Ingo Schulze - New Lives

Peter Ullrich talked about the underground explosions in Nevada and Great Britain’s antitank rockets. It was absurd to break into tears just because Bartmann had passed him over. How could he ever make a decision if he was a wimpy crybaby?

He was afraid of what would happen during the next break, the five minutes until Russian class began. He had said what he wanted to say. If Joachim didn’t understand, if he still believed he would listen to him instead of his mother…

“First,” Dr. Bartmann dictated, “an electronic computer of the EC 1040 series was presented to Havana by Robotron Kombinat. KOSMOS 962 was launched. Second, recruitment of Egyptian scientists by the USA and the states of Western Europe has reached dangerous levels. Seventy percent of such students don’t return home.”

There were twenty minutes left for regular instruction.

[Letter of June 28, 1990]

Titus opened his notebook at the front and jotted down the date for the second time: Oct. 31, 1977.

Dr. Bartmann wrote 9.1.2. on the blackboard. The nature of cap. society. 9.1.2.1. The nature of cap. exploitation. Followed by two columns, capitalists on the left, the working class on the right.

From there on it was all a matter of who held up his hand. If no one did, Dr. Bartmann provided the answer himself. Joachim’s shorthand was so good that he not only kept pace with Bartmann, but even got ahead of him at the end of every passage.

“The goal of capitalist production is the achievement of the highest possible surplus value, that is, profit, by intensified exploitation.” A box with the words “appropriated profit,” from which two arrows extended right and left. Left: personal use/luxuries; to the right: capital for buying new machinery to constantly generate more surplus value.

“At the risk of his own ruin,” Dr. Bartmann declared, “every capitalist is forced to modernize production and do battle with other capitalists. This competitive struggle results in constantly intensified exploitation.”

Dr. Bartmann dictated quickly, but as soon as a hand was raised, he would repeat the second half of the sentence. “…constantly intensified exploitation. That is the brutal law of capitalism. That brutality results in a) the continued expansion and contraction of the powers of production, b) increased exploitation and destruction of large segments of the peasantry and capitalist entrepreneurs themselves, c) a battle for markets and raw materials, open parenthesis, wars, neocolonialism, close parenthesis.”

Dr. Bartmann erased the box of appropriated profit. “That leads to 9.1.2.3. The fundamental contradiction of capitalism, new line, quotation marks: The bourgeoisie has, dot, dot, dot, created more massive and colossal productive forces than all preceding generations, period, end quotation, open parenthesis, Marx, Engels, Manifesto, close parenthesis. And now don’t write this because it’s from our next class and merely for you to mull over.” And then Dr. Bartmann wrote on the blackboard without comment: “The contradiction between the soc. nature of production and the priv. appropriation of cap. is the fundamental contradiction of capitalism.”

He stepped to one side of the blackboard, pointed with an open hand at what he had written, and said, “This is the source of the antagonistic class dichotomy between the working class and the bourgeoisie.” He shouted over the sound of the bell, “The upshot of which is the abolition of capitalist conditions of production — friends, one and all!”

The first students to look up returned the greeting mutedly, as if talking to themselves.

Dr. Bartmann jotted something in the grade book, buried the newspaper clipping in his briefcase, closing it with a click.

“I have a funny feeling,” Joachim said, standing beside their desk, waiting, “a very funny feeling.”

Titus packed up his things. But when he looked at Joachim he realized that their friendship had only a few hours left. Joachim would say that you can’t wash your hands in innocence and that one must be prepared to leave Father and Mother.

Joachim talked as they descended the stairs, went on talking even after they had taken their seats in Russian class, so that Titus had not yet unpacked his stuff when the toxic blonde, as Joachim called Frau Berlin, appeared at the door.

The toxic blonde took her time. The longer the “hullabaloo” and “ruckus” lasted, the more relentless she would be in the hour ahead.

“Zdrastvuitye!” the toxic blonde announced, and the class responded in chorus: Zdrastvuitye! They stood there immobilized, no one resumed their seat. The toxic blonde gave them a wink. “ Khorosho, zadityes, poshaluista, and who was it said you can teach a young dog new tricks. Vot! ” And after a brief pause while she opened the grade book, she addressed them desk by desk. “Vy gotovy? Vy gotovy? Vy gotovy?” Each time she let her chin drop for a second, wagging her head and blinking like a simpleton. Titus had nodded as her gaze shifted in his direction. He thought she had asked him if he was ready for the lesson. But when she followed up with, “Kto khotchet?” he felt flushed.

“Uh-oh,” Titus whispered, “we forgot about the dialogue.”

Peter Ullrich and his benchmate began to reel off the memorized exchange. Joachim shrugged. Of course it was beneath his dignity to have prepared for this. A dialogue was something for students who, like Titus, had already been given a D.

The class laughed. Peter Ullrich was good in Russian; he had spent a few months in Leningrad and liked to show off his cooing pronunciation.

“I’ll start it,” Joachim whispered. And even if he started a hundred times, it wouldn’t help him, Titus, one bit. Excuses didn’t count unless you offered them up front.

The toxic blonde asked questions and Titus tried to take note of Peter Ullrich’s answers. Peter Ullrich was awarded a “yedinitsa,” his third, as the toxic blonde herself remarked in surprise, but that was only befitting an officer’s candidate. His benchmate likewise received a yedinitsa —it was her way of honoring spontaneity, the toxic blonde remarked.

Martina Bachmann at the desk in front of them raised her hand, and the toxic blonde cried, “Behold, a miracle!” Titus was grateful, because there was now a only slim chance they would be called on. Martina Bachmann wanted to explain why she hadn’t been able to prepare the lesson. “Am I supposed to swallow that?” the toxic blonde interrupted.

Titus was hoping she wouldn’t allow the excuse and test Martina Bachmann anyway. But the toxic blonde turned away when two students in the second row raised their hands, to which she responded with a “You too?” But they wanted to take their turn and kept up the dialogue so long that the toxic blonde sat down on her desk, crossing her arms, smiling with satisfaction. And when they were finished, she didn’t ask them any questions, gave them both an A in the grade book.

That left only his row. Titus didn’t know where he should look, and felt how little the last class of the day and his report mattered, if only he could survive this hour in one piece. Then he heard a name, not his and not Joachim’s. The toxic blonde had called on Mario, because she thought she would be doing her Mario a favor. Mario shook his head. “I’d rather wait till next time,” he said. The toxic blonde smiled. “What a shame,” she said. “It’s still very easy at this point, I’ll expect more the next time.” She called on Sabine, and Sabine immediately began, and the Sabine sitting beside her responded, and so it went back and forth between the two Sabines. Each row had now had its victims, and Titus thought he knew what the toxic blonde would say in conclusion: Close the mouths and open the books. Of course she’d say it in Russian.