The Tower: A Novel

by Uwe Tellkamp

  ‘We must think about how we can help Regine,’ Anne said, changing the subject to help her brother.

  ‘For me there’s not much to think about. I’ll keep turning up there … I’ve applied for family reunification, Jürgen and I have been separated for four and a half years …’

  ‘And the children? Remember Sperber’s warning,’ Gudrun said.

  ‘I know how to proceed.’

  ‘How?’ The question came from several mouths simultaneously.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. But it could be that … I mean, Niklas, can you be sure? And Richard, you have at least admitted that they …’

  ‘You think I’d tell on you?’

  ‘Sorry, that wasn’t how I meant it. My nerves are all to pot.’

  Pedro Honich was a man for whom order was all-important. The day after he moved into the House with a Thousand Eyes he asked who it was who kept the house register: Lange, who had neglected to keep it for ages.

  ‘But that can’t go on, Herr Doktor Lange. Rules are rules,’ Honich, who was the commander of a paramilitary Combat Group of the Working Class, told the ship’s doctor, and offered to keep the register himself in future. ‘There are no entries for Herr Rohde and yet he often has visitors.’

  ‘Yes, you know Herr, er, Honich –’

  ‘Comrade Honich. I am a member of the Socialist Unity Party.’

  ‘I’m not. We’re not spies and whether Herr Rohde has a visitor or not, and who it is and how long they stay, is his business alone, that’s my opinion.’

  ‘That’s your opinion, is it?’ Herr Honich went on about bourgeois arrogance and loopholes that had to be closed. A few days later he called a meeting of the house community.

  ‘Do we have to go along with this?’ Stahl asked. ‘What does the fellow actually want? Does he take us for members of his combat group?’

  ‘Let’s listen to what he has to say,’ Lange said.

  Because of the lack of a room big enough, the meeting took place in the upstairs corridor. Frau Honich had put out some liver sausage sandwiches, beer and mineral water that only the Kaminski twins touched.

  Herr Honich, in his combat group uniform, stood up and declared the meeting open with an attendance check. Sylvia Stahl was excused, she had an evening in the Schlemm Hotel with the work team sponsoring her class. Then he introduced his wife and himself. His wife was called Babett, came from Karl-Marx-Stadt and was the new head of the Pioneers at the Louis Fürnberg High School. Herr Honich, as he emphasized, came from a working-class family in the Micken district of Dresden. His wife’s hobbies were the garden and the Timur group providing assistance for old and handicapped people; he himself was passionately fond of motorbikes, was a great fan of Dynamo Dresden and liked playing football himself. He intended to form a street club and hoped many, especially young people, would join; if others followed his example they could have street championships that the women could support by organizing solidarity tombolas, handicraft activities for the little ones and a field kitchen for the players. It was his ambition to win the ‘Golden House Number’ for the House with a Thousand Eyes in socialist competition.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Stahl whispered to Meno, ‘what have they lumbered us with here?’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ Sabine Stahl broke in, ‘but, as you know, we all go out to work and in general have little time for that kind of thing. I’m more interested in practical matters, for example how we are going to organize use of the bathroom. With just Herr Rohde it was manageable, but now there are nine of us who want to use the bathroom morning and evening and our boy is still completely unpredictable. How are we going to sort that out?’

  ‘I suggest we work out a plan of who should use the bathroom when, Citizen Stahl. As a mother you will of course have priority.’

  ‘Plan, plan! Do you think we can go to the bog according to plan? As you will have perhaps noticed, the toilet’s in the bathroom as well, so what about that?’

  ‘We have noticed that, Comrade Stahl.’

  Stahl, infuriated, pulled up the lapel of his jacket and waved it to and fro. ‘Can you see a badge there? No? I’m not a comrade.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  Frau Honich gently patted her husband’s hand. ‘We noticed that too,’ she said calmly. ‘Perhaps we can share your toilet?’ she said, turning to the Kaminskis, who raised their hands in horrified protest.

  ‘We have an application for a new bathroom that has been under consideration since 1975 without any progress at all having been made. Instead the Housing Department have added you to the inhabitants of the house. Scandalous! Also, since as a comrade you are in favour of speaking openly, I find it just as scandalous that you, hardly have you moved in, have been given your own telephone line while Herr Rohde and I have been waiting for years for one.’

