“Erika, what is it? Erika?”
“It’s the Nazis. They’re after Martin. He’s had to leave town, he’s gone to some Datsche out of town. I don’t know where it is, somewhere near Storkow? But I’m worried about him. About all of us. We were meant to have a police officer on the door but they haven’t sent one yet.”
“Shit, you serious? Like, they’re really after Martin?” I thought of the graffiti on Martin’s door—I’d assumed it was just a random tagging, but from what Erika was saying … “Fucking hell!” I hissed under my breath. “I’ve got to go and see him.”
Erika looked surprised, but didn’t ask me why I needed to see Martin.
“A Datsche you said? Like in an allotment garden? Out of town? Where? Katrin will know where it is, won’t she? Do you have her phone number?”
Erika shook her head.
“Fuck! How do I get hold of Katrin?” My mind was whizzing. My address book was at home, that was nearly as far as Katrin’s, and to get to either place would take ages, I’d have to walk loads and get a tram and a bus. “Erika, have you got your bike with you? Can I borrow it?”
Martin was well fucked when we arrived. Not the welcome I’d been expecting after tracking him half way across Brandenburg. The journey had taken us ages. From Katrin’s we had to get back to East Berlin, take the S-Bahn all the way to Königs Wusterhausen then change onto a stopping train. After all that there was a hike through the woods from the station. Under different circumstances it could have been quite nice, like in the summer when we have a bit of a party down in the woods by the Müggelsee. You know, get a bit of a camp fire going, couple of crates of beer, bit of a swim. But this was different. Katrin was dead worried and didn’t say a word for the whole journey. On the train she sat in the seat opposite me, and there was an empty cigarette packet scrunched up on the floor, I could only see Cab written on it, the inet bit was lost in a crumple. An empty beer bottle rolled around whenever the train slowed down or sped up or went round a curve. A dark, sticky stain of dry beer was spread between our feet. That’s not the kind of thing I’d normally pay attention to, but there wasn’t anything else to do was there? Not with Katrin pretending to be mute.
We got off the train and went down the sandy road. At some point the forest just started, a wall of pine trees—it was really dark in there, the road got narrower and sandier and we went down the middle of the track, tripping over tree roots and avoiding deep holes filled with loose sand.
We passed an empty holiday camp, witches’ cabins with steep roofs, all standing empty in the woods, waiting for summer—they were well spooky. I pointed them out to Katrin and she just looked around and said they’re not witches’ cabins, they’re just holiday chalets.
After that I kept my gob shut.
We walked for miles through those woods. It was really creepy, no birds, nobody else, just us. And when we got there and I gave Martin a hug I could smell schnapps on his breath. Katrin noticed it too, she was a bit freaked out by that, but she tried hard not to show it. She held her father by his shoulders for a while, looking into his eyes as if she could read his soul or something. And then she started talking again.
“Papa, what’s going on?” she asked him.
Martin just shrugged, looked away from her. As if he was embarrassed or something.
I hate scenes, and I thought this was going to turn into one of those family rows, so I decided to try to lighten the atmosphere.
“Took us ages to get here, Martin, you’re totally in the middle of nowhere!”
Martin just turned round, turned his back on us. He was looking out over the water. I’d never seen him like this, well, apart from last week when we crashed at Katrin’s. He looked dishevelled, crumpled. He’d definitely slept in his clothes if you ask me. I decided I was being a bit mean, so I didn’t say anything—I just thought it in my head. But it still wasn’t fair.
So I decided to be a bit more charitable: maybe the smell of schnapps wasn’t on his breath, but coming off his clothes? Maybe he drank himself into a stupor last night, and hadn’t had time to have a wash and change. Or clean his teeth. Even though it was already past midday.
“Papa?” Katrin touched her dad’s elbow, trying to draw him back, find out what was going on.
“It feels like I’ve failed.” Martin still had his back to us, being all dark and mysterious and fucking rude too, if you ask me. He was still looking out over the water rather than at us.
