The Tower: A Novel (59 page)

Haircut. That’s in the swimming pool, it’s empty so the hair can be swept up. A couple of surly soldiers wield the rattling electric clippers. Conk down! Keep still! Beside each stool there’s a so-called ‘standard noddle’ stuck in a flag-holder on a broom handle. The standard noddle is a grinning papier mâché private’s head with the hairline drawn by a felt tip. So I didn’t need to go to Wiener’s before I left. Breck, who also rooms with me, screams. ’s only a wart, dogface, the Comrade Barber says, taking a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic out of a tin of Carlsbad wafers and slapping it on the bleeding spot.

Next stop the photographer, right next door. We go behind a headless dummy that’s been sawn open vertically and has a dress uniform with epaulettes, shirt and tie stuck on the front. Stand inside the dummy, your neck in its neck! Photo. Proceed! At the Med Centre we get a tetanus jab in the upper arm. The medical orderlies can hardly keep up with the crush and groan that these batches of cadets that keep
coming every six months ought to be gassed. Back to the company. By now it’s a quarter to six. By the time we’ve washed, put on our pyjamas and dropped into bed it’s four minutes to six. At six Inca whistles. Company Four – rise and shine! End of night-time rest! That was the first day. Today is Sunday, we have some free time.

Love, Christian.

TC Q/Schwanenberg, 12.11.84

Dear Parents, The package with my civvies ought to have arrived by now? Please check the outside wrapping paper, there’s a note hidden in the folds.

Today was our ‘beginning of Carnival’. We were woken at 5, followed by the usual 10 minutes for washing, dressing, putting things away, falling in. Marched off, destination unknown. We marched along a road at speed, suddenly the order, ‘Gas!’ was given. (Masks on, and they stayed on for 3 km.) We were loaded down from head to toe with: rifle, belt (loaded with a belt, oh yes, Pa, didn’t you tell me not to exaggerate, it was un-Dresdenish? Herr Orré also taught us that, ask Ezzo), water bottle, bayonet, combat pack, ammunition pouch. After the 3 km some simply keeled over. But that was only the start of the exercise; it was followed by 1: moving on the field of battle – we spent one and a half hours elbowing, crawling and jumping our way across muddy ploughed fields (there was drizzle all day) and were frozen through, chatterchatter. Then came 2: camouflage. That meant we had to burn a newspaper to smear ash all over our face and neck, a filthy business. And elbowing, crawling etc. etc. as well. I had intense pain in my joints from the constant contact with the ground. (It’s no longer constant, the contact with the ground, I mean.) And my face nice and black. Our clothes were as cold as the Heart of Stone and truly impregnated with dirt. But then came 3: digging out a battle station. While lying down we had to dig out a hole, 1.80 m by 60 cm and 50 cm deep in 30 minutes; and it has to have a specific shape. No picnic with the
heavy baggage. Digging out a firing hollow made me think that being a gravedigger’s not an easy job.

The afternoon was entirely occupied with cleaning our rifles, drying and brushing the mud out of our things as well as the usual being hustled to and fro. Now I’m sitting writing by the light of my pocket torch (it’s night-time rest); my room-mates are doing that too. Night-time rest is the only time during the whole day when the whistle doesn’t go. Unfortunately it’s all too short: 3,000 m in full uniform is already on the horizon. At the moment I’m constantly getting a pain in my heart and dizziness. I might be imagining it though. When we’re ordered to wear our steel helmets I quickly get a headache from the hulking great thing. But then I just think it away (you don’t have to think much while marching).

13.11. Some easy diver training for us, Company 4. At the double, march! to the facility swimming pool (as they call it here); we got undressed, sat for four hours in the cold on the edge of the pool. Then we had a breathing mask and a heavy, sopping-wet uniform put on and had to walk round the pool for a quarter of an hour, completely wrapped up in that revolting stuff. It was a quarter of an hour of gasping for breath. Then into the water, that was icy cold. If you let some water get into the breathing tube (you only needed to smile), you could even die, despite the safety line, for the clothes were heavy, moreover we had lead plates on our feet so that the instructors wouldn’t have been able to pull us out that quickly (it was about 6 m deep). Well, perhaps we wouldn’t have drowned. The sight of us under water was grotesque, hopping round on the bottom of the pool like big, black embryos on long umbilical cords; I felt like a puppy that was being trained to do some trick retrieving things.

