Ingo Schulze - New Lives

Shortly thereafter I was ordered to potato-peeling duty. There I sat on an upturned crate in the tiled storeroom of the kitchen complex, peeling away and listening to what my fellow ostracized soldiers had to say. At that point I would have instantly agreed to spend the next sixteen months peeling potatoes twelve hours a day. I was assigned one penalty duty after the other. All the same, I was happy not to have to spend my free time with my company.

Since I had almost no time left to write, I jotted my notes sitting on the toilet — hurried catchwords, punctuation reduced to dashes. It was Geronimo who congratulated me for starting the new year with a unique, unmistakable style. Strangely enough, I no longer woke up before the wake-up whistle.

My silence precluded any attempt to approach me. I ignored apologies. I didn’t even deign a word of reply to the noncom who confided to me that certain people hadn’t notified me in the kitchen when my mother had come for a visit — he named the guilty parties and offered to be a witness on my behalf. The only part of the cake my mother left behind that found its way to me was a shopping net and an empty springform pan.

In a certain sense it was a comfortable role for me: I no longer had to show consideration for anyone. I ignored Knut’s orders. On the same day that he tossed all my underwear out of my locker, his blanket ended up on the floor. I was prepared for anything, including a long guerilla war.

Monday, April 23, ’90

It was at the end of March, on a Sunday, that Nikolai entered our room, and my life. Nikolai had the most striking physiognomy in our entire company. The tip of his long narrow nose pointed straight down, so that his face was reminiscent of a ram’s. His father was an Armenian; his mother, a Berliner, who later married a German. Nikolai was a very good runner, was one of the fastest on the obstacle course, and wanted to stay on in our company as a driving instructor. His uniform fit as if tailor-made. You always thought he was on duty because even in the evening and on weekends he ran around dressed as per regulation. When he halted in front of me, removed his cap, and asked if he could sit down, I assumed he was about to announce that he was an emissary on an important mission.

His request, he admitted, was a little unusual, but he would pay well: two packs of Club cigarettes. In return I was to write a birthday letter, three or four pages, not for him, but for Ulf Salwitzky. His wife’s birthday was coming up, but Salwitzky hadn’t been able to put a single word to paper. I could probably ask for more, but he, Nikolai, figured two packs was about right for starters.

I was pleased by the businesslike nature of the proposal, although I really didn’t need the reimbursement. Vera was modeling again and making enough money to supplement my army pay (110 marks) whenever necessary. 182

“All you need is your pen,” Nikolai said, and got up. A “junior”—that is, in his second six-month stint — Ulf Salwitzky was waiting for me in the club room with a writing tablet and some photos lying in front of him.

Nikolai sat down two tables away, pulled a bundle of colored pencils from his pants leg pocket, and began to sketch. Frau Salwitzky had a strikingly small upper lip. Her dimples showed when she smiled.

As if I had been doing this all my life, I sat down across from him and asked him to tell me about her. Salwitzky sniffed and shrugged. “We’ve been married,” he said, “for two years now.”

What did she like best, I asked, ready to take notes.

“First from behind, panties pulled down, in the kitchen or in the bathroom, the bed’s not her thing,” Salwitzky said, sitting as still as if he were getting a haircut. I was to start in, he wanted to see if I was any good. He didn’t think it was right to have to talk to me about it. What was there to understand, he snapped, he wanted me to describe a fuck, from behind, no fancy stuff.

“And what’s her name?” I asked. Before I started I had him describe their one-bedroom apartment for me.

I had half an hour, and then I was to read it to him. Ulf Salwitzky bent forward and added a few remarks of his own—“ass slapping, include ass slapping!” for example. The whole time he rocked his head back and forth. It turned out he knew what worked. He liked the way Kerstin didn’t even have time to put the bouquet in a vase, so that the bouquet became a prop, at first disruptive, but then adding unexpected spice to things. Salwitzky filled me in about the next position. Nikolai wanted to know if I was planning to do it “with bouquet” too.

After an hour I gave Salwitzky my pages to copy. Nikolai’s sketch showed drops of sweat flying off Kerstin’s bobbing breasts. Her whole body was surrounded by sound waves — one, two, or three curves, depending on the intensity of the motion. Salwitzky wasn’t prettified either, but the realism with which Nikolai had drawn his compressed lips or the way the body tapered to the shoulders only made the scene more believable. Only in the last sketch did Salwitzky’s face take on a Gojko Mitíc radiance. 183

Ulf Salwitzky stacked five packs of Clubs on the table and departed without a word. Nikolai gave me a nod, put his cap on, and left two packs behind.

I now learned what it means to become famous overnight, even though I was overshadowed by Nikolai. Like a ballad-monger Salwitzky had moved from room to room, showing everyone the sketches and reading my letter. We had our next job that afternoon, and by evening we were booked for the rest of the week.

Nikolai was the star and I was his assistant. Nikolai met with our clients, arranged the terms, and made appointments. And each time he would ask for my assistance and offer me the same cordial thanks for helping him out.

With equal pride and bewilderment Ulf Salwitzky handed us his wife’s letter, which concluded with her holding her husband’s penis in her hand.

As discharge day for the oldest class grew closer and closer, we had more and more to do. Nikolai in particular was working to the point of exhaustion. And it goes without saying that we were freed from other duties. Knut had to stand sentry instead of me.

Once discharge day was behind us, Nikolai and I were given day leave. He had arranged it for us and informed me no one else would be on “furlough,” as he called it, which meant the pubs wouldn’t be too overcrowded. For me it was all uncharted territory.

We strode side by side not saying a word. The walk into town was endless. It was an odd situation; I felt as if I were at his mercy. Yes, I was annoyed at Nikolai’s presumptuous way of taking charge of things.

He invited to pay for my dinner at a pub called Gambrinus, and ordered steaks smothered in onions and cheese, a specialty of the house. I insisted on a beer.

Nikolai tried to get a conversation going. First he talked about our prices and then about how we didn’t need to accept every job. Then he spoke about his own plans. After discharge he wanted to go to Armenia, to see his father, who was an artist. “That’s what I want too,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

“To be an artist,” he replied — and looked like a wise sheep.

“And I want to be a writer!” I grinned as if I had cracked a joke.

“I know,” he said, raising his chin. “You should have said that much earlier on.”

“That wouldn’t have helped,” I replied, and was angry because by saying it I was admitting he had guessed my thoughts and quite possibly had understood the whole situation at the time.

“I was waiting for you to open your mouth. Knut is the spy.”

“Why Knut?” I asked.

“Everyone knew about it, days ahead, don’t you see — it happened by prearrangement. If you really had been a spy, you would have been rescued. But evidently it suited the higher-ups…” Nikolai looked around, as if searching for a waiter.