Variant Exchange

by Fox J Wilde

  “No, I…cough…I mean it. Really…cough…makes me feel…cough...alive!”

  “Oh yes, so alive, I can tell by the coughing! Why are you still trying?!” By now, Lena was laughing uproariously as Hans doubled over, feigning an excruciating pain.

  “Because it…cough…just feels so good in my hands! ...cough…and the taste, Lena!”

  “What? It tastes like what?”

  “It tastes like...cough…grandparents…!”

  “It tastes like what?!” Lena giggled.

  “Yes, yes…it tastes like an old leather jacket that has been left out in the rain. It’s musty and dry at the same time, but all the parts that should be musty are dry and all the parts that should be dry are musty. Please…I must have more of this enchanting taste!”

  Lena giggled, and Hans coughed. Despite the chill, the energy that he exuded warmed Lena’s body as well as her soul. He was so very nice and so very…just, very—in all the right ways. It was hard to describe. He was such an, ugh, boy; ridiculous and silly without any capacity for serious thought whatsoever. He was so ‘in the way’ (as all guys were) that his every movement was made to seem…just ugh! Hans was such a beautifully frustrating and charming creature. She couldn’t even imagine how girls were supposed to have animals like this tromping around the place, being bad at smoking cigarettes and trying to do it anyways.

  Lena should have caught herself staring at him in such a way. But perhaps she was glad that she hadn’t, as Hans seemed to have picked up on her look. Almost nervously he returned it by sitting right back down next to her. Only this time he was much closer.

  Familienkreis

  “Help me! Someone please help me! I’m dying!”

  The voice of Lena’s mother was crying out in a fevered timbre as Lena walked through the front door. Still, Lena didn’t speed her pace. It was like this every evening and had been for as long as she could remember. Besides, Lena was in too good a mood. The cries of her mother echoed throughout the apartment as Lena casually strolled into the living room and took a moment to compose herself. She needed just a tiny moment to herself before completely switching gears.

  Her mother had always been odd. “Tainted,” Lena’s father had even called her in one drunken stupor years before, “tainted by the devil…that woman has lost her wits!” He would blame much of his drinking on her, although that was probably a lie. He had been an alcoholic since long before the age of drinking—long before Lena’s mother had deteriorated. Ever since Lena’s father had seen fit to drink himself to death, however, she had become much worse.

  Dropping her coat and bookbag before walking into the small kitchen, she took a brief moment to put on some tea. The apartment was small—even by GDR standards—but it was well lived-in. It was styled with nearly-matching furniture, a few nice blue vases (with dying plants in them) and some pictures of the countryside that made the living room feel comfortable. The kitchen was also well-furnished with all the necessities, along with a precious few Western extras. It even had a few American imports that Lena had acquired during the infamous mad-dash sales that the entire neighborhood turned out too. She was hardly a chef, though, and most of the appliances sat collecting more dust than crumbs these days.

  “Alright…it’s time,” she thought to herself. Trying to brush away the general annoyance, Lena turned on all the lights in the small apartment one by one. First the living room and then the hallway (so her mother could see her approaching) and then the bedroom so she wouldn’t be surprised by a face she didn’t recognize.

  “Oh God…c-can…can someone…anyone h-help me?!” the frail voice called.

  “You’re not dying, Mother.” Lena said in as calm a voice as she could manage, given her general frustration. “You are right here in our apartment. You are just fine. You only had a bad dream.”

  “You!” Lena’s mother accused, “Who are you? What have you done with my daughter! Why, I’ll have you before a magistrate if you put a hand on her...”

  “Mother, it’s me. I’m your daughter!” Lena tried to sound reassuring as she moved closer, so that her mother could see her, “Can’t you see me? It’s Lena.”

  “Who…who are you? Why...”

