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Celebrating

Minga la bye, dingula tu, shnagulaia shnoo. Ella couldn’t help giggling, her brother’s breath on her throat tickled, he was playing the flute on her skin. Thomas puffed at the hair on the nape of her neck, raising it, and placed the velvet ribbon smoothly round her throat. He carefully put a safety pin through the ribbon to hold it in place while Ella examined herself in the mirror, ran the palms of her hands over her hair, and checked her Prince Valiant fringe for any hairs out of place. Even in the muted light of the reading lamp her dark hair shimmered. She had put on a dark red, rather well-worn felt cap, and now she pinned the red-and-blue parrot feather in place with the golden brooch she had once found under the table in the smoking room when she was sweeping up after a large party. A keeper in the Zoological Garden had given Ella the feather; he had probably liked her covetous expression, the thin, bare arm she had put through the bars and was swinging, and the hand dangling from the end of that arm as she tried to pick up the feather lying on the floor. Her fingertips had landed again and again in the bird shit that covered the floor of the aviary. Then the keeper had come to her aid with a long-handled pair of pincers that perhaps he used for collecting sandwich wrappings or animal droppings. The feather adorned her today, attractive rather than magnificent. Ella turned her head so that she could see herself in half-profile, and checked the back of her neck in the mirror and the bottom of her hairline, which she had moistened and curled around her little finger until it no longer stood out like weeds shooting up in the wilderness, but fell smoothly into place like the fur of an animal. She felt her brother’s warm hands on her shoulders, he fleetingly passed his forefinger down her backbone, warmed her neck and let his hand stay there; he knew how to soothe her. She would give him the first dance, certainly the second, and maybe the last dance too.

Guests had been arriving for the last two hours. Through the closed door of the room, Ella heard them knocking rain off their umbrellas and coats in the corridor, the walls of the house quivered to the noise of chattering, laughing, cries of surprise. In the long corridor Ella and Thomas heard the bell ringing and the guests knocking, the shrill tones of greeting. As guests passed, someone’s elbow might hit the door of the room, something scraped by, perhaps an umbrella brushing against the door; Käthe’s dog barked shrilly. Only guests coming here for the first time rang the bell — everyone else knew that Käthe’s door was always open, you could walk in at any time. Whoever wanted to, whenever they wanted to, with flowers or empty-handed. It was a railway junction of parties, gatherings, meetings. Even secret and personal, intimate and riotous encounters took place behind unlocked doors. Those who came were responsible for deciding to come and for what they would see and hear.

Käthe’s colt-like whinny penetrated the noise. She had invited the man who cast her models to join the guests. In his presence her laughter was particularly shrill.

Zabula budy kaparak vi llilli marushnick plavy, rickey pickedy. Ella straightened up and raised her eyebrows enquiringly: Zalunalafye? There was surprise on her face. Only now did she notice that Thomas was still in his pyjama trousers and carrying a garland of dried leaves and flowers. He had fixed the blooms of yellow roses to a willow shoot, along with the umbels of hydrangeas, once blue, now faded to grey-green, and silvery-white poplar leaves. He laid the garland neatly round Ella’s shoulders. From his smile, Ella could tell that he saw how beautiful she was. She needed his eyes more than the mirror, she trusted only his eyes, she could believe only in them. Ella tied the goatskin lying over the chair at her desk round her hips like a skirt, securing it with string.

What about this? Thomas held out the goat’s cloven hoof that Käthe’s dog had once found on a walk in the outskirts of the wood. Since then the goat’s hoof, dried and useless, had been lying on the mantelpiece over the stove. Ella strapped it to her stockinged foot.

That afternoon Thomas had worked away on a stick with his knife, first paring the grey bark off the white wood, then spending hours making holes with a corkscrew and patiently hollowing out the stick, making her a flute as the finishing touch to her Pan costume. Ella put the flute to her lips, her breath filled her stomach and her lungs entirely, and now she blew with all her might. The shrill note tugged at the roots of their hair, hurt both ears until they turned away.

