and over. Anton was his name, and we never saw him again. David said I couldn't ignore the signs.

There were more parts to the pledge, the final one being:

I had a problem that was purely personal with this part of the pledge. I had no desire to strengthen our friendship with the Soviet Union for the simple reason that my father had left us for a Soviet woman. He'd vanished into the heart of Soviet territory, having already spent most of the year at the gas pipeline. So I had my very own animosity toward the USSR. I absolutely loathed it, and I hated
the language, too, even though it came in handy; I could read the letters Mom kept finding in my father's pockets, and found out what he was up to in the Soviet Union.

In any case, my longing for the color and diversity of the West was by now immense. I wanted to have all those things, too. I didn't want to fight against them—I wanted to
own
them. But the greatest reason of all was my first love, David, for whose sake I would have done almost anything.

So my mind was made up. Mom cried a lot and said I was as stubborn as my father, if not more so. I knew the trouble in store for me, but in the end it wasn't as bad as all that. I was determined and started learning by heart catechisms, verses from the Bible, and the Nicene Creed—for God, as David's father liked to say, was greater than Socialism.

I didn't go into all that detail, however. The little I had told Gisela was more than enough for her already. She seems not to want to know the truth about a world she has only ever regarded with pity and slight contempt from the other side of the Wall. She shies away from conversations like this and keeps her distance from us. I saw how she took Hartmut's hand and placed it anxiously in hers, as if she were worried he might slip away from her, dive into the past and stay there.

The conversation swings round to Volker. Nobody knows for sure why he started drinking. It wasn't as if everybody else in the agricultural collective drank. And apart from the frequent arguments he had with his father, his life wasn't too bad. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he were Alfred's son. Maybe he's sensed it, because certainly nobody's told him. A lie consumes people from the inside, Grandma Traudel always says. You can keep the lid on it for ages, but at some point it boils over—I've often heard her say that. I'm sure Volker's drinking has something to do with this. When he was
younger he even had a girlfriend. For a while they lived together at the farm, up in the attic rooms where Johannes and I are now staying. But Siegfried and Volker argued, and because Siegfried was the more capable of the two, Volker eventually had to go. He held it against everybody, especially Alfred, who on that occasion backed Siegfried even though he generally took Volker's side. But Volker was unreliable. When he drank, he forgot about the animals, and no one would tolerate that.

Frieda goes into the sitting room. She doesn't like talking about Volker, but she loves him nonetheless; after all, he is her eldest son. Alfred trudges after her in silence. And now Siegfried says something that takes everyone by surprise. He says, “If I checked my Stasi file to see who had informed on me, whose name do you think I'd find there?” He grins impishly and looks around. Marianne claps her hand over her mouth and Hartmut shakes his head. Gisela looks from one face to another and Johannes says, “I can imagine, Dad.”

And because Volker knows that Siegfried knows, he doesn't like coming to the farm anymore.

Then we leave them at the table. Johannes takes my hand, leading me out into the hallway and up the stairs. His mind is on other things; he has a plan. He wants to go to Leipzig to look around the art college. It's vacation time at the moment, but someone will be there, he says. He hasn't asked whether I want to go with him. This is his road, and mine—this much I know—is currently heading in a different direction. It's too early to say where. I'm lurching from one emotional state to another, living from one day to the next, always in the present, always in the now, and the now is Henner. Johannes and the future are unknowns.

10

Some days have passed. Dismal days, sad days, during which I've heard nothing from Henner nor seen him. He hasn't even come to the shop. Marianne says he must be on a bender, or with some woman. This makes me frantic. But it's my turn to answer him. “Come stay with me, just for a day . . .” His message was quite clear; it's up to me.

Gisela and Hartmut have returned to Bavaria, taking Frieda with them. It's her first ever trip abroad—we are still the GDR, after all. She was so excited that Marianne had to pack her case for her; Frieda had no idea what to bring. Normally she wears her apron dress day in, day out. Hartmut has promised to visit more often; he wants to
be around to help Siegfried when the family gets the land back from the collective. And he's more interested in those files than the rest of us put together.

I don't know what to do. I've been over to Henner's farm a few times, but it's all locked up. Johannes went off to Leipzig yesterday and won't be back for three days. I decide to go to the tavern, to ask whether the landlord needs any waitressing help for the rest of the summer. He's opened a beer garden, and even tourists are beginning to come to this part of the world now. I make myself look nice: I put on a clean, pale-colored dress, a little lipstick, and my shoes with the low heels. Then I wander along the dusty lane to the tavern. It is early afternoon, hot and without a breath of wind. There's a faint buzzing in the air.

When I enter the tavern I see Henner at the regulars' table. He's paralytic, and railing against the “criminal state that's fucked up my life. Even my wife buggered off—she was with the Stasi, the old slut.” Straightaway my knees start trembling. He looks terrible: dirty, brutal—not at all how I'd like to see him. I steel myself and go over to the bar, then ask the landlord for a quiet word, hoping that Henner won't notice me. His right hand, in a sticky pool of beer, is gripping the table for support, his left hand rests limply on his stained trouser leg. Don't turn around, Henner, I say to myself, but that's exactly what he does. He looks up at me, grins with a demented glint in his eye, and gives a brief chuckle. “Maria! The little doll!” he bellows. “It's all so easy for her, she's moving away from here and never coming back. Never! What does she see in Johannes, that boy?” And then he laughs so loudly that even the other drinkers look slightly embarrassed. My whole body is shaking, and the landlord says, “Fantastic, you can start next week. I really need the help this summer since Gabi's expecting another child and she can't do much at the moment.”