I gave Katrin a look that said what the hell?, and she moved around to stand in front of Martin.
“Failed? How?”
Martin shook his head, looked at Katrin, then turned around a bit so he could see me too, like he’d just realised that we were both there. And then he must have decided to get his shit together because otherwise Katrin was going to lose her rag. He looked around the garden, then extended his arm, pointing to the Hollywood swing.
“Why don’t you girls sit down and I’ll go and make some coffee.”
I studiously avoided reacting—Martin wouldn’t normally be that crass—he must be in a pretty bad state to call me girl. So Katrin and I shared another look, and Martin bimbled off into the Datsche. It was one of those wooden frame and hardboard jobs, with a slanting roof covered in tar paper. Looked like it hadn’t been used for a few years: moss was growing up the outside and the windows were so dusty I couldn’t see through them, but I could hear the clattering of pans and cups. We sat down on the swing, looking down the garden to the lake. A beech tree was just coming out in leaf, and it cast a soft green light. Further down the garden, bushes were growing wild, blocking the pathway, but between them I could see a small boat tied up next to the bank.
When Martin came out again he was carrying a tray with three cups of coffee. He looked more human, more like the Martin I knew. He’d made an effort, changed into fresh clothes, washed his face. He didn’t smell so much any more either. Just a bit musty, but that was fine. Meant I could look him in the eye again.
“Sorry, haven’t got anything to eat,” he said as he sat down. “I was just thinking about going to the village Konsum when you arrived.”
“Papa, are you going to tell us what’s going on? Why did you say you’ve failed?”
He kept shtum for a bit, and then that weird, faraway look—the same one he’d been wearing when we arrived—it came back. He didn’t look at us, just stared down the garden. Then he began to speak slowly and irregularly, as if he was in a ket-loop.
“I haven’t got the energy for this kind of thing any more. All these years I’ve been fighting, the whole time, and it never seemed like we’d ever get anywhere—up against the Party, the Stasi. And then the revolution began, and when it was clear that we had won, that the people had won, no more Party, no more Stasi, just the will of the people … once we got that far I thought I could relax. And I did, just helped out a bit, stayed in the background, doing boring stuff that nobody else wanted to do.”
Martin was still staring at the water, as if we weren’t there, or maybe he was just pretending we weren’t there.
“But that business last year, with the Minister. And then this, the fascists,” he continued, still speaking slowly, quietly, as if to himself. “I feel like I have a duty to get involved, to continue defending the revolution, the will of the people …” He trailed off, and his eyes shifted to mine, daring me to disagree, to argue with him.
He was really starting to freak me out now. He was just staring, not blinking. I swallowed, and thought, he needs you, just listen to what he has to say. I just nodded—a smile would have felt a bit stupid right then.
“Look, I can see you’re upset-” I started, but he cut me off.
“No, not upset. Not upset. Wrong word. It’s a kind of, no … I feel a kind of Weltschmerz.”
I wasn’t even sure what that meant, but Martin didn’t give me any time to ask.
“I have this sense of duty in me, this feeling it’s my responsibility. But it costs so much, it’s alrea
dy cost too much. I think it was last year—it was when they started targeting me—it wasn’t just that they were following me round, but they’d been in my flat, they’d messed with my things, messed with my head. It was like nothing had changed, like I was back in the bad old days. Too much. All too much. And I don’t know how much longer I can keep going, not with all this shit that’s happening.”
There was this moment of total silence in the garden. None of us said anything. None of us even moved at all. I sat there thinking shit, shit, shit, what the fuck do I do?
But it was obvious what I had to do, and you’re probably reading this and thinking, course it’s fucking obvious. But it wasn’t until that moment, just then, that I knew what to do. So I kind of got up a bit so that I could reach over to him and put my arms around my friend. He didn’t move, he was really stiff, and his eyes were welling up, and I was nearly welling up too, had to really bite my lip to stop from laughing or crying or both at once.