Ahhksy, lizzizumma! Thomas turned round in a circle, pressing his hands to his head, his ears, eyes, mouth — a monkey who didn’t have enough arms for three, whose apertures, holes and pores were exposed unprotected to the world of which it wasn’t supposed to, didn’t want to know anything. His feet sprang into the air as if the floor were too hot for him, the air burning with the sound of the flute.

Wasn’t she a magician?

Ella laughed. She blew the flute again and doubled up with laughter, because Thomas had flung himself on the floor and was acting as if he were dying from the high sound of her flute.

Pizzei. . piri k’h. . z’ho. . f’hu. . L’iiiii. Thomas stretched out, contorting himself, on the linoleum, his limbs lay slack, his eyes stared fixedly in one direction, far away from a sister who only wanted to be the god Pan today.

Ella bent over him. Falu? She looked at him from all sides; no one else could die as artistically as Thomas. And hadn’t she killed him? Hadn’t he carved the flute that she would play, and then he could die beautifully at the sound? Kattampeu? Not an eyelash moved, not an eyelid twitched, nor did the corners of his mouth. Ella giggled. Vooo, she whispered, her lips tingling, vooo, vooo. She cautiously nudged his body with one toe, then nudged rather harder so that his hips moved forward and Thomas was lying face down on the floor.

Ella took the parrot feather off her cap and crouched at his feet. They were bare, and cold although it was summer. She tickled his soles, first gently and lightly, the feather scarcely touched him, then she ran it round his toes, the balls of his feet, brushed the deepest hollow in his soles with the tip of the feather until he jumped up, spluttering and dancing about like Rumpelstiltskin.

Aren’t you going to get dressed? Ella laughed and tried to grab the leg of his pyjama trousers. Hey, are you going in your pyjamas today?

Naked, he cried, I’m going naked! And he shook the trousers off his legs and took the pyjama jacket off. I’m going like this. Are you ashamed of being seen with me, then?

Ella rolled her eyes and yawned.

The Emperor’s new clothes, pu’foo, pu’foo? Singsaladye. Thomas the naked man.

There was no reason for her to be alarmed or overawed by her naked brother, half man, half boy — he had only a few soft blond hairs where others had wiry bushes. Thomas put a soft dog mask over his head; it covered his face, his hair, his throat — anyone who knew Thomas naked would recognise him. But who did, besides Ella? Käthe maybe, he had had to model for her all winter. However, that was months ago, and Thomas had grown taller and stronger now. Käthe had seldom been able to dispense with him as a model last winter, and when she did she sent for a young man from Friedrichshagen instead. The two young men would certainly know each other naked; they had met in Käthe’s studio. Maybe the stonemason who sometimes carved the broad outline out of the Elbe sandstone might also know what Thomas looked like naked. Ella remembered how Thomas, red in the face, had once come storming into her room in desperation, indeed in shame and rage, just as he had run away from Käthe, humiliated.

But summer parties like this evening’s were not dangerous, at least in their early hours. Käthe was so busy greeting guests and dancing that it would be ages before she got round to holding forth. There was a pleasant sweetish smell of pipe tobacco that someone might have brought back from the West. Or was it a perfume? It smelled of the West, of another world drifting into this house.

Thomas raised his nose and sniffed the air, he barked, he snapped at Ella’s hand.

He got down and jumped around on all fours, he whined and howled.

Ella patted her big dog. She ran her fingertips over the soft skin on his back, a nakedness that wouldn’t hurt anyone. The dog licked her hand, rubbed his head against Ella’s leg, and she patted his muzzle and the fur on the nape of his neck where the dog mask covered it. Where did you get that fur? She stroked the ears sewn to the mask.

Thomas barked.

Stop barking, where did you get the fur? From the rabbit?

What rabbit?

Why did he ask? The whining could certainly be pretence. Ella was surprised by the sadness that suddenly came into Thomas’s voice. The one that was lying dead under the larch tree. You shot it, Thomas, admit it. You took the airgun and shot it.

Thomas shook his head vigorously. No, that’s not true.

