Ingo Schulze - New Lives

We waited by a little shed with lots of signposts. Then Herr Funke and the boys arrived with Maik. Two boys in front, two behind, and Rolf kept trying to show them how to rest the branch on their shoulder without it hurting. Herr Funke told us how really angry they had been. Maik hadn’t resisted much. Even though he promised he would. Then he just sat down on a tree stump with the empty sack across his knees. Pine trees all around. Maik ran away when the boys started throwing. Didn’t do any good, of course. Especially when Herr Funke is with them. He can throw from a hundred yards away, and still hit his target. They all threw at the same time. Herr Funke said it was like what used to be called an organ, like those big “steel organs” the Soviets had. Maik kept his undershirt on, so no matter where he ran he was easy to spot. They just had to aim for his undershirt. Maik didn’t have any shoes on, either, but his eyes were wide open. He bumped into things a couple of times anyway. When Herr Funke realized we all wanted to be part of it, he said we had the right stuff. Herr Funke is strict, Adelheid always says, but he’s fair. It’s pretty rare for him not to have something to gripe about. But we did our job because we worked together with Adelheid. We stood in formation around Maik just like at morning roll call. Herr Funke said he was proud of us. Everybody had done his job.

The boys carried him up onto the porch where Herr Funke and Herr Meinhardt, the caretaker, were standing. Adelheid said Herr Meinhardt had said how great it would be to have a nice little devil like this delivered every day, that would sure make things easier for the kitchen. Then it all went real fast, because everybody wanted some. Herr Funke praised Herr Meinhardt for being so good at his job and always remembering to bring the basins to hold underneath. The boys were busy the whole time. We got the bread sliced and carried the tea bucket out to the athletic field. We used the wheelbarrow and the boys brought the frame for the spit. And Rolf got the fire going for under the spit. Herr Funke laughed at how unrecognizable Maik was now. It took a real long time before we could dig in, well after our usual bedtime. But I like sausage anyway. It tastes better than schnitzel. Herr Funke went on for a long time about how things used to be and how hard they had fought and all their sacrifices, but how they had always believed in victory no matter what. That’s why we have an honor guard too. And then Herr Funke played his guitar, and Adelheid sang, and so did we. I kept thinking about that belt. If only I could have been wearing it. And then Herr Funke said: Who would like to see the head? And he pulled it out of the sack it had been in all along. Who wants to carry the head? Herr Funke asked. I grabbed Maik’s head the way Herr Funke showed me, by the hair. It was really heavy, and I didn’t want to get my hands dirty. I never thought Maik’s head would be so heavy. Holy cow, I thought. Because it was so heavy we took turns, Sylvia and me. Sylvia is my best friend. We want to visit each other when we get home.

All the best from your Sabine, Group M 4

Hundred-year Summer

His hands in the pants pockets of his dress uniform, Salwitzky is standing between the door and the table, staring out the window. Because of the afternoon sun and the heat, the blackout drape has been drawn halfway. Vischer is sitting with his elbows on the broad windowsill, his back to the locker, a book in his left hand. It’s as quiet as a day in the country. Except occasionally you can hear the shuffle of boots or the high-pitched whine of the troop carrier’s fly-wheel. The company is out taking target practice.

“Quarter till five,” Salwitzky says, pushing the bill of his cap back even farther and wiping his brow with his hand. “And?”

“Nothing,” Vischer says.

“You’re not watching.”

“I can see if anything moves.”

“If you don’t keep an eye out, you can’t see anything.”

There’s a whistle, but not from their hallway, then the scraping of stools upstairs.

“If they come back and see us here and laugh themselves silly, I’m going to raise hell.”

“Go ahead,” Vischer said softly, laying his open book aside. He gets up and takes a writing pad and ballpoint from the locker, sits back down. He shifts the lined paper into position.

“What’re you doing now?” Salwitzky walks just far enough around the table to be able to see the grayish blue door of the officers’ barracks — the handle is broken.

Vischer’s head is cocked down over the page.

“What’re you up to?”

Vischer glances at his book and then goes on writing.

“I asked you something.”

“Dammit, Sal, you can see for yourself.”

Salwitzky turns around. He jiggles the lock on his locker, moves his briefcase from the stool to the table, unzips it, and then zips it back up again. He airs his cap and wipes his forearm across his eyes and brow. The armpits of his light gray shirt have darkened.

“You writing an official protest?”

“Nope,” Vischer says, turning the page. He crosses his legs and bends down again.

“I’ll never do it again,” Salwitzky says, “this sort of thing’s not for me. I want to take my leave with the whole company or not at all.”

“You’ll get home all right.”

“I don’t believe it, not when I see you sitting there like that.”

“Nothing’s going to happen before five o’clock, you know that.”

“If I don’t catch the eight twenty…”

“You won’t make it, you know.”

“You’re right. Shit!” Salwitzky gives his stool a kick, sending it crashing into the bed and toppling over. Salwitzky sets it upright and gives it another kick. The stool ends up just short of the door.

“This is what they call a hundred-year summer, Visch. A hundred-year summer, but not for us! We’re hanging around here, and out there…Never be another like it!”

“Nothing you can do. Not even if you stand on your head, Sal…”

Salwitzky whips around. “That’s just like you. Sal standing on his head, you’d go for that.” Salwitzky picks the stool up and shoves it back to the table. “You’d really go for that, man oh man!”

Salwitzky throws himself onto one of the lower bunks in the middle of the room; his dress shoes are on the cross brace at the foot of the bed. “Got problems, Visch? Did she dump you?”

Vischer thumbs some more in his book.

“You can tell me, Visch. She did, didn’t she?”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s okay, Visch, you don’t have to tell me.” Salwitzky presses his hands together and cracks his knuckles one after the other. “You need to get out of here more often, Visch, then you wouldn’t have these problems.”

Vischer goes on writing. A radio is booming in the hallway overhead. Salwitzky sings along while the tune lasts.

“No, really,” he then says. “About as talkative as a screwdriver — read, write, read. Probably don’t do anything different at home either.” Salwitzky presses his hands against the mattress above his head.

“Out of cash? Need some?”

“No thanks.”

“Really?”

“You haven’t got any anyway.”

“Not here, I don’t need any here. But at home. Try guessing how much I’ve got at home. You need some? Only have to say the word.”

“I don’t have to do anything, Sal.” Vischer leans back and reads, the ballpoint still between his fingers.

“There’s plenty of stuff you’d like, I’m not that stupid.”

“Peace and quite, for instance,” Vischer says. They can no longer hear the radio overhead.

“For me to stand on my head. You go for that. You really do like it here, don’t you?”