Julia Franck - Back to Back

Over in the West there’s a lot of loud shouting. Freedom, they call it, but they’re exploiting people. Fascism flourishes over there, take a close look. She was working on the temples of her statue’s face.

Over there I could study journalism without having to be a member of the Free German Youth, said Thomas, but his words were lost in the noise of her tapping. She tapped and tapped and his ears went on burning. He knew she despised people who made off to the West, went there for a comfortable life under capitalism, but he couldn’t stop wondering how it might still be possible for him to get there, in spite of her scorn.

Käthe tested the edge of her chisel, went over to her workbench and picked up a narrower one. Study something sensible first, then we’ll see.

It sounded easy, the way she said that, simple. She never guessed the stifling sensation he’d felt for weeks. He had hoped for a while that the world would expand once he had his school-leaving certificate, but the opposite was the case, it was closing in on him with every minute he spent standing in Käthe’s studio discussing his future.

Sometimes I think I’m choking, he heard himself say, and saw her narrow chisel pound the sandstone. Maybe I’m just going crazy, the ground is firm but my feet sink in, inside me there’s. .

Her tapping resonated on his eardrums. It was pointless to say anything. He stood there in silence for a while.

Can someone open the door? asked Käthe as she paused for a moment to examine the stone. That could be meant for only one person present, so Thomas went over and opened the door into the yard. It had stopped raining; the air smelled of earth and leaves.

Over there it’s Adenauer, here it’s Ulbricht.

Yes? Thomas turned to Käthe. Why was she stating that fact, what deduction was he supposed to draw from it?

Yes, said Käthe.

You think all the old Nazis have banded together in the West, but good people are in charge here? retorted Thomas.

Käthe put the peening anvil down on her workbench, pushed up her protective goggles, and was now gesticulating with her arms. There’s a chance here. At least there’s a chance. That’s what matters. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She hated to let someone else have the last word. Thomas didn’t have to explain the world to her. She was working like a woman possessed on the rebirth of a society. Thomas did not believe any of that, and he was ashamed of himself when he felt her hand on his shoulder.

You came up against the border at school. Refusing to join the Free German Youth! Baffled, she shook her head; her bitterness hurt him. Perhaps Käthe was horrified to realise that she had raised her voice in anger. She whispered her warning now: There’s no future if you won’t join in. She was not expecting an answer; she raised her chisel and the peening tool and struck the temples of her statue.

Hesitantly, Thomas replied: Isn’t there? He thought of those autumn weeks last year that he had spent in the ranks of the Free German Youth, helping to drain the former marshland of the Friedländer Grosse Wiese, he thought of the flocks of birds whose resting places had been disturbed, he had lain in wait for otters and water rats, but to no avail, they had made off long ago. Thomas remembered rolling off the plank bed in the youth camp one morning to go on duty, and the image he had of himself that morning as he dug his spade into the earth, one of the ranks of all the Free German young people who were fooling around, chattering, grousing, and how he had felt like a monstrous mammal appearing there in the pack of all the others. There was no turning back now. And there was no real decision, for he had felt unable to join the organisation, he could not hold the spade in his hand, he was no young hero, and he was anything but free. Käthe did not take her admonitory glance off him. It wouldn’t be any good if he didn’t join in. How was he to tell her that he couldn’t, that there was something he lacked, he was mutating, he was becoming someone else, he was already someone else? Are you joining in, he wondered, when you go to France to see Henri and your other friends, when you go to England to see your sister? Have you ever signed a statement about someone? Maybe saying your children would join the Free German Youth? Is it all up to your Party, then? Do I have to join some damn association to be allowed to study journalism? Thomas was seething. Käthe’s lowered forehead made him tremble, he couldn’t rage, run wild, he felt only weakness.

At the very least. At least you should join the Free German Youth, even better to join the Party. She looked up, and turned a challenging gaze on Thomas. Even then journalism wouldn’t be advisable. You’re intelligent. I’ve taught you both that nothing in life comes for free. Go in for scientific research, Thomas. Or you could be a mechanic.

I don’t want to be a mechanic. . Thomas hated the desperate, pitiful tone he heard in his voice.

Even though you like metalwork? Make use of your talents.

He didn’t want any encouragement. Her well-meaning severity was repugnant to him, her heartening words tormented him. He was supposed to make concessions, but he couldn’t, his throat felt too tight, his legs too heavy. How could he counter her mockery, her severity and love, tell her that he thought she had it all wrong, and he wanted to find a life of his own? As a mechanic I’d be in some industrial works, welding tractors and axles and no one will ask about my talent. Talent is dangerous, you might want something, want to make something. Better ten tractors a day. I don’t want to! Can’t you understand? I don’t write poems to please or annoy my family. My poems have nothing to do with any of you — I want to write, I want to get out. How arrogant of him that was, his words were intended to attack her. Thomas heard his voice cracking; he had been lying. There would be no poems but for her and his birth in a place that he wished he had never seen. Every poem he wrote was about getting away, escaping and the impossibility of escape.

With delicate little strokes, Käthe was tapping stone away from the back of the head, the nape of the neck. She stopped and turned to him: Then our ways obviously part here. And don’t imagine you can come back, just like that. Anyone who leaves is a coward, a traitor. It’s open to everyone to make off, he can live in comfort in the West. If that’s what you really want, I can write to my brother. Maybe Paul will know of something for you in New York. . Her tone was threatening, Thomas clearly saw how hard she was trying to drive him into a corner by holding out this prospect, and although he saw through her intentions he couldn’t throw off the alarming effect they had on him.

And see the rest of you only every few years? Thomas hated his weakness, his capitulation.

No one has to visit anyone. Those who want to get out had better get out, and that’s that. But let me tell you, 1961 isn’t 1936. Paul went to America because he wanted to study and he was threatened with a camp under Hitler, he had no choice. I went to Italy for the sake of art. It’s all about society, not your private life.

Why didn’t he shout at Käthe? He ought at least to turn away. It sounded pitiful when he said: I can’t do that. I don’t want to leave you. Against his will, his voice sounded pleading. He didn’t love society, nor did he have faith in what was good. He just felt love for the woman who had given birth to him. And he couldn’t be sure even of her.

Käthe went to the open door, stretched, raised her arms in the air and let out a cry of delight in the direction of the beech tree. She was pleased with her work, with herself, with the scent of rain. But the tea in her cup had gone cold; she wrinkled her nose, threw the dregs at the elder bush, and then poured herself more from the Thermos flask.