Ella thought it strange that Thomas often found not only empty snail-shells and dead insects that he displayed in small cigar boxes, flies, bumblebees, honey bees, a dragonfly, peacock butterflies, brimstone butterflies, moths, large blue dung beetles from the woods. He also simply came upon dead mammals, a mole, the prickly skin of a hedgehog whose killer had obviously been unable to eat it and left it lying in the woods, the bloated body of a dog that had been drifting in the Fliess, and Thomas had fished it out before it reached the open water of the Müggelsee. He brought all these things home; he collected the insects and buried the mammals. Had he caused the rabbit’s death? He certainly fired the shotgun, and not just into the air, shooting down the clouds and the sun. The rabbit had shown no external injuries.

Heart failure on its way from a dandelion back to its burrow, I just found it. Thomas shook himself. Once again Ella stroked the soft rabbit fur over Thomas’s head and down over his bare back.

You’ve got gooseflesh, you’re freezing.

Not too badly. He knelt in front of the chair with his short coat thrown over the back, removed the felted lining button by button, and put it on. Let’s see if I can pass unrecognised. Thomas whined. He held his muzzle in the air, sniffing. Can you smell them? I can pick up their scent.

And indeed, Ella thought she could smell not only the warm, almost sweet fragrance of the pipe, but the guests themselves. The air seemed to be pregnant with their sweat and their flowers, someone had delivered lilies that afternoon, a big bunch of heavy, large-flowered lilies with a scent that came into Ella’s room. Thomas was still naked under his coat lining; if he stayed on all fours only his bare arms and legs would be visible, since the lining just covered his bottom.

Let’s climb out of the window. If we come into the house from the garden and over the veranda, we could be strangers. Ella felt her feather to see if it was back in the right place.

Here I go.

It’s raining, watch out, the grass is wet.

I don’t mind. Thomas opened the window and climbed out on the sill. Getting wet is okay if you don’t have any clothes on. Thomas was already bending his knees slightly, and he jumped out into the plantains and dead nettles. Once in the garden, he spread his arms: Come on, I’ll catch you.

Ella didn’t trust herself to jump. She sat on the sill and hesitated. When she looked down she could already feel the pain of her foot breaking, she didn’t want to break anything, feel any pain. She put her tongue out; she liked the summer rain. She liked feeling the raindrops on her bare arms. She’d have to be careful of the garland, she didn’t want it to be ruined when she jumped.

Come on!

Thomas had never disappointed her, he had always caught her, he had always found food when Käthe left them for weeks without money and nourishment in the dark house, it was Thomas who had carried Ella’s school briefcase home when Ella had been furious or sulky and hadn’t wanted to carry it herself.

Come on! My feet are getting wet and cold!

You’re crazy! Summer rain is warm. Ella was laughing at him.

He had taken his school-leaving exam two weeks ago. He had caught up with Ella and passed her without meaning to. She couldn’t do maths, and had missed many weeks of school when she was staying away and then having the sleeping cure. Or had it been months? It was said she’d had typhoid fever, had been asleep with typhoid fever as a cure for the weakness. Ella wasn’t quite sure about that; she had been given tranquillisers, maybe Käthe had only taken her to the hospital so that she herself could get better. Ella was glad to have been out of Käthe’s house in February and March, away from the lodger, far away from algebra and other little things that she couldn’t remember. But coming back was difficult. All the rest of her class had taken their school-leaving exams in those weeks.

Thomas would help her, he would spend every day studying with her for the next few months, studying patiently until she knew everything, or at least the most important parts. He had promised.

Come on!

Ella leaned forward as far as possible until she could touch his hand, her eyes fell on the stones and broken shards beneath the window, limestone and green fragments, the dead-nettle flowers were white; she felt Thomas’s hand, his warmth, he was strong, he could catch her.

Now, she called, pushing herself off from the windowsill, and he caught her in both arms. Their heads knocked together, that was all, but it didn’t hurt.

It was drizzling, the raindrops were warm, sunlight fell through the trees, the sun was just setting. Maybe they could see a rainbow? Midges settled on Thomas’s bare skin. Ella went ahead. The wet grass tickled and squeaked under the soles of her shoes.

