The Tower: A Novel (49 page)

The heat made the drill, the mind-numbing marking time in highly polished boots that, after two or three about-turns on the dry paths, were covered in dust, the ‘Left turn!’ – ‘Right turn!’ – ‘Right, left wheel – marrch!’, the field exercises, in which only Stabenow let his platoon rest in the shade of the brambles and the fringes of the woods, and the assault run, a combination of press-ups, squats and flying jumps in the camp’s Werner Seelenbinder Stadium, into sweat-soaked torture. Only Siegbert seemed at ease, at least his only response to the daily programme was a shrug of the shoulders. ‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ he said with a touch of contempt to Falk, who kept getting out of step when they were marching and was therefore characterized as an ‘uncoordinated idiot’ by Hantsch. Siegbert grew impatient. ‘Just pull yourself together and concentrate. I don’t want you to spoil our points score, we have to get one over those idiots from the School of the Cross.’ On the way to the canteen there was a board showing the daily points score of the various platoons; Siegbert was determined to finish first.

‘This
isn’t a war – and you’re not Gilbert Wolzow either,’ Falk objected.

‘Oh what the hell. Reina was right, you’re just too sissy.’

Christian stood in front of Falk. ‘You must be out of your mind, Siggi.’

The camp was commanded by a former major of the National People’s Army, a stocky man with a wrinkled face and sunburnt complexion, his fat belly made his uniform stick out over his belt. In the evening he would stride up and down the tarmacked camp road, swollen with pride and affable, examining the things the boys bought from the camp shop (vanilla ice cream for twenty pfennigs, pink strawberry ice that tasted of water and strawberries that were on the way towards strawberry flavour); clicked his heels as he welcomed ‘his’ (as he put it) platoon leaders back, and Christian sometimes watched him as he stood, hands clasped behind his back, looking over to the houses with the shutters down. ‘His’ platoon leaders, ‘his’ property (the training camp), ‘his’ soldiers as Major Volick called the boys at morning roll-call and talks in the canteen; his favourite word was ‘immaculate’. A jovial, affable man who seemed to be at one with himself and the world – and one who could have run a corresponding camp with the same joviality and affability fifty years ago, or so it seemed to Christian. He didn’t discuss his impressions with anyone, didn’t write either. Siegbert replied to Verena’s letters, which came almost daily; Christian recognized them from her characteristic spiky handwriting; he himself had a letter from Meno, who told him there was little worth telling: the heat in Dresden, the stones on the bottom of the Elbe were visible, dead fish were floating in the branches of the river; two girls by the names of Verena Winkler and Reina Kossmann had sent him a thank-you letter for ‘your hospitality and the wonderful time we had in your house’. Then he mentioned the Kaminski twins, who were becoming more and more free and easy in their behaviour, then that he had managed
to find a precise adjective for the colour of one of the saturniid moths on the stairs at Caravel. Typical Meno, Christian thought.

Now Richard had said it; he turned away from the table around which Barbara and Ulrich, Niklas and Gudrun, Iris and Hans Hoffmann were sitting, turned his shoulder towards Anne, who kept her head bowed while the ticking of the grandfather clock grew louder and louder in the living room of Caravel, and Meno, who was sitting next to Regine, felt a profound sense of shame, he couldn’t say why, and sympathy for his brother-in-law, who had always seemed so strong and uncomplicated to him; the usual clouds life brought, certainly, but basically a sunny character, a practical person little given to introspection whose nature seemed to say, What d’you expect? You can live life in a different way, be more cheerful, more open to the simple things that are amazed at you worriers anyway – what you make out of them, how you manage to festoon a breath of fresh forest air with complexes.

‘You have to tell your colleagues.’ Barbara let out a long breath.

‘But the children’ – Anne raised her tear-stained face – ‘the children … What do we do if they carry out their threat?’

‘Things are never as bad as they seem,’ said Gudrun, trying to look on the bright side.

‘You think so?’ Richard stood up, walked to and fro. ‘They’re not your children. Would you risk it?’

‘My God, it’d just mean they don’t go to university … Do you have a problem with that? I love my child just as much whether she goes to university or not … But with you lot it absolutely has to be something special. I think it would be much more important for them to be able to go through life with their heads held high, if you make a clean breast of it; then you’d have a clear conscience too.’

‘What high-sounding words!’ Richard said, mocking Barbara’s
contribution. Ulrich tried to calm things down, took Barbara’s hand, which was flapping indignantly. ‘Don’t get worked up, Bubbles. You may well be right but I can understand Anne and Richard. It’s their children’s future that’s at stake and even if it makes no difference to you whether Ina goes to university or not – it makes a difference to her.’