  ‘But that is not our fault, Citizen Stahl. I have to be available twenty-four hours a day. I can well see that there’s a problem. Perhaps I can do something for you,’ Herr Honich said in conciliatory tones.

  ‘You have connections?’ Libussa croaked. She had a thick scarf round her neck and was sipping at a glass of warm milk with honey.

  ‘Well … You know we were directed to a bathhouse in Querleite, it’s supposed to be in one of the villas that used to belong to the sanatorium.’

  ‘That’s right, it’s the house called Veronica. Yes, go there. But be careful not to step on the grids without flip-flops – athlete’s foot!’ Stahl cried irascibly.

  ‘Oh, come now, Gerhart, that’s no permanent solution,’ Meno said, trying to calm things down a little. ‘We all have to make the best of it we can. We’ll find some solution. We could take it in turns to use the bathhouse, then the bathroom would be available for two groups each day. As for the toilet, we still have the earth closet in the garden.’

  ‘You’re welcome to get that working again,’ Sabine Stahl said angrily. ‘I wish you joy of it, especially now in winter.’

  ‘I could see to that,’ Herr Honich said.

  Stahl threw up his arms in fury. ‘Say what you like, you’re not getting me on that … cavity! And how do you think that business with the bathhouse in the morning’s going to work? Are Sabine and I to trot over there with the children and let them catch their death of cold in this freezing weather?’

  ‘I’ll speak to the Housing Department, Citizen Stahl, and see what I can do.’

  ‘And stop all this “Citizen Stahl” nonsense. I’ll send in a formal complaint. Conditions here are beyond belief.’

  ‘Strange things are going on in Moscow, strange things,’ the newspaper vendor whispered to Meno one morning when, from the window of her kiosk, she handed him the copy of Izvestia she’d just been reading, while he was waiting, his nose red and bunged up with cold, at the 11 tram stop.

  At 8 p.m. on 12 February – Richard and Anne were visiting Regine – a messenger rang the bell and delivered notification that Regine was to report to Coal Island, second floor, F wing, the next morning. ‘Call us straight away and tell us what they want,’ Anne said. ‘I’m free tomorrow and if you need the car I can drive you.’

  ‘I’m obliged to leave the territory of the GDR by midnight,’ Regine murmured on the telephone the next day. Richard had just come out of the operating theatre.

  ‘Is it bad news, Herr Hoffmann?’ one of the nurses asked, concern in her voice. ‘You’ve gone quite pale.’

  Richard waved her away. ‘I can probably finish at the normal time today, Regine. Give Anne a call, she’s got the car. I’m on duty at the theatre this evening.’

  ‘Oh, lucky you,’ the nurse exclaimed. ‘My husband would have paid you five hundred marks if he could have had that shift.’

  Regine hung up. For a few seconds Richard sat there without moving.

  After he’d finished at the clinic he took a taxi to Lene-Glatzer-Strasse. Meno and Hansi were packing suitcases in the Hoffmanns’ Lada. The door to Regine’s apartment was open, there was a light on in the
hall. Someone had emptied out their ash pan in Philipp’s pram. On the Neuberts’ letter box was a strip of adhesive plaster with ‘Traitor’ written on it in felt tip. Richard tore it off.

  Regine and Anne were sitting in the living room, crying. Meno had obtained some capacious, solidly made Vietnamese tea chests for Regine that Hermes used to send large quantities of books. After Richard, Hansi came in, sixteen by now and almost as tall as Richard. ‘We have to get a move on, Mum, the train leaves at ten p.m. and they warned there might be black ice,’ he said.

  ‘Have you got the snow chains?’ Richard asked Anne, who shrugged her shoulders. Richard rushed outside. The snow chains were still up in Caravel, in the cellar. ‘Are you going with them? Great. You’ll make sure Anne drives carefully, won’t you?’ he asked Meno. Hansi came with some luggage, they’d packed thirteen suitcases for the journey, some had to be strapped to the roof. The day had been spent going through the list of things to be done: the State Bank, certificate to say Regine had no debts, Housing Department, Education Authority, expatriation with certificate of identity.