Maybe she ought to pick some flowers for Käthe? But that would annoy her. The fuchsias glowed violet and pale pink, drops of summer rain glittered on their dark green leaves in the red sunset light. The lawn was wet, and Ella’s stockings soaked up the lukewarm moisture. Maybe she ought to go barefoot like Thomas? Vines climbed over the wall of the studio and up to the roof. Ella’s mouth watered at the mere thought of the tiny, sweet-sour bunches of grapes. She picked one and pulled off two or three green berries.

Come on, little doggy, come on, she said, bending down to Thomas, who was already kneeling on the ground and panting like a dog. Look, you’d like these, wouldn’t you? She held out the grapes on the flat of her hand in front of the mask, giggling. His rough tongue came through the muzzle opening in the mask, but wasn’t long enough to lick up the grapes. Two men were sitting at the back of the garden under the spreading willow tree, talking and smoking, and didn’t notice Thomas and Ella. Shlabbidiwabb.

There was light in the veranda windows. The leash that Käthe put on her dog only when they went into the town hung at the bottom of the steps. Ella took it and put the collar fastened to it round Thomas’s furry neck. There’s a good boy, then. They climbed the steps and opened the veranda door. Someone was barring their way, a kneeling figure who had to move slightly sideways so that the door could open and Ella and Thomas could slip in. The kneeling figure wore a transparent veil with flowers on it, and a nightshirt under it, he wasn’t made up, no mask, obviously he was half-hearted about fancy dress. The man seemed familiar to Ella, but she wasn’t sure if she had ever seen him before. He was kneeling in front of the bookshelves leafing through mildewed pages reverently and carefully. He lowered his nose to the paper, smelled it. No doubt about it, he had found a treasure — and the shoving and laughter and celebrations around him didn’t seem important to him, he didn’t notice any of it, he turned pages and read.

An elderly gentleman was standing by the window, watching the guests. He stood out because he seemed to be the only one not wearing fancy dress. He had a suit on, jacket, waistcoat and trousers all in the same finely woven dark green material, a pair of gold-framed glasses, and his hair was going grey. Oh. His mouth dropped open when he saw Thomas. A scantily clad young man in a dog mask being led on a leash by a girl. His eyes went to Ella. Not the smallest trace of a smile appeared on his face.

Uncle Paul? Uncertainly, Ella took a step towards him. She smiled. Are you Uncle Paul?

The gentleman scrutinised the slender figure of Pan and shook his head.

Have we met? He instinctively reached for the handkerchief in the top pocket of his jacket and held it as if to blow his nose or clean his glasses, but he did neither.

I don’t know. Ella was stammering, and felt that she was blushing red. It was several years since she had seen her uncle, and it was only an idea, obviously a wrong one. She wasn’t sure whether she could even recognise him. Thomas and Ella revered their American uncle, although they saw him so seldom.

No, said the gentleman, shaking his head, fancy dress, costumes, there are limits to those as well. Young people these days could be ashamed of themselves, he said slowly, they should be ashamed of themselves, but they aren’t. Don’t you two know the meaning of shame? It was an honest question, not a reproof.

Dismayed, Ella looked at her dog, who was panting in a friendly way. He would certainly have wagged his tail if he could. It was only a joke, she didn’t want to upset anyone, specially not this nice old gentleman whom she had taken, in her high spirits, for her American uncle.

The man turned away and did not look back again. Ella patted her dog’s head. No one laughed.

Thomas howled quietly and whimpered.

A young lady bent down and offered the dog a glass. Thirsty? She laughed. Maybe a little water? The lady looked round, saw a flowered plate and tipped her white wine onto it. There you are.

Thomas panted, he got up on his knees and pawed the woman’s stomach with his hands. She almost fell over, she took a step or two backwards, supported herself on several people and stood her ground.

That’ll do, that’ll do. It was getting too much for her.

Ella jerked her dog’s leash and said: Bello, what did I tell you? You’re not to jump up at people. Calm down, Bello, come on, calm down. Thomas snuffled his way along the floor with the muzzle of his mask; he obviously couldn’t see enough of the plate through the openings for his eyes. He lapped up the wine with the tip of his tongue.

