Stealing the Future

by Max Hertzberg

  Bärbel ignored this latest digression, and came back to the problem of food: “Look, this apple juice,” she held up the glass of juice that Dirk had poured for her. “It was you who looked after these trees. Pruned them. Kept an eye on them. It was you who collected the harvest, pressed the juice.” She looked around at us all, making sure we knew we were the ones she was talking about. “There are food shortages. We’re struggling to grow enough food to feed the country. We’re using little corners of our city to grow fruit trees and bushes and to plant cabbages. ‘From each according to their ability’: that hasn’t changed, we still need everyone to join in, to help out. And if we have people just wandering around, begging for food from hard working communities, well, the whole system collapses.”

  Bärbel sat back, looking down at her fruit juice.

  “I don’t think I disagree with anything anyone has said,” I decided to weigh in. It felt like the conversation was about to start going round in circles. “Bärbel’s right, we’re all working hard to ensure that everyone has enough to eat, and it’s fair to expect that everyone does their bit. But we have a humanist duty to ensure that people don’t go hungry. That humanism is why we are still independent. We weren’t seduced by the promises the Westgermans made. I don’t have to tell you what we all signed: the statement For Our Country. We remember what we signed: ‘Peace, Social Justice, Freedom of Movement’. Our material and moral values. Those weren’t just words, where they? We believed in them. And I think we still do. And if someone hungry walks through that door, that’s our challenge. He was in the Stasi? So what! He’s still hungry, and we need to deal with that fact first, regardless of whether or not he was in the Firm. Right now, he’s a hungry human, and we have food for him.”

  Silence. I wondered whether I’d put a lid on the discussion. That hadn’t been my intention, but it seemed to have been the effect. I got up and went over to the jugs of apple juice, giving people a bit of space to restart the conversation if they wanted to. When I got back to the table the old ladies were talking about the queues at the Konsum co-op shop. Dirk and Bärbel were sitting stiffly next to each other, not talking to each other, nor to anyone else. Dirk gave the impression he was thinking about something, Bärbel was looking a little defiant. I sat back down next to Margrit, who also looked pensive. She looked up as I sank into the chair.

  “Did I just shut that discussion down?” I asked her.

  She shook her head and gave my hand a squeeze. “It’s just hard,” she said. “You know that better than any of us. There’s so many of these challenges, as you called them, and it’s wearing us down. In the old days we could just get on with our lives. We’d moan at home, but we’d go to work, take part in some stupid meetings, you know how it was. Say some set piece—you could practically say the same thing every time, something ideologically correct, maybe a quote from Lenin,” a far away, almost nostalgic smile crossed Margrit’s face, then she looked back at me. “But we didn’t have to think. Work, meetings, queuing up for whatever we needed, family life. But now we’re having to think, we’re having to work harder than ever. We’re not used to it, and it hurts.”

  She was right, in some ways we had it easy in the old days. So long as you didn’t do anything stupid—like apply for an exit visa or make a fuss about whatever you disagreed with—if you kept your head down then you didn’t have to worry about anything. You got your wages, that covered food and accommodation, with enough to put aside for holidays. The old men in the Politbüro did the thinking and the worrying for us. I wondered whether people realised what they were signing up to when they said they wanted the GDR to remain independent.

  “Do you think they have to do all this thinking in the West?” I asked her.

  “No. I don’t think they do. They’re scared, but they don’t realise it, because they don’t think. They have other worries.”

  I nodded, my thoughts turning to my daughter in Westberlin. They certainly didn’t lack when it came to things to buy. More food than they could possibly eat, more consumer goods than anyone could possibly want. But nobody looked particularly happy. Everyone looked well fed, glowing almost, but tired. And worried. I looked around the table, everyone looked a bit grey, shabby. And tired too. But it was a different kind of tired look from that to be seen on the streets of Westberlin. Over there, it was a sort of emotional exhaustion. Here it was a physical exhaustion, combined with an air of determination.

  “Do you think we’re more determined? I mean, compared to over there?”

  Margrit nodded slowly, thinking it through.

