Ingo Schulze - New Lives

In the entry Schmidtbauer turned around to ask me if we could come to an agreement that socialism should be reformed, but not abolished.

“No need,” I said, “to come to any agreements with me.”

I was chiefly annoyed that Michaela let all three of them address her with informal pronouns.

While I set out teacups for them, Schmidtbauer said, “The meeting of the New Forum of Altenburg, Thuringia, is now open.”

“Why Thuringia?” the long-bearded, big-eyed fellow asked.

“There’s a very simple answer to that,” Schmidtbauer replied. “Because Altenburg is located in Thuringia. And its people feel they’re part of Thuringia. Ask anyone you like.” All the while he played with the push button on his ballpoint.

Only the long-bearded fellow disagreed with Schmidtbauer when he moved not to announce the various committees of the New Forum at the open church assembly the next evening, but to wait and see what Krenz would do.

“What does Krenz have to do with it?” Long Beard asked. “Can someone explain to me what this has to do with Krenz?” His huge eyes moved from one person to the next, and finally landed on me too.

“I can explain it for you,” Schmidtbauer said. “All of us sitting here right now, you”—he aimed his ballpoint first at Michaela—“you, you, and me, can be arrested at any moment. If Krenz — let me finish — if Krenz gives the order, God have mercy on us.”

Long Beard raised his hand like a schoolboy and fixed his eyes on Schmidtbauer. “Well, what is it,” Schmidtbauer grumbled, and finally aimed his ballpoint at him.

“I have another question to ask you, Jürgen. May I?”

Schmidtbauer nodded.

“Aren’t you proud to be in the New Forum?”

“What?” Schmidtbauer looked from one person to the next, as if everyone should see how difficult it was for him to keep from bursting into laughter.

“I can only tell you that I’m proud to be,” Long Beard said. “And I don’t care who knows it.” He sat up erect. “Do you know what I did yesterday?” Then he told about how the construction outfit he works for had sent him to do some repair work at the Stasi villa. He had eaten in their canteen at noon and had run into a couple of acquaintances. He had told them, “I’m in the New Forum. Take a look at our agenda, you won’t find anything wrong with it. And then I said I’m proud to be in the New Forum. I don’t care who hears it. And if I’m allowed to head up the economics committee, I don’t care who hears that either. So, Jürgen, you can go ahead now.”

After I brought them a pot of tea, I closed the doors to the living room and kitchen. I cleaned up and for a lack of anything better to do began mopping the floor, until Michaela called for me. They were all sitting in front of the tube.

When I saw Krenz, I knew that nothing was going to happen. His spiel about developments that had not been understood in their full reality, about how the country was hemorrhaging, and about his newfound compassion for the tears of mothers and fathers had a calming effect even on Schmidtbauer. Maybe I was so surprised by Krenz, by his facelessness, only because I had never really taken a good look at him. This pitiful creature spoke as if every word he said disgusted him, as if his speech were some sort of slop that he had to choke down while the whole world watched. Plus I had never seen him wear anything but a Schiller collar — my mother’s term for the way our functionaries wore the collar of their blue shirts 321turned out over the lapels of their gray jackets. In a white shirt and tie he looked like a circus bear.

When the trio had left, I opened the window, and Michaela said that she no longer needed to go to the theater now. Along with Jörg, the short fellow with the beard and beret, she would be heading up the New Forum’s media and culture committee. I asked if people like Schmidtbauer were worth her being put in danger on their behalf. Michaela said that Schmidtbauer’s wife had moved out, leaving him with two little children. How would I react if suddenly tomorrow morning all the lug nuts had been loosened on the car?

Why couldn’t Michaela see that Schmidtbauer was really small potatoes, not see his craving for recognition, his callousness. But the more I got upset about him, the more ridiculous I appeared in her eyes.

And the next morning things kept moving in the same direction. Since Michaela had rehearsal that evening, I was supposed to stand in for her at the church and talk about the Berlin meeting and the demonstration permit we had applied for. I refused. “And why?” Michaela asked. She sounded as hard, as cold, as if I had been cheating on her. “Am I allowed to know why?”

“Because I don’t want to have anything more to do with these people,” I said, mimicking the pretentious downbeat nods of the bass player.

Michaela let air pass through her nose with such disdain that I knew what awaited us. Five minutes later she said, “I don’t understand you, Enrico. I simply don’t understand you anymore.” I said nothing, but that evening I attended church.

Actually, it was all just like I had once pictured my future fame would be. I had to walk to the front through a veritable guard of honor to my left and right, people recognized me, and some even called out to me. Someone demanded that I should take the reins here. A spot had been reserved for me on the aisle in the first row to the right. It was not pleasant to discover Michaela’s name and our address clearly visible on a large well-placed poster inviting people to join the media and culture committee.

They began after a little delay — speeches, music, speeches. Forty-five minutes later it was finally my turn. The hush was so total it was as if people were literally holding their breath. I reported about the meeting in Berlin. That took about one minute. As offhandedly as possible I added that we had officially registered for a demonstration on November 4th. This was once again cause for jubilation, people once again moved out onto the street, Pastor Bodin was once again unable to get a word in. And once again, as I came out of the church, there were the two policemen. The blond smiled. The black-haired cop was so excited he literally spun on his axis. We shook hands. The same route as last time, I said. And with that they climbed into their Lada. I offered Robert as my excuse and drove directly home.

From that point on I find it difficult to tell one day from the next. I no longer took part in any of it, and Michaela was too proud to ask me to.

When I was alone, I lay in my room, a forearm across my eyes, and tried to steer my thoughts as far away as possible from myself and the present. Usually I thought about soccer.

You may have heard of the legendary quarterfinal game for the European Cup between Dynamo Dresden (the team I hang my heart on) and Bayer 05 Uerdingen, played on March 9, ’86, one day after International Women’s Day. Even today I have no idea where Uerdingen is. Dresden had won 2 to 0 at home and was strutting its stuff in Uerdingen — the “Dresden top” was spinning. I still remember how Klaus Sammer, our trainer, jumped up from the bench when Uerdingen scored a goal against themselves, making it 3 to 1. He bounded over an ad banner and waved good-bye — a gesture meant to imply, “That’s all, folks.” Watching on television, I wondered why people were still in the stands.

Dresden could have been scored against four times in the remaining forty-five minutes and still have made it to the semifinals. In the fifty-eighth minute Uerdingen scored a goal. In the mood in which I found myself I regarded that goal as corresponding to the magazine Sputnik being banned and Ceauşescu’s being awarded the Karl Marx Order. I equated the 3 to 3 that followed shortly thereafter with the election fraud of May 7th. Uerdingen’s 4-to-3 lead was more or less the same thing as Hungary opening its borders, and the 5 to 3 corresponded to the Monday demonstrations. There was no doubt at that point that it would soon be 6 to 3. Which is what happened, and Dresden was eliminated. But what would 6 to 3 be in the autumn of ’89? Freedom to travel for everyone? And 7 to 3? The final score of 7 to 3 was now no longer of any interest to me.