Ella, what an enchanting feather! Alfred offered Ella his hand in greeting. He was a fine figure of a man, a sculptor and not very keen to be friends with Käthe, but he always turned up at her parties. Next moment Alfred’s eyes fell on the half-naked dog.

And that is?

Enchanting, yes. Ella nodded.

And that — who do you have there?

My dog Bello.

I see. Alfred suppressed outraged laughter only with difficulty, snorted hard, and looked at Ella. Your dog? And you walk around here with him on the leash like that?

If I didn’t he’d bite. Ella tickled her dog’s head. Sorry, but he has to be kept on the leash.

Alfred bent down and clapped the dog on his back. Well, well, my good fellow. The dog growled. As Alfred straightened up his hand touched the garland round Ella’s shoulders. Then he tapped the skin of her flat bosom with his forefinger, clearly below the collarbone. Would you like some wine?

Thanks, but no, I must look after my dog. Ella tugged at Thomas’s leash and ducked under Alfred’s arm. The dog barked, he was barking at Alfred, the greedy finger had not escaped his notice.

And he’s looking after you, right? The lovely Ella and her naked dog! You could hear that Alfred had been drinking, maybe drinking too heavily. At least, several guests turned to Ella and Alfred and their eyes fell on the naked figure of Thomas, still unrecognisable in his mask. A big, fat woman with red ringlets and a peacock-feather dress cried out in delight. Could she sit on the dog? Her hand was already groping for the furry neck, her long fingernails dug into it, and before Ella realised what was happening she let her heavy buttocks down on Thomas’s back. There was a cracking sound, a groan, and Thomas collapsed on the floor under the peacock feathers. The woman rolled over to one side, lay on her back, spluttered and roared with laughter. Thomas’s prick was exposed as he lay sideways, one leg at an angle, the coat lining falling aside, the mask slipping up, his face distorted, his eyes closed in pain or shame.

Ella stood beside him, clapping. As long as she went on clapping, she hoped, more of the guests would look at her than at him. And a lot of them were looking. She nudged Thomas with her foot and hissed: What’s the matter? Stand up. Thomas hauled himself a little way up. Ella grasped the furry nape of his neck in both her hands, held it firmly, the way you pick up a cat by the scruff of the neck, and dragged him through the crowd. Loud music was playing, the plucked strings of a guitar, One morning very early. A dark-haired woman, throwing herself into it, was singing the Partisan song. Ella propelled her dog through the dancing throng, sometimes he crawled on all fours, sometime she had to push him, and among the dancers who were singing along Ella could clearly make out Käthe’s clear, high voice. She was the only one who could sing the Italian text, their struggle for freedom, every verse, every line of it, her voice drowned out the rest. O partigiano, portami via, ché mi sento di morir, e se io muoio su la montagna, o bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao, e se io muoio da partigiano, tu mi devi seppellir. Ella heard her own voice in Käthe’s, and she knew every line: what her mother said, what her mother sang, when you sang it your arms and legs tingled, you wanted to burst apart and open up. She felt like dancing too, but first she had to get Thomas out of the crowd.

As soon as Ella had closed the door of her room behind her, Thomas tore off the coat lining, took the mask off his head, and threw himself naked on his bed.

Bastards.

It was your idea, Ella pointed out. She sat on the chair and smoothed out her parrot feather. You wanted. . she had to giggle again. . you wanted to go out there half naked.

Thomas rubbed his fist over his hip bones. Very funny, he groaned, so was that an invitation to crush me? Bastards.

Bastards, Ella repeated.

Not because of that clumsy idiot. What gloriously lousy blindness. How long do they think their freedom will last? What kind of stinking freedom is it if they lock us up?

Lock us up. You say that as if we were going straight to prison.

So we are. Straight to prison with the raving lunatics. They all look, and no one says anything, no one’s surprised. What do you think they need their damn Wall for? He’s lying, old Walter is, when he calls it a little fence.

Ella turned the quill of her parrot feather between her hands so fast that it looked as if it were a bluish goblet shape.