  “Yes. If we weren’t, if we hadn’t been, we would have given up. Sold our values in return for an easy life, agreed to a take-over by Westgermany. I don’t think it was fear that stopped us from accepting the Westgerman offer, I think it was determination. Yes…” She paused again, lost in thought for a moment. “I think you were right, just now, when you mentioned the Statement. I think that wasn’t just the moment when the old government became irrelevant, but it was the moment when Chancellor Kohl’s plans for us became irrelevant too. It lost him his re-election in Westgermany, and gave us a sense of ownership over our own country, our own destinies.”

  In November 1989 the largest independent demonstration in the history of the GDR had taken place, on Alexanderplatz in Berlin. It was there that the statement For Our Country was read out by the author Stefan Heym, a statement calling for an independent GDR, coming out against unification with Westgermany. At the time it had felt like an irrelevant call—the Wall hadn’t even been opened yet, we were still creating the spaces to feel free in, getting used to our new found power. This was the first non-Party organised mass demonstration in the GDR. From that point on the Party was irrelevant, we had become ungovernable.

  It was such an atmosphere, hundreds of thousands of us marching, independently, but together. The banners and placards—spontaneous, witty, joyful. We were the people, and we knew it. When I look back on that day now, I know that was when it all started—a determination to learn the lessons of history, to put our experiences to good use: bleibe im Lande und wehre dich täglich! Stay here, resist every day! That’s when we knew we’d won.

  And anyway, who was thinking of a merger with that other German state? Perhaps the hundreds of thousands heading West?

  But that was when the Westgerman Chancellor Helmut Kohl chose to unveil his 10 Point Plan for the re-unification of Germany. His poor timing cost him the goodwill of the Eastgerman people, made them suspicious of all that the West had to offer: nothing less than a takeover of the GDR project, a full merging into a Western way of life.

  A few days later, Egon Krenz, the newly appointed leader of the Communist Party, and de-facto ruler of the GDR signed the For Our Country statement, an act of breath-taking self-servitude, an attempt to stay on the train of the revolution: the Communist Party was grabbing at every straw in sight.

  Rumours circulated that Krenz’s move was the first part of an attempt to wrest power back from the people, and a general strike was called. From that moment on, everyone, absolutely everybody knew the GDR government had became practically irrelevant. Even the Communist Party realised it, and they offered a share of power to the opposition: the Round Tables were where the decisions were being made now. The government institutions at every level—from factory floor and local council upwards—were relegated to carrying out the will of the people.

  Since then virtually the whole resident population of the GDR had signed the statement, calling for a socialist alternative to the capitalist Westgermany. It was a call for the whole country to reflect on shared anti-fascist and humanist ideals, and to take a conscious decision on a joint future. It was the starting point for a new constitution, a new political system, a new GDR. The Central Round Table wrote the new constitution in just four months, trying to keep up with the revolution happening just beyond their meeting room’s doors.

  “Can you imagine such a statement being signed by even a simple majority o
f people in Westgermany?” asked Margrit. “That’s what sets us apart from them. We share something. We agree that a better society is worth working for. There is still truth in the old saying: ‘united we stand’.”

  What she was saying was by no means new. You could hear the same words, more or less, being said throughout our country. The repetition of these simple, even simplistic ideas gave us hope, resilience. We comforted, bullied, accused and supported each other with such phrases. They replaced the slogans of the dictatorship of the Communist Party. The Marxism-Leninism of yesterday was dead. Our only ideology was independence.

  “Being an anarchist is a heavy burden.”

  I looked at Margrit, surprised. I’d never heard her use the A-word before. From her face I could see she was trying the word out, putting a name to the feelings of justice, respect and mutual aid that filled her.

  “A heavy, but wonderful burden!” she smiled.

  Her eyes shone as she looked around at our neighbours, chatting and arguing and plotting at the table.

  19:37

  After getting back from the get-together with my neighbours I pottered around the flat, playing at tidying, the fast guitars and heavy beat of Monokel keeping time. I managed to get the dishes done, but decided to leave the pans soaking in water. I wiped down the cooker and the other surfaces in the kitchen, then brushed all the dust on the floor into the corner, a job for later. By the time the five nice boys from Monokel had got as far as Bye Bye Lübben City I’d already decided there was no need to exaggerate the whole tidying up business.

