Ingo Schulze - New Lives

I had already grown so used to the fruit siren that I didn’t even notice at first. But something at any rate was different. It was now shouting “Weekly!” No, shouting isn’t even close. “Weeeekly, Weeeekly, Aaaltenburg Weeeekly!” —it stressed the first syllable, swallowed the second, then ascended from the depths and like a siren blared the A of Altenburg, his mouth stretched wide. And then came the unmistakable imperative: “Buy it, folks, buy it!” followed at once by the equally urgent “Only ninety pfennigs! Ninety pfennigs for the Aaaltenburg Weeeekly… ” The beginning and end, the A-E, A-E rose into the air above Altenburg Market.

The town began slowly to come alive, as if the cry of the fruit vendor had found its way to both Altenburg North and Southeast. 53

A group of women surrounded me — they all bought and no one wanted change. To lend support, as they put it. One of them recognized me as the Herr Türmer from the theater, who had given that speech in the church.

My luck held. In a few minutes I had disposed of thirty copies. And it just kept up. I only had to hold up the newspaper and, once the fruit siren’s “Weeeekly” had died away, to repeat the idea, as if explaining to everyone around: Weekly, he means our Weekly. And then — at first I thought it was a woman’s voice — I realized that a new “Weeekly! Weeekly!” was Robert’s.

I didn’t need to say anything more, from then on people bought all on their own.

By day’s end it was so dark that I could barely make out faces. I could give change with my eyes closed, and I stuffed bills into my pants pockets. My feet were ice cold, I couldn’t even feel my toes now. The patent-leather pouch hung heavy at my neck. And whom do you suppose I sold my last copy to? Yes, to Clemens von Barrista. But he and his wolf didn’t seem to recognize me in the darkness. Or might I have been mistaken about that?

Robert was still busy, and it was only by his irrepressible smile that I could tell he could see me. Erwin, the fruit siren, didn’t want to hear anything about thanks. He handed me a sheet of paper, an ad — we’re to publish it every week — and gave me a hundred-D-mark bill! We left the rest of Robert’s copies with him; he planned to distribute them in his hometown of Fürth, in Franconia.

We started the walk home empty-handed, but our satchels were stuffed full and banged against our hips with every step. A record — one thousand, one-twentieth of the printing. In four hours Robert had made ninety marks (twenty pfennigs a copy), plus tips.

Jo, my dear friend. What a delight it is to sell something you’ve made yourself. My laurel wreath is woven from the oak leaves on every coin.

Your E.

PS: Your copy is being sent in a wrapper. Unfortunately the photographs are very dark.

Tuesday, Feb. 20, ’90

Dear Jo,

We’ve been working like the devil. And I still didn’t get home until after midnight. 54But four hours of sleep are enough, and since I pass the time writing letters, I’m gradually learning to love these long mornings. 55

I won’t bore you with newspaper stuff, but I do have to tell you something I wouldn’t have mentioned if it hadn’t been the cause of our first crisis. 56

Have I ever told you about the Prophet? He’s an odd duck. Everyone notices that right off. The Prophet’s mouth is constantly in motion, as if he has just sampled something and is about to announce what it tastes like. He keeps his chin jutted out, so that his beard, which appears to have the consistency of cotton candy, is thrust menacingly forward.

During the demonstration after the wall came down, he demanded the creation of a soviet republic. He’s always full of surprises. 57

The Prophet arrived early to honor our first-issue celebration 58with his presence, but quickly retreated into a corner. As we’ve since come to know, he didn’t like the look of our guests. Jörg’s and Georg’s invitations had gone out — as is only proper for a newspaper — to the town council, to the district council, to all political parties (with the exception of the comrades), to the museums and the theater, to Guelphs and Ghibellenes. The only guests to arrive on time, however, were members of the old officialdom, because all the rest, those who felt they naturally belonged at our side (the reception was held in the office of the New Forum), were slow to make an appearance since they had been out selling and delivering our newspaper.

Even the “bigwigs,” as the Prophet later called them, seemed out of sorts. Either they didn’t want to talk with one another but with “fresh faces” instead, or they were very skittish. When I suggested to the mayor that I wanted to interview him soon, he removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes for a good while, and then asked, “What is it you want from me?” Before I could reply, he exclaimed, “Do you know what I’m going to do? Not one thing. I’ve done far too much already!” And sad to say Jörg and Georg weren’t exactly at the top of their form, either. Jörg kept pumping the mayor’s hand and had hardly been able to unlock his jaw to thank him for a monstrous pot of cyclamens. Georg gazed down on his well-wishers with all the earnestness of a Don Quixote, amazed that the same people he wanted to take on were smiling and squirming at his feet. But all this just in passing.

By the time Dr. Schumacher, the mayor of Offenburg, entered the room surrounded by his minions — with roses for the ladies and a Dictaphone for us — the bigwigs had fled the scene. Once the citizens of Offenburg had vanished and just our sort, as Michaela might have put it, were still amusing themselves, the Prophet tapped his glass with a spoon, jutted out his beard, and asked in a loud voice, “What’s in the Altenburg Weekly ?”

He gave a table of contents, page by page. It sounded more than just a bit too droll, but I laughed along — certain that kudos would follow. But by the time he got to Jan Steen’s ad, which he called a mockery of our customers and readers, the effrontery of his speech began to dawn on me. “What was it we wanted?” the Prophet thundered, paused — while his mouth began the search for some new taste — and asked in a tone of bitterest accusation, “No, what was it you wanted?” And it was not a rhetorical question. But to make a scene? Because of this crazy man?

He laid into each of us, even nitpicked at my gardener Dippel article. There hadn’t been one thing in our paper he couldn’t read these days in the Leipziger Volkszeitung.

And finally, alluding to our launching celebration, he added, “Are you once again the lackeys of authority, the lackeys of the same bigwigs who harassed us for forty years?”

Naturally I hoped that one of our guests would defend us. They had been listening to the Prophet somewhat too eagerly while they sipped at our wine and champagne. Only Wolfgang the Hulk and his wife bravely shook their heads, but even they did not risk protesting aloud.

Presumably they considered any disagreement superfluous, that a response would lend this farce too much significance. “What do you plan to do?” the Prophet boomed in conclusion and, after shooting a glance around the room, marched straight out the open door.

Now people began to mimic and make fun of him. The mood grew more relaxed, and there was even some dancing after Fred discovered a piano in an adjoining room and “cracked” the fallboard. Although I was glad that Barrista had been spared the crazy man’s theatrics, I also regretted that our invitation had evidently not reached him in time.

On Friday Georg confessed that it never would have occurred to him in the old days to drink champagne with bigwigs, and I didn’t realize at first just what he was getting at. But Marion now joined in the self-flagellation. Suddenly once again none of our articles was good enough for them. It was totally absurd. Even Jörg strewed ashes on his head and no longer understood why we had invited erstwhile officialdom. When I asked him what harm the invitations had done, a hush first fell over the room. “They harmed our reputation,” Georg said finally, and Marion added, “Our dignity.”