Julia Franck - Back to Back

Want me to help? The group leader laughed, he didn’t mean it, he certainly hadn’t noticed any knocking of Thomas’s knees, however slight; he brought his heavy hand down on Thomas’s shoulder for the second time and gave the demolition expert a sign. Thomas went downhill in cramped darkness, groping his way forward on all fours. What had the group leader said about the lamp, how did you switch it on? Thomas couldn’t remember if he even had the lamp with him, and if so where. Cold darkness surrounded him. He strained all his muscles, fear forced him on, he worked his way forward, legs at an angle and hurting, feet numb, as if the tension in his limbs had sent them to sleep, he could hardly move them. The deeper down he went, the colder it was. How could he know when the gallery came to an end? Eight metres, said a voice in his ear, it couldn’t be long. But he saw no end to it. Nor did it seem to him certain whether eight metres was really the right measurement. The galleries were short, the others had said, they were just below the bottom of the quarry.

He wasn’t getting enough air, he felt that clearly, the weakness, the mist in his head, he could be about to faint. He must pull himself together, how often had he heard that, pull yourself together, no weakness, no fainting, no moment of thoughtlessness. Keep thinking, resist the darkness, the Should and Must of the school of socialism, think of your last German essay before the final exams, the flexibility that he should, could, must show. I was lucky! He had written that because he had to show that he was worthy to live and study in this society. I was able to go to school, and my teachers were people who made real efforts to form the personality of the generation now growing up. With their help I realised that this was the time when I too could give something to our human society, could support it in its struggle for the freedom of mankind. He was hardly struggling himself, his legs like pillars of stone, no more feeling except that his hands hurt when he had to grope his way over the stone with them, he wasn’t free, he knew very well what a look at West Germany would reveal. And I also know only too well the cry of freedom that comes to us from across the border. Over there it means the right of the stronger over the weaker, the right to go hungry, and the right to die a hero’s death in pursuit of foreign goods. . The ins and outs of it were strange, the cold walls of the stone into which he was burrowing as if into the shaft of a tomb, surrounded. What did freedom and goods say, familiar or strange, what could they be to him? But true freedom is insight into necessity — their struggle is the unconquerable will to liberation of the entire nation, to unlimited rights to all the good things of life for everyone who has earned them. What had he earned? Darkness, labouring at the stone. I have come to know life in our Republic, and I have enjoyed all the advantages that can be granted to a young man in this state — I have become what I am now. How often has the term fatherland been misused in the past! The fatherland of a people is where the great mass of it is in the right and is free to choose its fate. Born in this Republic, we owe great obligations to the pioneers of socialism, obligations in the present. But what was it that he should, could and would do? The battle for socialism that will be for the good of all mankind. Although contradictions and doubts sometimes emerge in me, and not in me alone, out of the sad situation of our divided country, yet I hope for the victory of our cause, for which I with all my might will fight and which I will defend! I hope I am not alone in knowing it! He knew how it went, turn away from your own soul, go into silence, endure darkness. No stars shone down here, no icy light from above, deep down in the distance there was a warm glow now, it was no illusion, a light was approaching, taking him into it, he could see his hand, something dazzled him, he closed his eyes, but his own soul was strange to him. Today he knew more about stone and his own being. Perhaps he was dreaming; he was amazed to find that in a dream he could remember his essay, word by word, understand and feel contempt for it.

When he opened his eyes there was no light, no glow. It must have been an optical delusion. He had to lay the explosive, reach the end of the gallery, but symptoms of paralysis were preventing him. Hadn’t the explosives man given him gloves? Where were the gloves, why had he crawled into the gallery bare-handed? He waited where he was. Suddenly he remembered where the lamp that the explosives expert had mentioned was: on his helmet. Thomas cautiously felt for it. Sure enough, his fingers found something round. The tip of his forefinger found and pushed the switch until it clicked. But no light came on. The battery must be finished. How long had he been in the gallery? Was anyone calling to him? He heard words in the distance, a call quite close to him. Someone tugged at his shoes, seized his calves and pulled. Out of here! That was the man calling. But Thomas hadn’t laid the explosive charge yet, hadn’t reached the end of the gallery yet.

His knees creaked, his legs wouldn’t obey him, he was scraping over the rock, the man pulled him backwards up and out of the gallery. Warm light made its way past his eyelashes. Confused voices at the entrance to the chamber. The light was dazzling here. What was wrong with him? the men asked, one of them bent over him in concern. Another was raising his legs and took Thomas’s feet on his shoulders. The beam of a flashlight dazzled his eyes.

Hello? Hello, can you hear me? I’m Kurt, what’s your name?

Thomas moved his lips, which had turned cold and dark; no one could talk with cold lips. The palm of someone’s hand slapped his face. A thousand cells burst, his skin swelled up. He ought to say something, show that he was conscious, that he was all right. Another man took his legs, someone grasped his shoulders, he was carried and put down again, they leaned him up against the steep wall of the stone quarry and shouted at him. He opened his eyes.

Someone took his water bottle off his belt and sprayed his face with water. He had ten minutes to recover, they told him. He smelled blood in his nostrils and kept his sleeve in front of his face, so that no one would see when it began to flow. Putting his head back, he leaned against the rock and felt a fine trickle of blood running down his throat. Be brave, he heard Käthe say, he saw her before him and the glow of hope that she inspired in him.

Eyes closed, he crawled on far into the darkness. Water splashed in his face again. He couldn’t open his eyes, didn’t want to. Had he failed? Was he nothing but a coward to her? Without gloves — there was no missing the indignation in the group leader’s voice. A beginner, said other people. No guts, that’s for sure, some of the others said. Thomas kept his eyes closed, he didn’t want to see their faces. He crawled into the gallery, he tried to turn round but the gallery was narrow, he came up against stone everywhere. As long as he could hear the man behind him, it went on. He saw nothing ahead of him now, not even his own hands, he himself had become the last to cast a shadow. His own shadow pointed into the darkness, no outlines were visible. Thomas was filled with fear. He thought of Ella, who would surely be sitting in a huge workshop flooded with light, in the middle of brightly coloured fabrics, sewing tiny little bags, each prettier than the last. In spite of the gathering cold in the rock, Thomas was sweating, his sweat, wet and cold, ran down under his armpits into the fabric. He crawled on, his eyes were streaming, perhaps only because, even wide open, they couldn’t see any more light.

Someone hit the soles of his shoes, telling Thomas to take his helmet off.