Katrin knew what to do—no-one had to tell her. She just put her arms around both of us, and we just stood there, hunched over the table and the coffees, all hugging each other for what seemed like hours.
“Come on, let’s go and get some stuff from the Konsum for dinner,” Katrin said at last, and we stopped all the touchy-feely stuff and Katrin and I headed around the side of the Datsche towards the lane. I didn’t look back at Martin. He needed space. Probably needed to repair his bruised ego or rebuild his emotional wall or whatever.
It took us about half an hour to walk to the village and buy some stuff for a salad, some bread and a jar of plum puree from the shop. The woman behind the counter was dead nosy, wanting to know who we were and whether we were on holiday. As if that wasn’t enough there was a skinhead in there, buying milk and Katrin had to put her hand on my arm to stop me saying anything. But he clocked me alright, and swore at me as we left the shop. Fucker.
When we got back, Martin was looking loads better. He’d put an oil cloth with a flowery pattern over the garden table and laid out plates and cutlery. A fresh pot of coffee was keeping warm on the little candle stove and he sat there, looking nervous, waiting for us.
He’d put some music on the tape player in the hut and noise leaked out of the window. He’s always got some music on the go—typical of Martin to take some tapes with him when he left. Normally he listened to some old-school rock or blues from some has-been GDR band but this time it was some stuff I’ve never heard him play before, something in English. Katrin gives him these tapes, and he’s always really chuffed to get them, it’s really sweet. Then he plays whatever he’s been given, listening to it like she’s sending him some message, dead serious like. But his English is a bit shit, so I don’t think he knows what he’s even listening to half the time. I looked at the cassette insert and worked out what song was playing: “I’ve been left on the shelf”, about some old dude who pretends not to be sad that he’s all by himself, feeding the ducks for company and he’s only got his hot water bottle to take to bed. But there’s Martin, like, yeah, Katrin gave me this tape: Jake Thackrey, some Englishman. It’s really nice, isn’t it? He didn’t even get that Katrin was taking the piss! I was really good and didn’t say anything to him about it, just told him it was cute and gave Katrin a sharp look. She did the innocent act and pretended she didn’t know what was going on.
Katrin and I sat down at the table in the garden, waiting for Martin to finish getting everything together for our midday meal. A book was splayed out on the table, I picked it up. Erich Fromm, The Fear of Freedom. I glanced over at Katrin, pulling a face: heavy reading. Looking at the page Martin had dog-eared I read a sentence that had been underlined in pencil. Scanning up and down a few paragraphs I could see it was a commentary on policing; or rather crime, how crime is caused by restricted lifestyles, by fear and deprivation and poverty. And how prison is just one more restriction, so can never be an answer to criminality.
“Good book that—borrow it if you want.” Martin had come out of the hut, carrying a tray with the bread and a bowl of salad.
I shook my head. It looked a bit too heavy for me. I mean, life was a bit too heavy for me right then, I didn’t need to add to the burden.
“It’s another of those things we have to find an answer for. Prison isn’t a solution, it’s just another problem.”
I didn’t respond so we all sat there for a while, chewing away at our rubbery village bread, wondering what to say about Martin’s little speech. It was like we were all pretending that the little scene from an hour ago had never even happened.
So I just dived straight in.
“What the fuck’s going on, Martin?”
Katrin looked really pissed off, as if she was the only one allowed to be direct with her dad. But Martin started telling us about this demo he’d been ‘observing’. It was gross, all these fucking Nazis marching, chanting, and he’d just stood there watching them. I had a bit of a go at him. I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help myself, sometimes he’s such a mensch, being all reasonable, trying to see all sides of any argument, and it pisses me off because we’re in the middle of a fucking revolution! I told him we had to take sides.
“So what should we do about them?” he asked, all reasonable-like.
“Shoot ’em!” I didn’t really mean it, just wanted to provoke him a bit, but he was shocked.