  ‘Well, Hansi, your violin isn’t a cultural object of state importance,’ said Richard attempting a joke. It fell flat, the boy was looking nervously at his watch. ‘We still have to go and say goodbye to Grandad –’

  ‘I’ll say goodbye now then, Hansi; I have to go soon.’

  ‘You’re going to the Semper Opera House today?’ The boy looked at him with a mixture of melancholy and incomprehension.

  ‘Couldn’t swap the shift.’

  ‘So goodbye … May I call you “Richard”? “Uncle” just sounds stupid and isn’t right anyway.’

  Richard went up to the boy and embraced him awkwardly. ‘Farewell, Hans. And all the best over there.’

  Regine came with two suitcases. ‘Quick and painless …’

  ‘Yes, quick and painless, that’s always the best.’

  ‘Thank you for everything, Richard. And if things go on as they are, you’ll be following us …’

  ‘And today it’s all over,’ Richard said.

  ‘I just hope nothing else goes wrong. Have you got everything, Hansi?’

  ‘You’ll be seeing Jürgen again today –’

  ‘I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,’ Regine said. ‘The way things are! I was furious and then I couldn’t help crying … Tell me about the opera, how it was, what they played, what people said … The Pegasus medallions above Wallenstein and Iphigenie there are by Jürgen.’

  ‘Call us,’ Richard said.

  ‘I’ll write,’ Regine said.

  Hans tapped his watch with his fingernail.

  42

  Iron Curtain

  Richard raised his arms. The bodyguard frisked him. ‘I must ask you to get undressed, Herr Doktor.’

  ‘Are you going to go through this with everyone in the audience?’ Richard asked, astonished more than annoyed as he was examined in a room beside the cloakroom, first by a member of East German then of West German security. They even shone a torch in his mouth, looked through his hair and, despite his protests, inspected his intimate areas.

  ‘Do you think I’ve hidden a poison capsule up my backside. It’s monstrous the way I’m being treated here.’

  The bodyguards were unimpressed. ‘Weren’t you briefed?’

  ‘Not about your methods.’

  ‘We have our orders. As a doctor you could come into contact with people under our protection. Be prepared for an inspection after this. Together with you, the two personal doctors will check out the sickbay, medicines and doctor’s bag. – That’s all right, you can get dressed now.’

  For the premiere Richard had had to be at the Semper Opera two hours before the performance began. Furious at the undignified examination procedure, he tossed his coat onto the cloakroom counter. Like a criminal, he thought. And then they’re surprised when people run away … He thought of Regine and Anne, who must be on their way by now. If the road conditions were reasonable, they could be in Leipzig in an hour and a half.

  ‘If you want, you can look round the house for a while, Herr Doktor. You’ll get a walkie-talkie and we’ll call you when the advance convoy arrives.’ The bodyguard’s radio telephone rang. ‘Aha. Good. – That was it. You are asked to confirm by telephone that the appropriate hospital wards in the city are prepared. You’re asked to call back.’

  ‘By the General Secretary?’

  The bodyguard scrutinized Richard’s expression. ‘By his personal physician, of course. Tell me when you’re ready and I’ll make the connection.’

  ‘Where can I phone from?’

  ‘Over there.’ The bodyguard pointed to the room next to the examination room. ‘Direct lines have been set up.’

  ‘Müller here.’

  ‘Hoffmann.’

  ‘Yes, I’m ready. How many more times am I going to be phoned this evening, dammit all,’ Richard’s boss growled.

  ‘Sorry but I’ve been instructed to check the connections.’

  ‘Hmm. OK then, they seem to be working. – And?’

  Richard didn’t reply. He didn’t know what Müller was asking.

  ‘What does it look like, the Opera?’

  ‘Haven’t got round to looking at it yet.’

  ‘Hm. I expect a report from you tomorrow, Herr Hoffmann, if I have to provide background cover for my senior physician. Have you enough batteries for pacemakers with you?’

  ‘Haven’t got round to checking that yet.’ Richard had to laugh.

  ‘I’m just eating a piece of cherry cake, your wife’s recipe,’ Müller growled. ‘It’s very good, but I’d rather be at the opera. Well, enjoy yourself.’ He hung up.