  I’d enjoyed the chat this afternoon with Margrit. Since the revolution started, most people had developed an urge to talk about all the secret thoughts they’d had locked up in their souls for so long. But it wasn’t the case for everyone: the cautious, the timid, and those who had lived long. I guess that if you’d experienced first the Nazis, then the Soviet Occupation, followed by the Leadership of the Party you might be a bit reticent about opening up. But it felt like we were growing into our dialogue, learning to talk to each other. I think it’s the small things, like this afternoon, that get us to open up: Dirk, Frau Lehne, and Margrit—each had surprised me, I’d learnt a bit more about them. It was a good feeling, it gave me a sense of belonging.

  By now I’d completely given up on the idea of cleaning the flat, and I was just settling down in my favourite chair, a slight sense of guilt troubling me: I ought to cook some proper food. I hadn’t been eating particularly healthily recently—too many bread rolls, too many potatoes and lentils. In fact I was getting a bit bored of lentils, but the farm that supplied my housing co-op was experimenting with sources of protein that required less oil-based fertilisers or imported animal feed. This year was all about trying out various lentil varieties. Still, I’d had a decent variety of food this afternoon, and not just potato salad, so it wouldn’t matter too much if I didn’t make myself a proper dinner.

  A knock at the door saved me from any further thoughts of cooking, it was Nikolai, a colleague from another division of RS.

  “Nik! Long time! You coming in?”

  “Beer?” he replied, bringing his fist, closed around an imaginary bottle, to his lips in a mime of drinking.

  “Beer? Yeah, beer’s good. Let’s go!”

  I took the needle off the record, and switched the Hi-Fi off, then we headed down the stairs to the front door. It was practically dark already, a cold and damp night, the rain falling lightly but persistently. Behind us a Trabant started up and whined past, its tires making whooshing noises on the wet cobbles, its red rear lights glistening and fracturing in the wet air before leaving us again in dusky gloom. The sharp, oily tang of its exhaust cut the warm scent of the brown coal smoke—winter was on its way.

  At the bar on the corner you had to give the door a good shove to get it open. Nik tried, then gave up, looking at me expectantly, as if I might have a key or perhaps a jemmy in my pocket. I reached past him, braced my feet against the wet granite doorstep and gave the handle a sharp push. The warped wood of the door scratched across the threshold, the cracked yellow glass rattling. Behind the door was a heavy velvet curtain. Years ago it might have been deep red, but now it was a greyish pink, and it reeked of cigarette smoke and stale beer. Once we’d fought our way past the smelly, sticky curtain things didn’t really improve at all. We were in a dusty, dim room, a bar running down the wall to the right of where we stood. Oblong tables, set in perfect geometric order, ranked through the remaining space, the chairs strewn fairly randomly around them. I’d never noticed the disparity between the regularity of the tables and the untidy chairs, and wondered now whether the tables were actually bolted to the floor.

  “Evening,” said Nikolai to the man behind the bar, holding up two fingers.

  The barman Jens nodded and started topping up two glasses that were sitting on the bar, already half full. Nik picked a table away from the habitual drinkers staring glumly into their evaporating beer. After sitting down and stretching his long legs to the side of the table, nudging another chair out of the way in the process, Nik started rooting around in his jacket pocket, eventually pulling out a damp paper packet of Russian cigarettes. He offered me one, even though he knew I hated the acrid sharpness of the black tobacco. In an attempt at diverting my mind from becoming irritated with Nik and his cigarettes, I mused for a moment on the politics of being polite around people who smoked anti-social brands of tobacco. But Nik had another kind of politeness on his mind.

  “See these?” He gestured with an unlit cigarette towards the packet. I couldn’t see the point of nodding or making any affirmative noises, so just looked at him and waited.

  “You know where I got them? A Russian. Captain he is,” Nik had this maddening habit of first posing a question, then answering it himself, which was one reason why I preferred to remain quiet when he asked anything. Stay quiet and let him get on with it in his own way and his own time. Don’t get me wrong, I liked the guy, I just preferred to avoid him enough to not get too pissed off with his conversational quirks, or his cigarettes.

  “This captain-” he started, but broke off again as Jens came over with the beers.

  The barman carefully placed the beers on the stained sprelakart surface, slowly straightened up, stroked his palms down the dirty apron he was wearing then very deliberately shook hands with me and Nik.

  “Food?” enquired Jens brusquely, his face the whole time immobile, expressionless.