  Hannah Schindler had always been as sickly as she was strange. She had been born during the Soviet sacking of Berlin. Although it was never discussed openly in the family, Lena had always known that Hannah Schindler was a product of that occupation. Lena’s grandmother, Gretchen, a prickly and brittle old coot who rarely talked in general, was even more silent about those times—times best forgotten, in the minds of most. On the few occasions Lena had visited her grandmother, she had been less than welcoming and was always cold to Hannah.

  “You must be strong!” Hannah would always quote Grandma Gretchen, “Life is a terrible thing! Terrible things lay in wait around the corner, so you must be strong!” No doubt she was perpetually fearful of a band of Soviet soldiers waiting around the corner from the breadlines to put a baby in the belly of her daughter. “Then you will know…” she would continue, “then, you will know.”

  Yes, Lena’s mother was always troubled, but the past few years had seen her become nearly impossible to handle. Her many illnesses seemed to appear out of thin air and then disappear on a whim—a million diseases, each with just as many causes—and her addled brain remained perpetually befuddled as if she were constantly sleepwalking. Even if Lena was able to convince her mother that she was in fact her daughter, she might be crying for help in a half hour. It was just how it was with Hannah.

  “See my face, Mother?” Lena knelt down; not too far down, however.

  “Get away from me, whore!” Hannah shouted, swinging a trembling fist as hard as her shaky limbs could manage. Lena dodged easily, as they had been through this many times before. Thankfully, she no longer swung as hard or as fast as she had in previous years.

  Mother…Mother!” she raised her voice.

  Oh my, sweet daughter…” Hannah’s countenance suddenly changed as if by light switch, “did you see who was just in here?”

  “What did you see, Mother?” she responded, trying to sound caring.

  “Oh, it was awful! First, I saw the tanks outside our building…and all of those nasty soldiers, with their guns and their knives!”

  “Oh yes?” Lena responded. She knew that her mother hadn’t seen anything. She hadn’t even looked out of the window. Hannah Schindler was practically bed-ridden and could barely walk unaided. “Well, then what happened?”

  “Oh my, well…” Hannah continued, gulping deeply as if to steel herself, “They came into the building, you see. And, well…and then they walked apartment to apartment, room to room. Why, I was just terrified that when they got here, they would take me. You know, and then of course they would take you…and…”

  Hannah Schindler’s voice trailed off into oblivion as Lena pretended to listen. She had heard all of this before. The ‘soldiers’ would never arrive, as they would always be stalking room to room. That is, until Lena arrived. Then the ‘soldier’ would magically turn in to her daughter and all would be well. Carefully, Lena set about tucking her mother back into bed. In the morning a family friend would arrive to oversee Hannah’s care so that Lena could go to school. In the evenings, Hannah Schindler was her sole responsibility. It was like this almost every night. On occasion, it would be worse, but this was thankfully not one of those nights.

  Besides, nothing was going to ruin tonight. Hans had kissed her! Hans, with his dimpled chin, soul-filled eyes, and those massive shoulders of his, had actually kissed her right on the lips. He hadn’t been forceful about it, or even urgent. He had simply put an arm around her and waited as if to see if she was truly desiring of his affections. She was of course, but she was far too awkward to say so. That’s when he asked if she would like him to kiss her. She took far too long to respond, of course, making all sorts of confusing facial
gestures. This was all the confirmation Hans seemed to need so he leaned in slowly and took her into a sweet yet simple embrace. Even now she got goosebumps thinking about it.

  “Young Lena…” her mother said, equal parts fretfully and sleepily.

  “Yes Mother?” Lena replied, irritated at the interruption to her thoughts.

  “When are they coming? When are they going to take us?”

  “They aren’t coming to take us, Mother.” Lena replied, “You are perfectly safe, right here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure, Mother.”

  “Well, your father had told me before he left that they were going to…”

  Once again, Hannah Schindler’s voice trailed off into oblivion. These labyrinthine tales were almost as convoluted as they were long, with not a singular factual account to be heard. Now it was the story that her father had told his wife about the Soviets marching in to kill all the men. Next it would be the account of how they would all take turns beating Lena and her mother. This would be followed by a protracted expose about Lena’s imminent motherhood, and then…and then…

  As luck would have it, however, Hannah Schindler was finally falling asleep. “Thank God,” Lena muttered to herself. Between her band’s show and Hans, it was already going to be a rather late night for an already tired young lady. The promise of her mother falling asleep sooner than later was almost a boon of a semi-religious nature.

