Ingo Schulze - New Lives

“But they’ve got it all wrong.”

“What have they got wrong?”

“Aggressor and all the rest of the crap.”

“How do you know that?”

“They would never attack us.”

“If the Russians didn’t have an army, didn’t have any rockets…do you think the West would nobly refrain from attacking? They didn’t even allow an Allende. Think about Vietnam. Just because they drive better cars and have better pantyhose doesn’t automatically make them more humane.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They’d cash in the whole kit and caboodle.”

“I think that the West…”

“Would help themselves…”

It was as if someone had erased the despair from her face. It was like when they played chess and she let him take back a stupid move. But he didn’t want to take anything back.

“You can’t be the judge of that,” Titus said.

“Imagine we’re talking about lightbulbs or cars or anything of that sort.”

“Why should I?”

“You don’t know any more about those things than I do, do you?”

“He wants me to draw conclusions…”

“Everyone has to draw their own conclusions.”

“Mama…”

What had become of his ideas, of the arguments he wanted to present her with. Why couldn’t he convince her? Was it so easy to put him in checkmate? Joachim was right, Gunda Lapin was right, his mother was right, they were all right each in their own way — only he was wrong.

(Or better, set in a telephone booth.)

“He asked if I had settled in okay, how I was doing meeting the challenges of a new class, and then he said that this wasn’t some attempt to talk me into enlisting, into hiring me as a mercenary, those days were over, thank God. That wasn’t how we did things. But a government of workers and peasants that made it possible for us to get such an education surely ought to be able to demand something in return from those to whom it gave special assistance.”

“He was very calm, but stern, calm and stern. He asked why I didn’t want peace. I told him that of course I wanted peace. Was I prepared then to defend my homeland with a weapon in hand, or would I just stand aside and watch my family slaughtered before my eyes.”

“Then I’ll just become a garbage collector. I don’t think I’ll starve.”

“‘Here on our side no one is left to make his decisions all alone,’ he said.”

“A short report, by Monday.”

“I don’t know, I really don’t. He gave me a book to read…”

Then Titus didn’t say anything for a long time. It was almost dark now.

“It will just go on like this,” he said finally. “Over and over and over.” “Yes,” he said then, “yes.”

5

Five thirty. Titus saw the drops on the windowpane. He rolled over on his back and listened. Something had awakened him, sort of like when the cat used to jump up on his bed. Everything sounded very close — tires on asphalt, the streetcar, buses on their way up to the airport, trains out on the heath.

Titus squeezed his eyes tight. His heart was making progress, beating fasting, closer to his skin.

Six thirty, seven thirty…he counted on his fingers, twelve thirty…in seven hours it would be time, in eight hours his life would be different.

He rolled onto his side, doubled the pillow, and pressed his face into it as if he were crying. The front door clicked into its lock. Footsteps on the sidewalk. He wanted to enjoy the next seven minutes, as if it were the middle of the night, kept cutting the remaining time in half so there was always one half left. He tucked up his legs and pulled the covers higher.

Seconds before it rang, Titus reached for the alarm clock and got up. He closed the window, knelt down, and started his push-ups. He shouted the count to himself. As if an officer were standing beside him, each shout was a blow across his back. He didn’t stop until forty, he was out of breath, but forced himself to keep going to the point of exhaustion. He could see his distorted face and hear himself gasping for air. At forty-seven he no longer felt the riding crop on his back, forty-eight, forty-nine…even after his stomach touched the floor, his arms were still supporting his shoulders. Then he lay there, awaiting his sentence.

Titus was awake now, wonderfully awake. He leapt to his feet like a sprinter from the starting block. He put water on, got the butter from the fridge, and washed at the sink. Seven hours. All he had to do was stick to his opinion. The worst part, yesterday afternoon with his mother, was behind him now. Maybe Petersen would take him to see the principal. Titus smiled while he dried himself.

At seven thirty-five he left the apartment, gym bag in hand, sprinted when he heard the streetcar coming, and leapt onto the last car just as the final bell rang.

The man beside him smelled of cigarettes, shaving lotion, alcohol, and peppermint. Titus pushed his way to the middle of the car, found an opening on the handrail to hang on to. He positioned his satchel and gym bag between his legs.

Hadn’t the people around him already agreed to live out their lives with the least expenditure of energy possible, as if saving all their strength for the beyond? Had not one of these people ever received the call of God?

At the Platz der Einheit he had to get off the 7 and cross to catch the 6. At the stoplight his mother was standing directly opposite him. He didn’t spot her and was startled when he heard his name spoken so close to his ear.

“Good morning, Titus,” she said. They hugged.

“All you have to do is read it to them,” she said, and held out the book and some sheets of paper. “Ten minutes, if you read it slowly.”

He looked at the pages. The book was in a plastic bag decorated with pictures of coins.

“This is not your decision, Titus,” she said. “This is how I want it, and you have to behave accordingly.”

Titus looked to one side. It was as if she were grounding him.

“You’re fifteen. When you’re eighteen, after you’ve graduated, you can be as much of a conscientious objector as you want.”

“Not so loud,” Titus whispered. What was she thinking, ambushing him here like this?

“Promise me that!” Titus looked across to the Red Army Monument; the soldier carrying the flag had his other arm drawn back to toss a hand grenade. He was aiming directly at his mother and him.

“You have to promise me!”

“I’ll try,” Titus said.

“Not just try!” she cried sternly. “This has nothing to do with ‘trying.’ You will do what I tell you to do. Do you understand, Titus?”

“Mama,” he said with a smile. He didn’t understand what was happening inside him. Everything was tumbling, it was as if something had broken loose inside him — something pleasant. She had forbidden him. Just like that. Suddenly everything had returned to square one. He tried to suppress his smile, he wanted to gaze at his mother with a suffering look. He couldn’t admit defeat without any resistance. He had to challenge her.

“I’ve made my decision,” Titus said. “I’m not going to serve in the army.”

“I don’t object to that,” she said. “Just don’t say it now, but when the time comes, before you’re drafted.”

“Petersen wants to know now. I don’t want to lie anymore.”

“It isn’t your decision, Titus. I want you to read this report. And that’s why you’re going to read it too. And if he asks you, then you say what you’ve said all along, eighteen months and not a day longer.”

“I’m not going to read lies.”

“What do you mean, lies? I’ve cut out all the foolishness. You tell them about the Nazi generals that they’ve had and still have, about the names of the bases, the old songs they still bellow, the organizations looking for revenge, and above all about the money. The big companies that profit from it. And if you want to make money selling arms, you need fear and war. Your conscience will be clear, which is true in any case, and as for this…” She turned around because a streetcar was pulling in.