How’s Robert doing at the senior high? How did his German homework assignment go? Has Reglinde got into music school for organist/choirmaster? There’s an MTO here (Military Trading Outlet that’s open for cadets on Sundays); I saw some roofing felt there, you can
tell the Tietzes. Didn’t Niklas want to seal the leak over the music room? If I’m to send some, he’ll have to send me packaging that’s big enough to take it, since there isn’t any here. By the way, I get 225 marks a month. With love from Christian.

TC Q/Schwanenberg, 15.11.84

Dear Parents, Many thanks for your parcel that arrived yesterday. It was just at the right time, we couldn’t have lunch because we were in training. The apples above all were important, we’ve already made quite an impression on them (sometimes I think of ‘Tired and lame, I sought an inn, my host was wondrous kind’, but no one here reads Uhland). We only rarely get vegetables and no fruit at all, but otherwise life here is very healthy (lots of sporting activity). So if you should be sending another parcel at some time, Ma, then if possible just apples, carrots, a bit of soap, a salt cellar. And please don’t let Barbara send me a radio (I was going to write to her but I’ve only time for one letter), radios are forbidden in our rooms. I could perhaps find another way of compensating for the lack of music – in the company copy of the regulations for internal service I have found none that forbids a cello. But it would have to shrink, the problem’s the small locker and even in the tank the cello would stick out of the hatch. However, if I could put the tank hood on Mr Violin Cell0 and teach him to salute, he could easily pass for me since I’m sure he could manage the grunting and mumbling to the tank mike.

Today we marched for 6 hours, exercise training, everything in the ‘rococo style’ (we have to stretch our legs out and lift them at least 30 cm above the ground and make very, very little loops). Right about turn, left about turn, get on with it, hey, Gunner Arsehole in the last rank, lift up your trotters. After that we were on fatigue duty, from 1 in the afternoon until 9 in the evening scrubbing, painting tanks, scraping off rust, the corporal standing behind the cadet whistling on his whistle. The area round the facility is particularly beautiful, bare
as a Cossack’s head, no trees growing, cranes on the horizon, factory chimneys, shed-like structures. Here are the words of our marching song that we have to learn, because it’s our song, the ‘Song of the Tankers’: ‘Bright shines pink the Tankers’ colour, / I so proudly bear. / Pink too is a dress of yours / I love to see you wear. // From the fields pale hands are waving, / one is waved for me. / In my thoughts I fondly kiss you, / together soon we’ll be. // Oh the joy that now awaits us / at the dance tonight. / You the fairest of them all, / pink dress shining bright. //
REFRAIN:
Through the little village march, / the Tankers two by two. / Nevermore will I forget / the path that leads to you.’

We sing it every evening when we march to dinner, the tune doesn’t matter, everyone bawls it out however they like, the main thing is that it’s loud. The other companies sing the same song but change the colour, instead of pink (Tanks) they put green (Chemical Services), black (Engineers), red (Artillery), white (Motorized Gunners), gold (Intelligence). It doesn’t really flow but it still comes out nice and loud.

The answer to your question about the swearing-in ceremony, Ma, is unfortunately no. Our tank unit can’t invite any family members, the accommodation available in Schwanenberg couldn’t cope with the numbers, they say. You’ll just have to wait until I get leave, I’m afraid. Have you heard anything from Muriel? And is it true that Ina’s got engaged? Keep me informed. Love to all, Christian.

Hans Beimler-TC / Schwanenberg, 19.11.84

Dear Tietzes, There’s a smell of chocolate, the Schwanenberg sweet factory’s making chocolates. Our company’s cleaning the rooms and the rest of the building and above all that means sweeping up cocoa powder: the wind blows the brown dust over from kilometres away. But I’m sitting on the loo quickly writing this letter to you.

The bottled pears arrived safe and sound, many thanks for your
gifts in the parcel my parents sent. The kidney warmer you knitted for me, Gudrun, will come in useful when I’m on guard duty or camping out; I just hope it doesn’t get stolen or forbidden as being against regulations.

At the moment we’re being instructed in the subtleties of communication within the military sphere, especially saluting and swearing. It’s done by a sergeant we call the ‘Mongol’.

Permission to speak, Comrade Rank, sir.

Permission to go past, Comrade Rank, sir.

Permission to dismiss, Comrade Rank, sir.

Permission to join you, Comrade Rank, sir.