  A quick kiss on her forehead and a quiet “Good night, sweet Mother.” and Lena was finally leaving the bedroom. That is, until the all-too-familiar scent of urine crept into Lena’s nostrils. “Damnit!” Lena screamed inside of herself.

  Lena fell onto her own bed with a perturbed, “harumpf.” She was utterly exhausted after the night’s festivities, and her mother’s soiling herself had added dramatically to it. First, she had needed to wake her up (which was a trial in itself). Then she need set about the duty of cleaning her. After that, she had to change the bed-sheets while attempting to keep her doddering mother from wandering off into the living room. If that happened, she would no doubt see a Soviet soldier hiding in the broom closet. Lena knew this from experience and she wasn’t about to suffer such a debacle, especially after cleaning up what she knew was an intentional urination. Of course, she would have to sing her mother to sleep as if to a child. Hannah absolutely demanded it, lest she break into another walking-terror.

  An hour later, and Lena was finally free to think about Hans, Oh, thinking about Hans made her feel lighter than air! Hans truly was perfect in every way—he was handsome, funny, a gentleman, and a very good kisser. Lena began to blush just thinking about it. Why, she couldn’t possibly wait even a few days to see him again. So, she set about fantasizing the many ways she could sneak off to see him; or perhaps magically run into him somewhere. Perhaps at school, or perhaps the shop, or perhaps…

  While fantasizing, she looked about her bedroom. In a certain light it was rather ghastly. The dismal chamber was a small affair with only the necessities: a bed, a dresser, a laundry hamper, a window—the things you had to have. Of course, all of these were draped in the unfolded (and likely dirty) clothing that was strewn haphazardly about the room. To complement the overall mess, the walls were covered in all the punk paraphernalia Lena could get her hands on. On one wall displayed her sizeable collection of (very illegal) posters. Most of them were completely hand-made by the punk bands in Leipzig or others Lebensmüde had played with, like Ausschlag, Die Skeptiker, or Schleim Keim. They had a great scene down south, and Lena played with them every chance she had.

  But a precious few were real posters from West Berlin, still shiny and glossy. During concerts, West Berliners would fold the posters into paper airplanes and sail them over the Wall. It was rare for one of them to make it over all the fortifications—rarer still for someone to nab it up before the Stasi got to it. But if you got ahold of one of these, you need only smooth it out and tack it up and you had instant ‘street cred’ with the rest of the punks.

  Lena only had two: the first was of the ever-strange David Bowie, aka Ziggy Stardust, clad in crazy alien makeup. The other featured the band Genesis who Lena had even heard on the radio. If you could believe it, the drummer, Phil Collins, was the actual lead singer of the band!

  She also had a large collection of zines; handmade underground rags that could contain nearly anything. One, Menschliche Verschwendung, was a zine that covered the goings on of the local underground punk scenes interspersed with artful photography. If it was a good month the paper would all be mostly the same and contain many articles. More often than not, though, the stock would change dramatically page-to-page and contain only a few hand-burnt photographs. There were a few gay rags that chronicled the oppression homosexuals received from the Eastern bloc, along with their triumphs in spite of it all. Another zine, Shönheit, was a militant women’s rag that had crept its way in from the West to find a new home. The images of women clad in denim and bandanas and flexing their biceps spoke to Lena. The articles spoke of freedom, empowerment, and all sorts of other things that the Politburo would absolutely hate—yet another reason to furiously devour the contents. These were also filled with triumphant stories of homosexuality behind the Iron Curtain. While this wasn’t a struggle Lena personally resonated with, the images elicited a sort of familial kinship. They were soldiers, same as her—all fighting in a silent war together. These sat in a pile next to a few photocopied photocopies of a worse photocopy of two Punk Magazine issues—a rag straight from America!

