Ingo Schulze - New Lives

“We got it!” the baron said in triumph, and for a moment I enjoyed my own ignorance. “Sixty thousand, Türmer! For sixty thousand.” I still didn’t understand. “The shopkeeper downstairs almost had it in his pocket. Your building.”

“You’re a — genius!” I cried. I almost said “genie”—but decided to change the second syllable. “A genius!” I repeated, just to show him that I knew it was a word that ended in an s. Ever since we moved in here we’ve been trying to figure out how to become a publishing house with all the bells and whistles. And suddenly it’s all within our reach!

While we were in Giessen, Piatkowski — who was reelected, by the way, although he had been far down on his party’s list — had telephoned the baron. The baron had immediately paid him a call “with a little bouquet” for Madame Piatkowski. It turned out, however, that only one fifth belonged to her; her older brother, however, had two fifths, and the two other sisters the rest. He had hoped to take care of the whole thing by telephone, but in order to have any chance whatever, he had had to travel all the way to a village just south of Bonn, where the rest of the clan was already assembled.

He was almost too slow in realizing that it was less a matter of the brother than of his wife, and of the youngest sister’s husband, who both had instantly whiffed big money. Whereupon he had made it clear to them that the shopkeeper wouldn’t be able to get a D-mark loan in a hundred years — they’d have a long wait. And then he had played the “time card,” as he called it, and claimed he needed their agreement then and there, otherwise his clients would have to follow through on another option. They had dispersed around ten that night. Shortly after midnight he had forced Recklewitz — still in his pajamas and robe, he lives somewhere nearby over yonder — to draw up the necessary contracts. He himself had had trouble so early in the morning freeing up liquid assets even for just the small change he needed to have for a stuffed briefcase all set to present to the family.

The baron was very apologetic for not having had me at his side. The three siblings plus spouses had been so befuddled after one glance into the briefcase that they had assented on the spot. Of course he lacked our consent, but had felt there was no real risk there, since even in the worst case, he could easily resell it anywhere for sixty thousand. Since they more or less already had the money in their hands, he was not at all worried that they might spit the bait back out. The appointment with the notary was for three that afternoon. And as if all that were not enough, the baron had booked a half-page ad for our future issues, no termination date specified. A friend of his will be opening a travel agency in Altenburg shortly and, what’s more, she’ll be showing people what real publicity should look like…

The baron succeeds at everything! There was no response whatever to his article about the woman whose head had been shorn in public in 1941. But the baron had been able to discover the descendants of the hapless hairdresser who at the time had considered it an honor to do the deed. These descendants own a beauty salon right next to the Rathaus. And? Do you see where I’m going with this? And now the baron does indeed have his shop on Market Square. And Andy’s lease takes effect on June 1st.

After our noon meal I was about to go through the received mail file with Ilona, but was puzzled by her strange gestures when I asked her about what had come in so far. In the corner behind me stood Frau Schorba from Lucka. Like some oratorio soloist, she was clad in a dark dress that fell straight down from her bosom to just above the tips of her shoes. At first Frau Schorba didn’t budge, as if trying to maintain her stelalike appearance. She then followed me mutely down the hall, where I now set a chair beside my desk, sliding it as close to the wall as possible. 228We said nothing, as if we didn’t know what to talk about outside of our usual ritual. Her face, which has always been something of a mask, now suddenly betrayed her agitation, her every thought. “Nice of you to stop by,” I said, trying to relieve the tension trapped within her silence from getting the upper hand. Frau Schorba didn’t look up. I waited.

“Can you take me? Can you give me a job? Please! And don’t ask why.” She grasped my hands. “You must never, never ask me why. You must promise me that.”

Frau Schorba’s hands were ice cold. She had edged to the front of her chair and was bent so far forward that I was afraid that in the next moment she would sink to her knees. I asked her to sit back up.

“You must!” she whispered, still presenting me the shaved nape of her neck. “You must! Please, please!”

It wasn’t until I warned her that someone might come in at any moment that she straightened up and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve. Shortly thereafter Jörg stepped in, letter in hand.

I introduced Frau Schorba and asked her to wait in the reception room. Both Jörg and I found the purchase of our building quickly helped console us in regard to Steen’s letter, in which he informed us that due to internal restructuring of his firm he would unfortunately not have any time free to meet with us over the next few weeks. This also meant, he wrote, that we would not be able to depend on an extension of his ad.

I told Jörg what I knew about Frau Schorba and asked him if he could include her in the host of job applicants — since we’ll truly be in urgent need of reinforcements.

Then I accompanied Frau Schorba downstairs. When I asked what sort of salary she had in mind, she gave a few joyful shrugs. She would take whatever we could offer her.

Hugs, Your E.

PS: You, of course, would receive the same salary I do.

Thursday, May 10, ’90

Dear Nicoletta,

I always picture you reading my letters standing — standing or walking. No sooner have you fished the latest dispatch from your mailbox than you clutch your purse and newspaper under your arm, open the envelope with your car key, unfold both pages, and start to read without giving a thought to anything else. You don’t even notice how your feet carry you up the stairs, from one step to the next, how you open your door, set down your purse and newspaper, or simply let them fall to the floor. It’s not all that important which lines bring a smile or a frown to your face. The only important thing is your undivided attention. It’s only on the second reading that you make yourself comfortable on the couch or in an armchair. As for anyone who might be watching you read — wouldn’t he envy the writer of that letter and wish he were in his shoes?

It is dreams like these that are to blame for my continued efforts.

In the middle of June ’87, barely a year and a half after Vera filed her application for an exit visa, I received a telegram. “Leaving today. Neustadt Station,” followed by departure time and as usual, “Greetings, Vera.”

The telegram arrived around eleven. I normally would have left my place by ten at the latest. And since it was Tuesday I would have been in the library, except that when I got up the tap didn’t work, no matter how I played with it. A note in the building entryway promised running water by ten thirty. I had lain down again and didn’t wake up until the pipes began to spit and grumble, flooding the sink with a jet of rusty brown water. And if, as I was leaving the building, I hadn’t seen the messenger — who was scanning the doorbell register with his glasses pushed back up on his forehead — and asked him who he was looking for…yes, a miracle that I got the telegram in time.

It was one of my few train trips without something to read or work on. Although I stared out the window the whole time, I never even took notice of the valleys of the Saale or the Weinböhla.