Uwe Tellkamp - The Tower

‘I suppose you want to be a hero?’ Hähnchen asked, sadness in his look.

‘The word “hero” does not occur in the New Testament, Herr Hähnchen. It is my duty to my parishioners and to my own conscience no longer to remain silent,’ Pastor Magenstock said.

For a moment Hähnchen said nothing, then admitted he could understand that. Nevertheless it was his official duty to request the removal of the notice.

‘But you have children as well,’ cried Herr Malthakus, who had come over with the Kühnasts and the Krausewitzes and stood by Magenstock’s side. Herr Hähnchen replied that that was true.

‘There’s no point shutting your eyes,’ Frau Knabe declared. She was carrying several shopping bags and also came to stand at Magenstock’s side, together with a few members of the emancipation group she’d recently set up.

‘Herr Rohde, come over here,’ she commanded.

‘Herr Hähnchen,’ said Meno, ‘perhaps it’s possible that you haven’t seen anything?’

Herr Hähnchen said that in principle such a possibility always existed, only –

Staff from the Grauleite barracks approached. ‘Disperse!’ an officer bellowed. But the people stayed where they were. Frau Knabe slowly shook her head. The officer looked aghast, seemed confused. Other people out for a walk saw the gathering and instead of quickly going past, heads down, with eyes that saw nothing, as had been the case in confrontations with the power of the state so far, they came over, more and more of them, followed by observers from the gardens along Ulmenleite and stood beside Pastor Magenstock.

The officer remained silent. And never had Meno seen such a lonely man as District Police Officer Heinz Hähnchen in the middle of the open space between the two groups.

Nina Schmücke’s circle was mixed. Richard, whom she greeted like an old acquaintance with kisses to the cheeks right and left (probably so that Anne would see, he started on an explanation but she waved it away), nodded across to Clarens and Weniger, who gave him a surprised and hostile scrutiny, at the same time whispering something to one of the bearded men in check shirts and jeans, who, as far as Richard could tell from a quick assessment, ran the show. Anne was confused by the pictures on the walls, on several easels whose crusts of coloured drips were at war with the aggressive tones on the canvases. From one of the few windows of the studio that weren’t pasted over or nailed up with cardboard or plywood, Richard looked out over Neustadt: broken roofs in which naked men bowed before the setting sun; eroded chimneys, the boards below them for the chimney sweeps all taken: a fat man was sleeping on his back, arms and legs hanging down. A gaunt person in black latex clothing walked up and down, a woman was checking her angling equipment. Richard got a drink for Anne, put a chair by the window for her — after the man with the full beard had taken Nina Schmücke aside and clearly been calmed down by her, the discussions, which had been interrupted by their entrance, continued with frequent striking of matches and clicking of lighters. Sluggishly, slowly, sluggishly. Richard knew a few of those present: two women who were medical technical assistants from the Neurological Clinic, the former junior doctor from Internal Medicine who had spoilt their Christmas-tree triumph, Frau Freese stared at him with uncomfortable directness — he lowered his head, was furious with himself at his cowardice and stared back defiantly, at which Frau Freese ducked behind the shoulders of two men who worked on Coal Island. Richard recognized the attendant who had leafed through his documents in melancholy fashion before Regine had emigrated and let him stay in F corridor; he had had dealings with the other about the gas water-heater. Rapid looks that slipped off faces and waited between them. Fear that was afraid of fear. Hands that didn’t know what to do with themselves. An engineer was talking about his life that, as he concealed rather than revealed in evasive descriptive loops, could no longer be ‘sufficiently’ distinguished from the mundane … tedium. The Great Tedium had his existence in its grip! One agreed. One shared the experience. One asked for suggestions. — One ought to start with a sit-in straight away, said a woman with a pirate’s headscarf and a linen dress that had embroidery in the shape and red-and-white colour of a traffic cone on it that Richard found as beautiful as it was unusual. Something must finally change in the country, too many had gone already, half the multistorey building where she lived, for example — how was it all going to end?

‘Perhaps our guest could tell us something about that,’ said Weniger pointing at Richard, ‘he has contacts not everyone has —’

‘That’s a malicious insinuation, Manfred, you’ll take it back, please.’ Anne had stood up.

‘Great, the way you stand up for your husband. — You should have told us you were inviting him, Nina. I can see too many unknown faces anyway.’

‘When we talk and want to get beyond our little circle, then we have to go outside. You agreed with that, Manfred,’ the bearded man replied.

‘Maybe, but I would like to have been told whom you’re inviting. If he stays’ — Weniger avoided looking at Richard — ‘I’m going. The risk is too great.’

‘Sit down and eat your cake,’ Clarens begged him.

‘We have to take risks,’ said a man with a shaven head. Richard knew him, one of Gudrun’s colleagues at the theatre. His leather coat came down to the ankles and was very scuffed. He folded his arms (rich creaking of leather), licked the cut end of a cigar. Two young women sitting cross-legged, both wearing keffiyehs as neckcloths, spoke up. — ‘I’m Julia,’ said one. — ‘And I’m Johanna,’ said the other. ‘We think what Annegret’s just suggested is a good idea. And I’m sure Robert in Grünheide would also —’

‘And would Robert in Grünheide also have known where the sit-in’s to take place?’ Weniger broke in. Did they seriously believe they could compel them to introduce reforms with methods like that?

‘Absolutely,’ a man in a suit and tie replied in measured tones, ‘in general yes.’

The man beside him, wearing a jean jacket with a ‘Swords to Ploughshares’ sew-on badge, argued that they should read Bonhoeffer.

‘No, read Bahro,’ someone on a settee under an acrylic Stalin with a black eye demanded.

Richard could see the woman with the fishing gear waving. Police burst into the room. The interest in art had suddenly become widespread.

‘Identity card check! No one is to leave the room.’

‘Ah, there you are.’ Arbogast leant back against the window, looking at the butterfly on the tip of his forefinger. He handed it to Herr Ritschel, who put it in a net and left, walking carefully.

‘It’s no small matter you’re asking of me, Herr Hoffmann.’

‘You have published something before.’

‘Our Assyriologist’s blue book, yes. But that was entertainment. Your piece is about politics. To accede to your request would be to give them pretexts.’

‘So you won’t help us?’

‘Who is “us”?’

‘A group of people who are more than just concerned about the situation. Who are determined to do something about it.’

‘— are determined, aha. There’s something direct about determination, that could well be seen to correspond to the principles of my institute. Why don’t you approach a newspaper, Herr Hoffmann? The best place for multiple copies. There have been many interesting reports recently and not all editors are blinkered.’

‘Herr von Arbogast — no newspaper in the country will publish such an appeal. You know that just as well as I do.’