  Obviously, Menschliche was her favorite, having written and submitted a few articles herself under her pseudonym Madeline Dangerbunny (where she pretended to be British!). But her second-favorite zine of all time was Die Straße Schlägt: the GDR’s premiere (and very underground) hip-hop zine. Contained within were pictures of home-made fashions, pictures of boom boxes and how much they cost in the West, along with the lyrics to songs that had been recently produced. While the hip-hop scene was completely different than the punk scene, they found common ground in a lot of ways. Both were youth culture, both were utterly hated by the Stasi and the Politburo, both were ‘DIY’ as a rule, and both were a strong, tight-knit community.

  Of all the punk-rock paraphernalia that Lena had managed to procure, however, her most coveted item was her Never Mind the Bollocks album. Gifted to her by a dear friend who played in another band, this masterpiece was a veritable weapon of titanic proportions. It was openly despised by the Politburo and absolutely reviled by the entire Soviet Union to the East. Lena wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if an entire war broke out over the lyrics. This was mostly thanks to the first song which spoke in open and sarcastic disgust of both the Wall and what it meant to the youth in both the East and the West.

  It was this album that had first turned Lena on to her calling. Seeing it every night and holding it in her hands somehow made the scene all the more real, as if it was psychically connecting her with all the punks around the world. This album meant something—something more.

  When she listened to it (practically every night), she was transported out of the large concrete apartment building in which she lived into the streets right outside the infamous ‘Checkpoint Charlie’ (as the Americans so christened it). Yet it wasn’t the streets of East Berlin as she knew it, no. While they were the same streets physically, they were altogether different. In her imagination they were filled with people, and the people were all her kind—a sea of spiky-haired and leather-clad ne’er-do-wells carrying torches, hollering, and tossing their empty bottles in the street. The police would ignore it as they had better things to do than mess with an angry mob. The Stasi would, of course, take violent exception. But fueled by the raging and wholly irreverent chorus of “God Save the Queen”, “Anarchy in the UK” and “Holiday in the Sun”, the mob of greasy punks would easily overwhelm them, sending the lackwits and their jackboot knickers high-tai
ling back into their complex to hide for their lives.

  Oh…and the Politburo. Lena imagined a small group of short squat men, drastically overweight for their diminutive size with bespectacled faces and wormy facial expressions drooping with disapproval. She imagined them looking on the crowd with profound disgust, pants pulled high over their fat bellies, as they dodged bottles being thrown their way. She imagined them raising strong objections like, “Now see here!” and “This is out of sorts!” and “Can’t you see you’re disturbing us?!” She imagined all of this and she loved it.

  Lena desperately wanted to fall asleep in her room surrounded by her prized possessions and dreaming of Hans. She was exhausted and had more than earned a good night’s sleep. But first she had to attend to something more important than her precious rest.

  Walking over to her window, she opened it up and peered outside. She was one of the lucky few in her building to have her own fire escape—a rickety metal affair that ran all the way up to the roof and down to the streets below. She stayed here for some time, just looking. It was very important that she was not seen by anyone on the street, as that could jeopardize the entire thing. She stayed here for what seemed like five minutes. That had been the time she had been told to wait. If she didn’t see any movement in five minutes, then it meant the streets were empty. And if the streets were empty, the Police would probably be too bored to lurk about in search of teenagers out after bedtime.

  Five minutes passed along with an extra minute or two for good measure. She couldn’t very well afford to blow the entire thing. Yet once she was satisfied of her security, she crawled out into the cold night air and started winding slowly and silently up the fire escape.

  She loved this rusty iron contraption. Though it may have originally been intended to save some lives in the event of a tragic fire, years of both disuse and misuse had reduced it to the thing it was today—a jungle gym for those that ought not to be doing whatever it is that they were doing. And make no mistakes about it—she ought not to be doing what she was doing.