‘The lads
want
to go to university,’ said Meno, who so far had taken no part in the discussion, ‘at least as far as I’m aware. Anne and Richard want the best for them and that, I think, involves studying at university –’

‘At the price of Richard spying on his colleagues?’ Hans Hoffmann leant forward; he’d gone pale. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that of you, Meno. You’re an opportunist.’

‘Now listen here …’

‘You mustn’t provoke them,’ said Gudrun.

‘We have problems with Muriel, but do you think we’d be prepared to spy on people? Not provoke them! What nonsense! They’re the ones who provoke us!’

Niklas raised his hands. ‘I can remember a similar case in the State Orchestra. Then it was a question of whether the daughter could go to university. After a while he admitted it. He’d only told them unimportant stuff. By that time his daughter was at university and was still allowed to stay on.’

‘How do you know he only told them unimportant stuff?’

‘What are you suggesting, Iris?’

‘There’s no need to shout.’

‘Stop it! We been through all these pros and cons already. What if they take a different approach with me?’ Richard was walking up and down again.

‘And if they don’t?’ Barbara asked challengingly.

‘It’s all right for you to talk, it’s not you who’re taking the risk. It’s not Ina’s future that’s at stake,’ Anne interjected.

‘They
say that Security only approach certain people …’ Gudrun gave Richard a suspicious look.

‘You take my breath away. Do you think this can’t happen to you? A word from you in the ear of the high-ups … Well, just you wait and see,’ Richard shouted with malice and desperation.

‘How about asking Christian and Robert what their opinion is? We’re going over their heads and yet they’re the ones most immediately concerned –’

‘You’re being naive,’ Richard snorted. ‘Can you imagine the pressure we’ll put them under if we invite them to join us and ask them what they think of the matter! Eh? Take pity on your parents, that’s what they’ll feel’s being demanded here, so then they’ll yield and give up the idea of going to university, to their own disadvantage. Is that your idea of responsibility? If we did that we’d be delegating it, to boys still going through puberty who can hardly assess the consequences of decisions. Moreover that would be cowardly. No, Meno, I’m sorry, but that question’s outside your competence.’

‘That’s enough!’ Ulrich thumped the table. ‘We have to do something.’ Now they all started talking at once. Regine sat, mute and dejected, beside Meno, who also remained silent.

‘Give it here.’ Siegbert stretched out his hand. Jens threw him the frog he’d taken off one of the cherry trees, large numbers of which grew round the camp. During the first rest the boys had stuffed themselves with the yellow cherries, Hantsch had waited patiently, then ordered gas-mask training; Falk had torn the mask off his face and, even though Hantsch threatened to make him do extra training, dashed off into the bushes – afterwards Hantsch had silently offered him a water bottle.

‘A nice frog,’ Siegbert said. He thought for a moment. Hagen Schlemmer was lying, arms outstretched, on the forest floor, Christian was watching Falk, who, red in the face, was gasping for breath. Siegbert
felt in his pocket, took out his penknife, placed the frog on a piece of bark in front of him and cut off its legs.

‘They really do keep thrashing,’ he observed. Falk opened his mouth; Hagen Schlemmer said, ‘Yeuch’, Jens looked round – Hantsch had gone off to the side somewhere, they’d been wondering how to pay him back for this or that (stinging nettles? a push so that he landed in a fresh heap of cow dung? but he’d have seen them); it was too soon, it wasn’t the right occasion, they’d agreed that something like that had to mature. Christian saw the frog’s body slowly separate from the blade and therefore from its detached legs, that were still mechanically opening and closing, the animal was croaking softly and its arms were still going to and fro like windscreen wipers; Christian couldn’t understand it, looked up to where the branches were shimmering, then back down again to the alert, interested expression on Siegbert’s face; then he stood up, took the knife, which was sticking in the piece of bark between the frog’s body and legs, and stuck it in Siegbert’s thigh; it didn’t go in very far. Siegbert said nothing.