“Really?” he asked, taking me seriously, again.
I sighed, then looked him straight in the eye and shook my head.
“No, but it’s my first reaction. It’s what they want to do to us.” I watched him think about that for a bit. “And you’ve got to admit, the Antifa have done a lot of good: hitting Nazis keeps them from spreading so fast.”
I was right and he had to admit it. If the Antifa weren’t prepared to beat the shit out of fascists then the whole situation would be loads worse. The fash just want to attack, kill off anything different: punks, anarchists, foreigners, queers, the disabled. They even had a go at the Central Round Table building once.
I could see Martin thinking about it, his face moving as the thoughts passed behind his eyes. In my head I could almost hear him think: but we overthrew the Party, he’d say in that old-fart way of his. We ended a dictatorship and started a revolution without violence. The only violence came from the security forces.
He didn’t say it, and it’s not like he needed to. We all knew that. But even he had to admit that it was kind of ironic that our oh-so-peaceful revolution had led to a gang-war. Fash against Antifa. Yeah, the fascists started it, but you have to admit that it’s not like the Antifa aren’t up for a scrap, is it? Far too much fucking testosterone in that scene if you ask me.
“But beating Nazis up isn’t going to solve the problem,” he finally came up with. “It might keep them in check, but we’re not going to get rid of them that way. The more violent we are to them, the more violent they are back, so then we have to up the stakes to keep them down. Using that logic we’ll end up shooting them, unless they shoot us first.”
He looked so self-satisfied, as if he’d been really perceptive. I groaned again. Times like this I wonder why I hang out with Martin. I looked at the beech tree, the one growing in the middle of the path, trying to work up a bit of patience.
“So what do you suggest we do, then, Mr. Clever Clogs?” I asked him.
“In the medium term, well, we know the answer already—some people are doing it. We need to talk to the young skins, people who are in danger of being dragged in. They need to be listened to, made to feel part of this society, this revolution.”
“What, you mean we should just tell them they can take part in our revolution, integrate their fascist filth into our society?” I threw back at him, he was really starting to piss me off now.
“No, no, I didn’t mean that. I mean, get them before they’ve really bought into the whole ideology of hate. Or if they’re already part of that, get them to start thinking, asking questions. I don’t mean we should give them a chan
ce to sow their hatred. I meant we should welcome them as individuals and encourage them to feel respected, just as they should respect others. We need to give them back their sense of self-worth, their place in society, so that they don’t feel that hate, so they don’t have the need to destroy everything that is different.”
The most annoying thing about Martin is that he’s usually right. I guess he’s been around for so long that he’s thought about practically everything there is to think about. Doesn’t make it any easier to listen to him being all opinionated though.
“But what about the short term?” I asked him.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged at me. “You got any ideas?”
Great.
If not even Martin knew what we had to do then we really were fucked!
Katrin had gone inside while Martin and I were arguing, I could hear her clattering around, washing up our plates, tidying up the little hut. I wondered what it was like in there, probably a total tip.
But our little talk had ground to a halt, and Martin just sat there, gawping at the little candle under the coffee pot. And I was just sat there too. Probably gawping into space as well. Thinking about the fash had made me think of Schimmel again. I couldn’t get what he’d told me out of my head. The stuff about being abused in the secure homes they’d put him in when he was a kid.
And that was when I realised that I really wanted to tell Martin about it all.
Which made me realise just how much I trusted Martin.
But Martin had his own problems right now. Fucking ace friend I am, I thought to myself, I’ve got two friends having a really hard time of it and I’ve got no clue how to help either of them!
Under normal circumstances I would tell Martin about Schimmel, and he’d know what to do. Then again he’d probably tell me to go to the Reconciliation Commission. Yeah, right, as if I’d do that! I didn’t want reconciliation for my friend. I wanted fucking revenge.
I smiled, thinking about what Martin would say to that.
Thoughts Are Free Page 18