  Richard called the Internal Medicine Clinic, Reucker gave him a few tips as to what to do if there were strokes, or heart or asthma attacks. ‘But you’ll have been briefed, I assume, Herr Hoffmann? I mean if Traumatology’s taking over theatre duty …’

  ‘There are a few in-service training courses for first aid I’ve –’

  ‘– screwed on? Like your Christmas tree last year? Well, let’s just hope nothing happens.’

  My God, Richard thought, are they crabby! Were they jealous of him because he was on duty at the gala performance? Great! He thumped the table, making the telephones jump up and down. He’d have liked to see the look on Reucker’s or Müller’s face if they’d had a torch shone up their backside!

  Urology. Professor Leuser’s easy-going drawl boomed out of the receiver. ‘If they’ve got a kidney stone get ’em to jump off a chair; phimosis ain’t an emergency, and if their joystick’s itchy either it ain’t been washed or there’ll be some wild life crawling round on it. Not an emergency either, Herr Hoffmann. An’ if the piss comes out in sev’ral jets, I recommend op’nin’ their barn door. There’ll be a catheter there, I s’pose, my Gawd, what a palaver.’

  Even the Gynaecological Clinic had been put on alert; they’d been told a woman in the retinue of the ex-Federal Chancellor was pregnant. Richard informed the bodyguard that the lines were operational and all the doctors on stand-by. He called the advance convoy in which were the East and West German personal physicians. The area round the cloakroom was now full of people gesticulating, telephoning, trying to look important. Richard went to the foyer. When he saw the red-carpeted stairs up to the dress circle he felt like dashing up two or three steps at a time, tugging for pure joy at the red cord they’d put on either side as a handrail, bursting out into a cry of jubilation, so overcome was he by the magnificence of the building that for a few precious minutes, perhaps only seconds (he could hear steps and the murmur of voices), was his own to enjoy. What he was familiar with was the ruined opera house that, with collapsed gable, burnt-out auditorium, walled-up doors and overgrown with trees, had for decades dominated the view of Theaterplatz. He stood on the stairs, open-mouthed, and looked round. Then he ran back down the stairs again to take in once more the splendid perspective of the staircase, ran up, stroked the marble pillars and with gree
dy looks devoured pictures, ornamentation that in the light of hundreds of lamps, effervescent as champagne, opened their eyes freshly washed and reborn. Here was this picture, this blue, there a scene with Knights of the Holy Grail, winged Madonnas and swans; bucolic landscapes in the lunettes; names of operas glittered in gold leaf, competing for his attention with busts of composers, dark and light rippled marble (much of it imitation, as Richard knew from the newspapers) gave him the feeling that he was at the centre of a dazzling, high-quality, at the same time dangerous force, of a fire, tamed by strong willpower, that was sending out tongues here and there, fanning the flames of the chandeliers, mirrors and polished ledges, shattering into a thousand beautiful shards on the windowpanes of the gallery. He had the feeling he was being borne up, charged to his very fingertips by this great, sun-like force; he rocked on his toes, laughed, turned this way and that like a spinning top, drinking in everything with his eyes, couldn’t feel his shoes any more. He felt like dancing – how he would have loved to execute a waltz with Anne there! He put the walkie-talkie in his pocket, looked round.

  Arbogast was standing beyond the curve of the gallery; Richard sashayed along towards him. The Baron smiled, ‘It makes you young again, Herr Hoffmann, doesn’t it, when you see all this? Is it the first time you’ve been in here?’

  Richard nodded, still a little breathless and abashed. Arbogast mentioned the letter he’d written to Heinsloe, the senior manager at the hospital, that Richard had put on one side then forgotten. Arbogast talked about oxygen and the healing of wounds. ‘Breathe, Herr Hoffmann! Anyone who wants to live must breathe!’ he declared, clearly in jovial mood, giving Richard a cautious and comradely pat on the back. ‘Perhaps we can tackle cancerous tumours with oxygen. People at my Institute are working on the problem …’ He went to the window, waving Richard over. A large crowd had gathered in the square. A platform had been set up, the police had drawn a cordon round it. Barsano was speaking but no one seemed to be listening to him, the eyes of all those gathered there were fixed on the Opera, admiring the richly decorated, flame-catching building.