What use are the sky and the suburban railway and your friends to you if the world doesn’t notice what’s going on here? Communist decadence, that’s what it is, dictatorship. Do you want to live behind a wall, surrounded by a wall? Bella ciao. Käthe will never see her beloved Italy again. What a joke, she says she’ll take us to Italy some time, she’ll take us to France some time. Maybe we’d even have been able to go to New York and visit Uncle Paul?

Was that him just now?

She’s never once taken us anywhere. And now she’ll just have to go round in circles herself, always following the Wall, maybe to the shores of the Baltic for all I care.

Thomas stood up, put on a pair of trousers and a shirt. Through the open window, they heard the rain pouring down, the willow tree and the ruins of the mill on the other side of the road were suddenly brightly illuminated, a flash of lightning, the air smelled of damp soil, they heard thunder rolling quietly in the distance. Maybe, and he went to the window where he had hung herbs up to dry a few days ago, maybe that’s the death wish of the people here, they torment themselves if not blindly then with pleasure. Thomas cut some of the herbs off with a pair of scissors and collected the rustling leaves and dried stems in his hand. He smelled the herbs, spread his hand out flat, and cut them up smaller and smaller. It’s like being in kindergarten, the world is too large for them, they’d rather build a little fence round it and then no child can get away. Be good and stay in the guardianship of the collective, never put a finger outside it, not a foot, not a thought. Build a wall round it, keep people away, there’ll be no time off from your servitude to the state, you brought it on yourselves. Thus spake Walter Ulbricht.

What do you mean, a wall? Where do you see a wall? Ella let her jaw drop; she wanted to show him that she couldn’t follow his fantastic train of thought, and didn’t want to.

That’s what Ulbricht’s been talking about recently, exit permits to the world outside or not. The scissors clicked as he snapped them fast, the leaves must be cut up smaller and smaller. He denies that it’s being built but he already has a name for it. Don’t make me laugh!

They could hear music in the corridor, obviously the guitar player and the woman whose singing he accompanied were going through the whole house. Flying into space, past the stars to race.

Hear that? They’re composing a song for Yuri Gagarin. The world is getting larger, not smaller. Come on, let’s go out and dance.

I wish I had your dreams, Ella. It’s trickery, all of it. Gagarin flying into space doesn’t make our world larger, it makes it smaller with the help of exit permits. They’ll close the border. Don’t be so blind.

Ella slowly shook her head. What made Thomas so sure, was he obsessed? A few days ago Ella had come into the garden when Thomas and Michael were lying in the grass making up poetry. They didn’t feel as if they’d been caught out in something, they took no notice of Ella only a few metres away, pretending she had to see whether the washing on the line was dry. She listened to the words clattering back and forth between them. The world is overcast and grey, / timid is the wind as well. / Leaden, the sea surges this way / breathing in a sluggish swell. The typewriter on which Thomas clattered away stood between them; he stopped, sat up, took the sheet of paper out of the machine, put a new one in so that he could touch the keys again, noting down Michael’s words. Those words sounded like an answer, a mingling of their ideas, a duet. We sit sadly here and talk, / we do not hear each other’s words. Did he love Michael? All we hear is words, and know / that in the morning light we’ll see / a road that’s bound to part again. / We know it well, and we could weep. They had been talking about the metre of death, because as Michael saw it poetry was not the only thing to observe metre, so did the vanishing of life, they had been talking about death, farewell, prison, the blind alley in which they saw themselves trapped. Ella now lost her temper again. She had found it more and more difficult recently to fire Thomas’s enthusiasm for the other world, the world in which they played at being animals, at being other people, danced at a party like a married couple.

Why are you so pig-headed? You doubt everything but yourself.

As for my doubts — for a moment Thomas stopped and smelled the herbs on his hand — maybe it’s just that you don’t know my doubts about myself? Thomas packed the herbs into his short-stemmed pipe, tamped them down and tried to light them with a match. The very week after the school-leaving exams Michael and Roland were called up for auxiliary service. Walling up the doors of buildings. Putting up fences, that’s what they call it. So why are they guarded by soldiers and police officers while they work? Digging their own graves, guarded while they do it. Digging our grave. How stupid do they think people are anyway? To be or not to be, that’s what it’s all about.

