Uwe Tellkamp - The Tower

Schiffner, who followed Schade at the lectern, drip-fed his audience with figures and tables, dwelt on Dresdner Edition’s overfulfilment of its Export Plan norms for the non-socialist economic area and on the acquisition of hard currency. After him Josef Redlich reported on the political-ideological training of Dresdner Edition’s authors, especially the younger ones; at this point Judith Schevola stood up, cried that she couldn’t bear any more and left the room, slamming the door behind her. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, we won’t molest you, you’re as white-hot as ice,’ Eschschloraque mocked at her departing figure. ‘Oh, isn’t she sensitive,’ Barsano said, ‘and yet what Comrade Redlich is demanding is correct, only too correct. We’ve slackened the reins too much recently. That always takes its toll. Reactionary elements immediately stir like the nest of vipers they are. Think they can make something of it. We must be vigilant, comrades. The young are always at risk. They must be given a firm grounding in ideology.’ After Josef Redlich had returned to his seat, Meno didn’t dare get up to read his paper; it was about the ‘Role of the Author in a Developed Socialist Society’, of all things, and had already been criticized in Berlin; he looked across at Schiffner, who gave a quick shake of the head, even though he’d cut the most provocative passages, and stood up to leave, to see how Judith Schevola was, which Paul Schade misinterpreted, and said, ‘There’s no point in you dumping your shit again here, Rohde, your mother would have given you a good box round the ears for stuff like that’, which had Barsano, Schubert and Schiffner slapping their thighs in amusement.

Meno went out. Judith Schevola had opened the window at the end of the corridor.

‘There’s a balcony at the front,’ he suggested. She nodded. ‘I need some fresh air. I just have to get away from here.’

Their footsteps echoed in the empty corridors. The sound of voices and the clatter of typewriters could only be heard from a few rooms. In the rotunda the murmur of conversation drifted up from the telephone booths on the ground floor, the service lift for food in the shaft beside the stairs started to move, one of the beige microphones of the intercom crackled, someone cleared their throat, then all was quiet again. Curtains from the sixties, printed with grey flowers, hung over the wide double doors.

‘One for you?’ He offered her his packet of Orient, she mechanically took one, didn’t move when he gave her a light.

‘May I ask you something?’ She turned her face towards him, without looking at him. It looked pale and tired but perhaps that was an illusion created by the faint light that came to them from the searchlights in the park directed at the castle. ‘What are you actually doing here?’

He remained silent, smoked. ‘And you?’

‘Typical. You’re as cautious as … well, as an editor. — There was a time when I believed in all that. The better social order … But with them?’ She pointed vaguely over her shoulder. Meno leant his ear forward, which made her smile. ‘Oh, I don’t care if they do hear! They know anyway, don’t you think? All those clichés … it makes me want to puke! And most of all Schade would like to lock us up, like in Stalin’s days. Or simply whisht .’ She made the gesture of having her throat cut.

‘Do be quiet,’ Meno whispered, ‘just smoke your cigarette but keep your mouth shut.’

‘Shall I tell you something? I can’t be bothered.’ She laughed her ugly, gritty laugh. ‘My grandmother always used to say, “You’re nowhere so safe as under Old Nick’s hams, child.” ’ She waved her hand, drew on her cigarette. ‘And afterwards we’ll be good as gold and play along with them, say nothing and get drunk. That’s it, not a word more.’

‘It’s not just for me,’ Meno said after a long pause. ‘My mother … oh, let’s forget it. Later, perhaps, if you’re really interested. Schade’s just chucked me out with a verbal box round the ears.’

‘You’re a funny person,’ Schevola said reflectively. ‘I never know where I am with you. Despite that, I trust you.’

‘We should go back in,’ said Meno, changing the subject, ‘you can’t simply leave one of Barsano’s receptions as if it were a birthday party where you’ve had an argument.’

‘And what comes after the insults?’

‘Drinks, a film and singing revolutionary hymns. He seems to like “Vetcherniyzvon”.’

‘Then he’s moved to tears?’

‘That kind of thing.’

‘I’ll stay for that.’

They finished their cigarettes. In the distance dogs could be heard barking and for the first time Meno noticed the overpowering smell of henbane that grew rampant on the castle walls; the park must attract lots of nocturnal insects.

‘Calmed down, have we?’ Barsano asked with a cool ironic expression when they came back. ‘You shouldn’t be so touchy, everyone says what they think here, you have to be able to take the odd jab.’

‘A conspiratorial meeting!’ Schubert gave a suggestive smile.

‘The following’s on offer, comrades,’ said Barsano, counting the items off on his fingers. ‘One: watch a film, Chapayev or Vesyolye rebyata —’

‘Have you got the whole series?’ Paul Schade broke in.

‘The lot. Or Sergei Eisenstein’s Oktyabr . Two: we can have some food. Three: go down to the White Pavilion and see how Comrade Vogelstrom’s getting on with the panorama of revolution. Four: something special. I’ll show you some documents from the time of struggle. So, what d’you think? — Right, we’ll have a bite to eat and then communal viewing — of? Oktyabr . Great. A good choice.’ Barsano pressed a button, the doors of a cupboard opened, a control desk with hundreds of buttons and levers came out. There was a knock at the door after he’d pressed a button, a man in forestry uniform came in. ‘No, no,’ Barsano told the man, ‘I want the comrade duty cook’, pressed another button, a man with a grey beard in the uniform of German Railways appeared. ‘Not you either, isn’t it possible —’ He searched, scratched the nape of his neck, pressed the next button, this time it seemed to be the right one, the duty cook from the Ivan V. Michurin restaurant complex pushed in a trolley with dishes and a canister of kasha, a minibar on the shelf beneath them.

‘Buckwheat groats,’ Philipp Londoner groaned to Eschschloraque, whom he’d asked how his play was progressing and the nightwatchman question was developing.

‘You’re all far too spoilt,’ Paul Schade snapped. ‘During the time of struggle we old revolutionaries sometimes roasted rats and in Spain we lived on dry bread for weeks! And in the concentration camp we’d have been glad of a bowl of buckwheat groats, I can tell you. You of the Young Guard should be carrying the revolution forward!’ His reproachful look took in Philipp Londoner and Judith Schevola, who were in front of him in the queue.

‘A very valuable pedagogical hint,’ the Old Man of the Mountain agreed, filling his bowl with a portion indicating either genuine appetite or his openness to memories. Paul Schade turned away contemptuously and fished out a bottle of Z.ubrówka vodka. ‘Don’t think you can butter me up like that, Comrade Altberg. Spare me your comments and honour us with your presence at an Association meeting for once instead. — And you, Herr Eschschloraque, been travelling in the West again?’

‘ Comrade Eschschloraque … I’m ap paul ed to be so misunderstood.’ With that Eschschloraque turned away and started to mix a long drink, a ‘Gentle Angel’, for himself and Philipp Londoner: one part curaçao, one part champagne, one part orange juice. Karlheinz Schubert poured himself a glass of vodka, Sto gramm , murmured, ‘Na zdravje’ and downed it in a few appreciative gulps. The Old Man of the Mountain told him he’d regret it on an empty stomach but Barsano’s deputy just pulled a face and poured himself another glass. Barsano gave the control desk a kick, telling those around that Arbogast had installed the thing, it was getting worse and worse, he’d completely forgotten which was the button for the projectionist, but he was already at the door waiting for Barsano to say what he wanted.