Then I leave the room and just head off. I don't know where I'm going, but instinctively I take the path to the woods. And when I've been walking for a long time, really quite far, I hear a panting behind me. Before I can work out what's happening he's overtaken me. He pulls me to the ground and the two of us collapse in a heap. Henner is lying on top of me and holds me tight. Until I stop struggling. Then he kneels over me and, with a sobriety to match his drunkenness in the tavern, says, “Now you're coming with me!” I wipe the woodland earth from my dress and race back to the farm. After telling Marianne that I'm going to see my mother and don't know when I'll be back, I fetch what I need from the spiders' nest, stash a few vegetables and a piece of meat from the shop in my bag, and leave. I'm sure I would have gone even if Johannes had been here. I wouldn't have thought twice about it.

By the time I arrive he's washed and put on fresh clothes. I'm astonished by how quickly he's sobered up. I don't want to talk yet; I punish him with my silence. Then I start chopping vegetables. I sweat the onions and garlic in butter, add the finely diced potatoes and the rest of the vegetables, some spices that I find in his kitchen, and cook for a quarter of an hour, stirring in a little cream and some flour. Then the meat: two thick sirloins, juicy and tender. “Set the table, Henner,” I say. “It'll be ready soon.” All of a sudden he looks quite young. A sneer creeps across his face. But he sets the table without answering back.

He watches me throughout the meal, as if to make sure that I don't disappear again. I like that, though I know I'm being vain and arrogant. I want him to look at me, desire me, me alone and no other. Me alone.

When we get up from the table and go to the other room I say something to him, something which I already know I will never say again. “Do what you want with me,” I whisper into his ear. And he does.

The next morning I'm woken by the dogs barking. Someone must be at the door, or maybe it's just an animal. Needing to pee I try to get up. I lift my legs from the bed and lower them onto the cool floor, but they collapse beneath me. Henner hastens over and carries me to the bathroom and back again. It reminds me of cats who drag their little ones around between their teeth. Today Henner is my mother cat. I did cry a little last night, and at one point I asked him to stop. He replied quietly, but with an odd tone to his voice, that I should have thought about that earlier; now it was too late.

The dogs are quiet again, and Henner is washing me with a warm sponge. He strokes the hair from my face and wants to make me pure again. Then he makes tea and goes into the village to fetch some rolls. He stays with me all day, feeding and cleaning me. I'm not at all well. My head is hot and my mind scrambled, yet I feel happy. Just so long as he doesn't leave my bedside; that makes me anxious. At dusk he puts a small lamp on the floor by the bed and starts reading a poem to me: “With your cool, kind hands / Close all wounds / So that they bleed inwardly / Sweet mother of pain, you!” I close my eyes and slide back into my fever. “In silence the darkness extinguished me / I became a dead shadow in the day / Then I stepped from the hearth of joy / Out into the night. / . . . / You are in deep midnight / An unbegotten in a sweet womb / And never being, unformed! / You are in deep midnight.” Later I feel his cool hands on my feverish body, but I no longer know whether I'm awake or dreaming.

Grushenka, Grushenka, will you really stay with Dmitry?

That night he lies next to me and tosses and turns, getting no sleep. The fever alters my perception. It seems as if several meters are separating Henner and me, though I can touch him. Even my own
arms and legs seem to be moving away from me. I abandon myself to this sensation, and lying on my tummy, my head on my arms, I doze off. Later I feel him inside me again. He takes me as he pleases—until he's finally able to get to sleep.

One day turns into two, and I'm still here on the third day. Henner says I talked a lot in my delirium, but none of it made any sense.

I still feel so weak, and Johannes is coming back today. If he sees I'm not at the farm he'll drive over to Mom's to fetch me. Then it will all come out.

There are lots of empty cups beside the bed. Henner made herbal teas and spooned them into my mouth, at least that's what he says. I can't remember anything.

I'm feeling uneasy; I must get back to the farm before Johannes. I need to go. Now. Henner has washed my clothes and brings them to me in bed. He looks at me for a long time. His eyes are asking what I remember of these nights, whether he went too far. I leave him with his unspoken question; I don't know the answer myself.

Daylight enters the dark room. After struggling to get dressed I step out of the house as if out of time. Everything inside is old. The walls, the bed, and somehow Henner too. He walks me to the gate and says, “I'm here, Maria, you know that.” This time he doesn't give me a note as I leave.

Alfred is standing and watching at the Brendels' front door. He gives me a Frieda-like greeting, says, “Oh, so she's back. Did she have a nice time at her mother's?” A mischievous grin forms on his thin lips, and he narrows his eyes. But before I can answer him the Wartburg comes to a stop behind me and Johannes gets out. My heart is pounding and I can feel a throbbing in my head. Lying is the worst sin, Grandma Traudel used to say when Lorenz was having one of his wild spells. I think she's right.