Ingo Schulze - New Lives

Jörg blinked and said nothing. While waiting to have a panic attack, I asked why they needed us at all. The managing director pouted his lips and hung his head.

He recognized what we had achieved, he began — whenever he starts to speak, his tongue separates from the roof of his mouth with a smack — he had great respect for young people who wanted to do something for themselves and society, who rolled up their sleeves and set to work with real commitment. We were the new force that people could and indeed must depend on, because although a lot could be done from the outside, not everything could. That was a head start he was happy to credit us with. He was the first to recognize our effort on behalf of democracy and a free-market economy. By the harsh light of day, however, we lacked professionalism — and where was that supposed to come from in a dictatorship. But we could learn it, step by step, he knew he could count on our good intentions. In short, it was a question of empathy and fairness. We ought to look at it this way: we would continue to write whatever came into our heads, and with the concentrated force of their experience and capital, of their connections and tricks — yes, he was speaking frankly here, tricks were part of business, haha — they would come to our assistance and do battle with the Leipziger Volkszeitung, that old Party rag. And with cooperation and real effort on all sides something truly new would arise as a symbol, yes, a model for the entire country.

With each new sentence he had grown taller in his chair and was now swinging a hairy fist like a prophet. “A model for the entire country!” he repeated.

On our own, he continued, we had no chance against the big concerns, who would show up here sooner or later. To that extent they, the Giesseners, were a regular stroke of luck for us, even if we couldn’t see it that way yet. And smiling blissfully, he added, “Once the big boys come riding in here, no one”—and here he stubbed a finger across the table—“will ask you anything!” Now his finger began to wag back and forth like a tardy metronome. “No one will ask you!” he repeated, leaning back as if exhausted by this last statement.

Maybe I remained as calm as I did because that was the only role left me, maybe too because I sensed something wasn’t right here. The managing director’s inability to find a plausible sitting position sufficed for me as the basis for initial suspicion. His gestures looked fake.

“And why,” I asked, “do you really need us?”

“Not bad, not bad,” he said with an especially loud smack. “Okay, fine, let’s show our cards.” He played something like leapfrog with his chair, which had got hung up on the carpet. “What I’ve told you is true, every bit of it. We’re coming, one way or the other. The crucial factor, however, is as always — time. Every week that we can get the jump on the LVZ with five pages on Altenburg brings us subscribers that we won’t get later, or at least at too high a price. We have to be quick.”

His hairy fingers played a tremolo on the tabletop. “Just put the two papers side by side, which would you automatically pick up? And what if state lines are redrawn and Altenburg is moved from Saxony to Thuringia? Which will happen, as sure as God made little green apples. Who’ll want his newspaper out of Leipzig, who cares about Saxony!”

“And where are you going to have it printed?” Jörg asked in a monotone.

“I was in Gera,” he said, his voice taking on an affable, shoptalk tone. “They’re equipped with photo offset, and they’re licking their fingers already at the business we could bring them. But only on our conditions. Otherwise we’ll just have it all flown in from Giessen. That means the paper won’t be here till seven. When does it get here now?” he asked. “At eleven, twelve, two?”

“And what about us?” I asked. “How much are we worth to you?”

“Enrico!” Jörg erupted, and fell silent.

A smile enlivened the managing director’s face, but one so treacherous that I didn’t even notice the Matchbox car until it was touching my hand.

“One of these for each of you at the front door here,” he said. I shoved the little BMW on toward Jörg, who waved it off with his hand as if shooing a fly. “And twenty thousand up front, in cash, within a week, D-marks, twenty thousand, ten apiece.”

He could pocket his shiny glass beads, Jörg said, and then stared at me. “This really is incredible, isn’t it? Utterly incredible.”

What I really wanted to do — candor demands candor — was to tell our guest from Giessen a fairy tale. About how the same arguments that he had presented so impressively had already induced us to look around for a strong partner, one with a presence throughout Thuringia and with a printing press in the region at his disposal. But Jörg’s outrage didn’t allow me any leeway to bluff.

A shift in the scenario was announced by someone banging on the front door, while in the same moment the vestibule door was flung open and the baron’s voice rang out in English, “Anybody home?”—a question that always sets him laughing, although no one else can figure out what is so funny.

The office door handle jiggled uselessly several times before the door slowly swung open. All that was visible of the baron were legs and boots, the rest was a box.

In a radiant mood, the baron cordially greeted the managing director and then was convulsed with laughter, because Käferchen, whom he had just met on the stairs, had locked the others out. Jörg ran downstairs.

I helped the baron carry the box into the next room. He asked if he could leave some things with us for a few days, until his office was ready.

The managing director had got to his feet, magically drawn by the icon on the box, an apple with a bite taken out. Meanwhile Jörg had come back upstairs, together with two men also laden with heavy freight.

The one, Andy, an American who spoke as good as no German, the other our lawyer, Bodo von Recklewitz-Münzner.

We have von Recklewitz to thank that we can now sleep peacefully in regard to the Pipping Window affair. Recklewitz’s face — with a pointy nose that juts out at an angle — actually does have something aristocratic about it. His smile resembles the baron’s — he likewise tugs up just the left half of his mouth. Andy, a tall, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed, reddish blond, laughs a lot, and loud. His eyes are constantly checking out the baron, who translates things for him now and then. “Wie geht’s?” Andy said, squeezing my hand and seeming to explore my eyes. The managing director said, “How do you do?” in English, and asked me in a low voice, “You’re retooling?” I nodded.

Jörg must have said something on the stairs, because, rubbing his hands, von Recklewitz stepped over to the managing director as if asking for the time of day, “So you’re planning to steal our daily bread?”

And Jörg, grateful for the opening to complain, tattle-taled, “Either with us or against us. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

“It’s not all that simple,” the managing director noted in his defense, and pulled out a business card. While he recounted the history of our friendship, Andy and the baron were busy in the next room removing gadgets from their boxes.

“And what becomes of our investment?” Recklewitz barked, thrusting his nose in my direction. He was magnificent. 185

The baron asked us to join him. “This is the best,” he enthused, “there’s no better…Are you in the business?” And after he too had received one of the Giesseners’ cards, he exclaimed, “Then you’ll confirm as much, won’t you?” And the managing director immediately confirmed it. They themselves were considering installing a couple of Apples — it “probably made sense,” at least in a few departments. And gradually the managing director once again became the same eager visitor he had been in February when he had bent over our page proofs. He grabbed hold of the box as Andy slipped the screen out. He gathered up the Styrofoam, kept close watch on every cable connection, and eyed our plugs as worriedly as Andy did.