Christian twisted the knife to the left and the right. Only now did Siegbert seem to understand and protested in surprise. Christian pulled the knife out and threw it into the bushes. Then he looked at the frog; Falk also tried to do something for the animal; they exchanged glances and Christian looked for a largish stone. Now Siegbert really did protest. Hantsch came. ‘What’s going on here?’ He looked from one to the other, his eye finally coming to rest on Christian. ‘What have you done, Hoffmann?’ He went over to Siegbert, saw the blood. ‘Are you crazy? You’ve –’ he shook his head, then he seemed to understand something and couldn’t help smiling – ‘you’ve had it, man. You’re finished. I quite clearly saw you throw something away, that will be the weapon, vital evidence.’ He seems to read detective stories, Christian thought.

‘That’s not true,’ Siegbert said, groaning. ‘That’s not true Comrade Corporal. Christian didn’t … have anything to do with it. He was
trying to help me. I fell over … right on something sharp. Too stupid.’

‘And what was that?’ Hantsch bent down over the ground, eagerly scouring it. ‘Can you stand up? You two carry him out of the way.’ He pointed to Jens and Hagen. ‘Nothing to be seen. What was it you say you fell on?’

‘That was before, I crawled a short way.’ Now Siegbert’s face was waxen. ‘The others are witnesses.’

Hantsch straightened up, stared from one to the other. ‘If you give false evidence here there’ll be consequences. We’ll get to the bottom of this. Form two groups, look for the knife.’

‘I don’t have a knife,’ Siegbert said.

‘But I saw it in your hand myself, you were slicing an apple, yesterday. What’s this nonsense you’re telling me, Füger? Hoffmann stabbed you and out of misconceived comradeship –’

‘That’s what you say,’ Siegbert replied wearily. ‘I borrowed the knife from someone.’

‘From whom? His name!’

‘I don’t know, I can’t remember … A damn nuisance to fall like that. I can’t walk.’

Hantsch ordered them to make a stretcher and had Siegbert carried to the medical station. Falk found the knife. He buried it and they had to keep searching until the evening. Since Siegbert stuck to his version and no one gave any evidence to the contrary, Hantsch could only report an accident to Major Volick. The injury wasn’t serious, but from now on Siegbert was on indoor duty.

What irritated Meno and made him think rather than amusing him – amusement at certain aspects of life, the Old Man of the Mountain had told him, also presupposed a certain kind of inhumanity: a taking-things-lightly that drifts like a balloon, beguiling, rootless and weightless, above the days and so having nothing to do with them at a deeper level – what
seemed so strange to him that he didn’t simply find it entertaining was the fact that scenes he had been through could be repeated, at the same hour on a different day, at the same position of the sun (again it was in Caravel), with the same smells and the same seating arrangement; even Regine had come after her work in St Joseph’s Hospital, again she had chosen to sit next to Meno on the black leather couch, opposite Querner’s
Landscape during a Thaw
, next to the Hoffmanns’ Junost television and the grandfather clock with the Westminster chimes; again the same arguments about Richard’s revelation and again Richard had paced up and down like a big cat. Irregularities in the picture didn’t abolish the correspondence with the evening two days previously; indeed, they seemed to emphasize it, as if the scene were just being mirrored and the mirror admitted: I could be precise, if I wanted, but I don’t feel like it, for in that case everyone might notice me and that’s no fun; my efforts are to remain something for the better observers. Now Richard and Meno were standing on the veranda, drinking beer and looking out of the open window at the garden.

‘I see you like Wernesgrüner,’ Richard said.

‘I find it lighter, more hoppy and leafy than Radeberger,’ Meno said. – Why did he tell us? Was he afraid one of us might find out before he admitted it; does he think one of us might know something?

‘Particular kinds of men always go for particular kinds of beer, I’ve noticed that,’ said Richard. – Keeps out of everything, does my brother-in-law. Unfathomable. Do I like him? Yes, I do, somehow or other. He’s not a windbag, he knows how to keep his mouth shut. Why hasn’t he got a wife? Could he be … ? Anne ought to know. But what do brothers and sisters know about each other? What do I know about Hans? And he about me? Perhaps Meno’s a ladies’ man? But still waters sometimes just run still.

‘Top-fermented or bottom-fermented guys? Those that prefer
dark beer and those that drink light beer for preference?’ – Perhaps he’s trying something out? Perhaps he’s trying to see how far he can go? He said they wanted information about things inside the hospital from him. He didn’t say they wanted information about his relations and if he’s kept quiet about that, his revelation to us is meaningless. Or is it? Does he suspect one of us is an informer? Have his doubts about me? Ulrich as well. Party member, director of an industrial combine and both of us born in Moscow, the sons of communists. He wants to be able to tell himself that he’s done everything possible without bringing himself into danger. He wants us to be in the situation of sharing his knowledge.