Calm down, little brother. Ella felt boundless anger rising in her. The readiness is all, the rest is silence. So there. She laughed mockingly. She could have hit Thomas, or at least the floor.

Don’t make fun of me.

Why not? Aren’t you Hamlet, isn’t everything rotten?

Ah, that’s a state secret. Building a few fences taller in the middle of the city, where they’ve decided the frontier of the state will be. Is that coincidence? Barbed wire for rabbits? Thomas filled his pipe again and drew on it, struck a match, drew on his pipe until smoke rose in the air.

You’re crazy. Ella let out a hissing sound.

Let’s hope so, yes. Let’s hope I’m crazy. Puffing at the pipe, Thomas made a face as he tried to smoke it without breathing in, choked and coughed.

Well, maybe they really are just fences?

Oh, sure, and you take a pledge of silence. Thomas held his breath. Smoke built up behind his lips, he pursed his mouth and blew smoke rings into the air. Masonry fences with barbed wire, and soldiers on guard during the building works. Do you know my poem ‘Farewell’? With his free hand he reached under the bed and brought out his blue folder of poems.

Must I?

The great house of parting, / thronged by countless crowds, / rises, gleaming with light / in the night-dark city.// And once in the dome of farewell / the cruel, impatient urge / will carry you away, / on cold rails that never diverge. .// Past the warmth of human dwellings / as familiar voices fade / and pictures fly backwards past you / blurred by tears / from the light to the shade. . // Rails glowing pale red in the sun / dull grey as they pass into mist, / linked lost places left behind / that for us do not exist. .

Ella leaned back until her head hung down over the back of the chair, enjoying the silence that followed the poem. His lament did not move her. She simply felt angry. Face turned to the ceiling, Ella said, slowly: Do you know what I think? You’re just envious that Michael and Roland can start studying at once. School-leaving certificates in their pockets, places to study waiting for them. Never mind, I want to dance, let’s go and dance.

Tell me, what am I supposed to do in Gommern?

My God, Gommern, Gommern, Gommern, that’s all you talk about these days. And it’s not even clear yet whether or not you’ll be sent there.

Into the army or off to the stone quarry. What are they planning for me? What am I supposed to do there?

Ella took a deep breath. She could not share his fears, she was impatient and wanted to dance. Thomas wouldn’t let it rest, he obviously didn’t want to dance, and the noisy party going on outside the door meant nothing to him.

What am I supposed to do there?

Ella whistled softly through the gap in her teeth, sat up ramrod straight and told him what she thought: You’re supposed to show that you don’t feel you’re too good for it. That you’re not superior to it. Not the know-all who always gets good marks. Your work at school was too good, that’s just your bad luck. Käthe is not one of the workers or she’d have had to stay a stonemason instead of becoming a sculptor. Bad luck again. And you don’t have an electrician for a father!

As his pipe refused to burn properly, Thomas tipped the herbs back into his hand and crumbled and rolled them between his palms. The hell with Hamlet. You think I’m the only one affected. Everyone’s affected.

Well, well, well. You’re not everyone. Not everyone attracts all that attention at school, not everyone always thinks he knows best. Ella raised an admonitory forefinger.

Thomas was in no mood for joking; he stayed serious. Once you have your own school-leaving certificate, do you think she’ll let you go straight off to theatrical college?

Ella put her feet on the desk and drummed her fingers on her knees. She pressed her lips together; she had accustomed herself to not answering every question. Particularly not those asked by Thomas when he wanted to open her eyes and dash any false hopes. She heard the hiss of the match. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him sucking at his pipe, sucking away as if for dear life. Who says I’m even going to take my school-leaving exams? At this moment it rather looks as if I won’t.

Thomas puffed at his pipe. Because of special aptitude? Don’t you see that it doesn’t depend on that any more? That’s the principle of subversion. You told me yourself how the lodger tried to blackmail you. .

You’re being horrible. Ella adjusted her position in her chair. Why did Thomas have to start on about the lodger? With his dirty fingers that he tries sticking into everything, his slobbery tongue, his stinking prick. .

