Uwe Tellkamp - The Tower

The major typed out Christian’s answers as he spoke, slowly, with two fingers. To correct mistakes he used some white paste he smeared over the mistyped letters with a little brush. ‘Right then, to begin at the beginning, my lad, we have this sentence: “You bastard, you damn’ bastard!” Is that what you said?’

‘I said, “You bastard, you lousy bastard”, Comrade Major.’

‘— l o u s y bastard,’ the major typed. ‘It has to be correct. Right, then, that was point one. Point two: “You’ve killed him. It’s your fault, there were five seconds too few.” ’

‘I can’t remember exactly, Comrade Major.’

‘Come on, try. It’s important.’

‘I didn’t really mean it … It just slipped out, the situation, Comrade Major …’

‘Now you don’t need to start crying. I can understand. We were all young once. And we’re not without our feelings, are we? But — the class standpoint, young man, we’ve always been right about that. That’s the difference. We’ve occasionally had one too many, we’ve liberated eggs from a farmer, we’ve chased women. That’s being young! Did you say that in those words, Hoffmann? Come on, calm down. I want to get home today and you’re not the only one I’ve got to deal with.’

‘I think … I think … I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘I’m not interested in what you think or don’t think, I want to get at the truth, the correct wording of your statements.’

‘I said it in those words.’

‘There, you see. You can do it. We’ll get this done, we’ll go through it step by step, I’ll read each sentence out to you and you’ll think about it carefully. At least you’re cooperating. Right. That was point two. Point three: “Something like that’s only possible in this shitty state.” ’

Remanded in custody . The major had one of the doors unlocked. Christian was handcuffed and taken down long corridors. Aluminium doors at regular intervals at which the lieutenant reported: press the button, a buzz, little loudspeakers out of which voices sounding like angry cranes croaked. Christian felt nothing, not even afraid. Of course this couldn’t be a dream, for that the lieutenant was too grumpy. Sometimes they encountered other delinquents. Always one officer to one prisoner — the prisoners in handcuffs. The lieutenant ordered him to wait outside a door with the state symbol painted on it. Once more report arrival. Wait. A buzz as the door was unlocked. This was the prison. To the rhythm of their steps Christian thought: prison, prison, it’s a mistake. He was led down a wide corridor. Dark-blue uniforms, men in grey-green clothes. Civilian clothes, for many the trouser legs were too short; the clothes had been mended, fluorescent strips had been sewn onto the trouser legs and sleeves in the form of large question marks. He had to stand against the wall, hands raised, to be searched.

‘Trousers down. Legs wide apart.’ The man in uniform shone a light up his arse. Christian saw Pancake further ahead, a tied-up blanket on the floor in front of him.

‘Turn round. Pull back foreskin. — Shut your trap!’ The rage flaring up in the face of the man in the blue uniform, his raised hand: We don’t hang about here, sonny. The echoing voices. A windowless vault, Christian could make out: steel staircases in the middle, either side of them gratings in the ceiling, on them, on top of each other, the outlines of boots walking slowly.

‘To Effects!’ That was a boxroom with clothes. A woman behind a wooden barrier said, ‘Possessions here.’ Yes, he actually had possessions. Someone had carved their initials in the wood of the barrier, which was worn smooth and round like a tiller. Possessions: watch, handkerchief, comb, military identity card, purse, the photo of the hoopoe on the Danube delta, Reina’s letter, washing things, his uniform. The woman checked them, indicated what Christian was allowed to keep, recorded the rest in a list that she countersigned with initials. Christian was given a bundle of blankets and an often-repaired uniform with fluorescent stripes, the trousers were too short. Then he was taken to a cell. Behind him the key rattled in the lock, three times, four times, very loudly, a special lock, a special key. Christian stood in the cell and realized he wasn’t alone. First he had to adjust to the dim light. He said, ‘Hello.’

The Tram . Christian saw: two benches opposite each other along the walls, on them around twenty men scrutinizing him, some with calm, some with hostile looks.

‘Informer,’ one said.

‘Nah. It’s the first time he’s been sent up, you can see that right away. Let’s see your mitts.’

Christian held out his hands.

‘Nah. He’s never worked. A student.’

‘University entrance,’ Christian muttered.

‘No use to you here. D’you know where you are now? In the tram and it’s heading for the slammer. The slammer’s better. In your case I’d put my money on shit in the forces.’ The detainee pointed to Christian’s uniform. ‘Number?’ Christian didn’t understand.

‘What section?’

‘Two hundred and twenty.’

‘Oh yes, public disparagement. A tip: when you’re in the glasshouse, read the laws. You’re allowed to.’

‘Pretty boy,’ one said.

‘Yeh. Almost like a girl.’

‘On the nail.’

‘Mm?’

‘I get a cigarette for that tip,’ the man who’d asked him what he was accused of said.

‘Haven’t got any.’

‘Y’ll have to buy some. You owe me one cigarette. We’ll see each other again, don’t you worry.’

‘Someone let some air in.’

A metre-long rod raised the window. Bars outside cut the light into seven strips. The door was flung open, the door was slammed shut. New detainees arrived, others were called out. Always the same words: At the double. Or: Move your arse! Or: Get your finger out! The key was like a hammer being driven into the lock. At the sound the inhabitants of the cells started, even the older detainees with brutality written all over their faces. Then the key pushed some soft metal resistance aside, three or four times, each time sounding like the bolt of a machine gun being engaged. Christian, squeezed into the farthest corner of the room, observed the others without moving, not even daring to give way to the itch that was tormenting him all over his body, like the precursor to an allergic attack. He stood motionless and when he breathed out he did it when there was movement in the room, also switching the leg he was standing on at the same time. After a long time (his watch had remained at Effects) he was taken out of the cell. Up the stairs in the middle of the vault.

At Registry . ‘At the double, at the double!’ Four floors up; he was told to wait at a wooden barrier worn smooth. Other detainees arrived. Out in the middle of the neighbouring room was a piano stool with a red-leather seat that could be screwed higher or lower.

‘Sit down.’ The photographer busied himself, adjusted floodlights, took photos of Christian from the right, left and in front.

‘Hold out your hands.’ The guard took Christian’s fingerprints, he gave his thumb a light tap with his fist. There was hardly any ink left on the pad.

Christian didn’t go back to the tram. The guard unlocked one of the grey iron doors on the fifth floor. The cell number had been sprayed on with black paint using a stencil.

‘Detainee Hoffmann, you’re to stand one metre away from the guard when the door is being opened and shut!’ the man in the blue uniform bawled. He pushed Christian into the room. Two others were in there already, they shot to their feet, thumbs on trouser seams; the older one said, ‘Custody Room five-zero-eight, two detainees present, nothing to report.’