  “What’s on tonight?” asked Nik, showing hardly any more enthusiasm than the barman.

  “Soljanka. Lentil soljanka.”

  “Lentil soljanka?” I tried to keep the resigned incredulity out of my voice; the same farm that supplied my building obviously made deliveries to Jens’ bar. I nodded to Jens, and after a pause, so did Nik.

  Jens shrugged, and went back to the bar.

  “Where was I?” Nik cast around with his still unlit cigarette, as if that may help him regain the thread of his thoughts.

  “The Russian. A captain. Was it Dmitri?” I sipped at my thin beer.

  “Yes, dear Dmitri. That was it. The Russian captain. Do you know him?”

  “No,” I shrugged, “but you’ve mentioned him before.”

  “He’s one of the good ones. Well, we met up again this week. I’m still not sure how much his commander knows about all of this. Poor Dmitri is either in line for a promotion or a one way trip to Novosibirsk. Where is Novosibirsk, anyway? Is that the one I mean?” Nik looked pensive for a whole second or two, before continuing. “Well maybe they’re the same thing in the Glorious Soviet Army,” he spoke the words in capitals, in the way we all had, ever since the Victorious Red Army marched into town, back in 1945.

  “Yeah, maybe promotion and Novosibirsk is the same thing, nowadays, in the Soviet ranks and cadres,” I chipped in. Nik ignored my contribution, and continued along the path his thoughts were taking.

  “So there we were in the middle of some woods on the edge of Berlin. Well the Wuhlhe
ide, you know, next to the Russian tank barracks, but you get the picture. There we were, trying to avoid the columns of Young Pioneers and Thälmann Pioneers in their red and blue scarves, marching around as if 1989 never happened. Do they still own that Pioneer Palace there in the woods? No, they don’t do they? Been taken over by the Berlin Magistrat, hasn’t it?”

  Nik trailed off again, looking thoughtful and finally lighting up his acrid, and now rather mangled cigarette. Blowing out his first puff, the dark smoke assaulted his nostrils, his nose and eyes crinkling involuntarily.

  “So Dmitri and I, in the woods, with all these red-sock kids. He’s telling me that something is up, that the Moscow cadre has turned up. They’re all over the show in Karlshorst and Wünsdorf, and they’re only taking orders over a direct Moscow radio link. KGB: that’s what Dmitri reckons. And he should know. But if it is KGB, then there’s only one reason why they’d be here in Berlin. OK, maybe two.”

  So this was why Nik was here. He was worried, wanted to give me an informal heads up. He was right to be worried. Although the Russians were always playing politics—officers would turn up out of the blue and start bossing the troops around—but if large numbers of KGB turned up unannounced at the main HQ of the Soviet Western Group of Troops—that had to be significant, particularly if they weren’t talking to any of the KGB officers that were permanently stationed here.

  “Did he have any idea about whether they’re after us or the Western Allies?”

  “No. Dmitri’s in well over his head. He’s not found anything out, or if he has he’s too scared to pass it on.”

  The timing was vexing—why now with a coup attempt underway in Moscow?—it was bound to make everyone involved a bit jumpy. If the KGB were planning some high level operation in Berlin that would inevitably lead to serious diplomatic pressure from the American, British and French forces based in Westberlin. And any pressure would probably be directed at us—safer to kick the mangy Eastgerman cat than the still powerful Russian bear. The four post-war allies still had nominal control over the whole of Berlin, both Eastern and Western Sectors, and that had never been a comfortable fact for any of the governments of the GDR. Strictly speaking, under international law the GDR did not even have sovereignty over its own capital city. That was fine while we sheltered under the protecting hand of the Soviet Union, but now that particular empire was collapsing, and we were going our own way—against the wishes of both East and West—the problem of sovereignty was becoming very significant. The only comforting factor in this mess was that Westberlin was in the same boat. Any moves to destabilise our country using the uncertain legal status of our capital would affect Westberlin too, something the Westgermans would want to avoid. Not to mention the Western Allies, who no doubt still appreciated being able to keep tabs on us courtesy of their listening post deep in the heart of our rogue Republic. They would want to keep an eye on us, make sure our little social experiment wouldn’t prove infectious to other countries in the eastern half of Europe, or anywhere else for that matter.