My room-mate Irrgang puts up his hand. I’ve a question there, Comrade Sergeant. What if I need to go and the Comrade First Lieutenant’s sittin’ next to me on the toilet? Permission to join you, Comrade First Lieutenant?

The Mongol’s reply: Cadet Ammofeed, Cadet Irrgang, will never have a shit next to the Comrade First Lieutenant. Never ever.

Irrgang puts up his hand again. There’s another question I have. If I meet the Comrade First Lieutenant and the comrade doesn’t give me permission to speak, how can I ask for permission to go past?

The Mongol shrugs his shoulders, continues with the lesson. We practise saluting.

Irrgang raises his hand again. I’ve an important problem there. ’f I meet the Comrade First Lieutenant an’ along comes another Comrade First Lieutenant, that is two comrades at the same time, one on the left an’ one on the right, should I put both hands up to my thinkpot at the same time.

At the moment Cadet Irrgang is busy on the obstacle course.

Dear Niklas, Have you been to the Semper Opera? What does the building look like? Best wishes, Christian – who’s looking forward to receiving letters.

TC Q/Schwanenberg, 24.11.84

Dear Parents, Ina’s engaged to Herr Wernstein?? How did that come about! Thank you for all the news and the parcel. You must have put yourselves to some expense for that, I don’t know how we’re going to eat it all up in our room without getting really fat. If you want to send me some books, Ma, then please wrap them in the paper I showed you (incoming parcels have to be opened for checks).

Today was the day we were sworn in. After the official ceremony (I crossed my fingers when taking the oath) I had, on the order of the company commander, to propose a toast in the ‘House of the National People’s Army’ in the barracks (before I did, he read through it for mistakes and ideologically unsound remarks); after that I went back to our block and not into Schwanenberg with the others, so at least I had a quiet afternoon, I locked myself in the lav and wrote replies to a few letters. Anyway, I saw Schwanenberg a few days ago when I went with a corporal to buy stuff for the company staff officers in the store there. Schwanenberg’s a garrison town, mostly bare and rectangular, qualities my ‘noggin’ also possesses since the ‘Masked Ball’; but my hair’s growing again. Send my love to Aunt Iris and Uncle Hans, to Fabian as well. And to you, of course. Christian

TC Q/Schwanenberg, 25.11.84

Dear Parents, Robert thinks I’m exaggerating when I write that we only have three hours’ free time on Sundays. Our daily schedule is, with minor variations, as follows: 06.00 hours: wake, put on red/yellow tracksuit in 2 min, 06.02: go out, early-morning exercises until 06.30: return to building, wash, dress, put sports things away by 06.40: fall in, at the double to canteen, breakfast until 07.00: at the double back to the company, 07–07.30: make beds, clean room, 07.30–15.00: training, lunch jammed in somewhere (bolt it down, what else), 15.00–16.00: ‘big’ cleaning of rooms and building (each of us has his
own patch that he has to keep clean), 16.00–18.00: parade practice and extra physical training (on top of the morning 3,000 m comes the obstacle course, 500 m with 22 so-called chicanes, plus weightlifting with the 50 kg weight, standard 6 times, exercises with the tank-track weight); return at the double, no time to wash, 18.05–18.20: supper, after that daily cleaning of rifles and care of personal protective equipment (protective mask and protective suit), 19.30–20.00: communal viewing of
News Camera
, 20.00–21.30: outdoors work (cleaning the tanks, painting fences, cutting the grass, with nail scissors if the Mongol feels like it, brushing facility paths), 21.30–22.00: cleaning rooms and building, make up sports pack, wash, check rooms, 22.00: night rest. I can only write letters during night rest or on Sundays. There’s only one time during the day when we can relax a bit:
News Camera
, which we watch in the club room, where we’re not allowed otherwise. At least we see something civilian once a day. Once a week we have showers, we go into the shower hall in sections, 200 men under 150 showers and we have 10 minutes to soap ourselves and wash everything off – that’s assuming the NCOs in charge of the showers don’t amuse themselves by turning off the water or only letting cold through. They’re discharge candidates and can do as they like; we’re the new boys, we’re ‘order-receivers’, that’s why they call first-year conscripts ‘earholes’. Love to all, Christian, on the way to an ARDSP (All-Round Developed Socialist Personality)

PS: Of course, I’m exaggerating, otherwise you might end up believing me.

Schwanenberg, 25.11.84