Didn’t he ask if you’d like to work with them? With his stupid Security Service? To protect the state? Didn’t he say the teachers would take a softer line with you then, you could pass the exam?

There was pressure at her temples, the roots of her hair were burning, Ella felt hot, the skin of her face was burning, her throat, her voice sounded rough. So? The lodger’s not Almighty God — she shook her head — the lodger has no power at all, just don’t think of him, do you suppose it’s his fault I’ve been ill and I couldn’t finish the year at school and I can’t remember anything? Ella felt sick.

Who knows? Thomas leaned back against the door of the room. Now that I come to think of it — he wrinkled his nose — yes, he did have something to do with it.

Ella heard Thomas going on, but only from a distance; the hissing in her ears had swollen to a rushing sound and she could hardly understand him. What was he saying? That Käthe wasn’t innocent of all blame either. But what’s innocence, and what’s the meaning of guilt when we’re talking about responsibility, about decisions? Ella swallowed, the burning of her skin was barely tolerable, her nausea ebbed and flowed, her heartbeat fell and rose, she was breathing deeply, as Thomas had always advised her to do in such situations. But this time he didn’t seem to notice, he was still talking, and she vaguely heard what he was saying: Käthe believes in communism, even if it’s called socialism these days, otherwise she could never have afforded to rent a huge house like this with a garden, and turn the stable into a studio — penniless as she was in spite of her distinguished family. He said objectively, almost gently, without a note of reproof or sarcasm: Perhaps the lodger came along at just the right moment.

Ella didn’t have to listen to what she couldn’t hear, her ears closed, she shut her eyes and enjoyed the dizziness. Thomas loved Käthe, but they couldn’t talk to each other. In Käthe’s eyes, he was a talented young man, she let him make her brass bracelets, lovers’ rings, a silvery belt that she wore proudly as if it were a chastity belt. He could write his poems, he was to study geology, he was to model for her as well because he was so good-looking. One of these days, as she saw it, he could study chemistry, physics, medicine, whatever he liked; maybe. But not journalism, when not a word was free, let alone the news. Skin could flare up, like the herbs in his pipe, it could burn brightly — but first Thomas was to do Käthe credit, save face for her, show everyone he didn’t think himself superior, her son was not above working in the stone quarry like all the others working in factories and industry. Ella’s itch was overpowering, she scratched.

Her hands scratched frantically, her arms, she scratched her arms, her legs, she scratched her crotch, under her stockings, her throat, she scratched her face hard.

What are you doing? Don’t scratch like that, you’ll bleed. Thomas stood up and tried to hold her hands tightly.

It’s that acrid smoke makes me feel sick. Admit it, you’re smoking henbane, some kind of poison! Put your silly pipe out, will you? Ella could scream shrilly, hysterically. She was beside herself. The burning wasn’t the guests out there, not Käthe or some kind of wall, the burning was her brother with his silly pipe and always talking about prison. Ella screamed.

Thomas put his pipe down, knelt in front of her and held both her hands. Look, you’re bleeding already!

Yes, because of you!

You’re going red all over, you’re coming out in spots. Her bare arms were covered with raised marks. Tears rose to Thomas’s eyes. Ella — he tried to hold her firmly — stop scratching, stop it. With all his might he tried to grasp her wrists in his hands.

You’re hurting me!

He let her go, wound his arms round her, wanting to put an end to her fury, but she knocked them away.

Ella? She heard anxiety in his voice. Well, let him be anxious. Ella, she heard gentle determination in it as well, just let him try it, he wanted to save her, however much he wanted to keep her safe he couldn’t.

He put his arms round her again, stroked her back, and this time she let him, let her arms dangle, put up with his concern, he must be able to feel her sobbing under his hands.

I’ve come of age. In tears, Ella sniffed. I’ve been able to go anywhere I like since February.

Thomas held her even more firmly. Of course she could go anywhere she liked. On her eighteenth birthday she had been in hospital. He had visited her there, she had liked that, and she had liked the blackbirds singing outside her window early in the morning. But then she had been sent home two months later. Cured. So they said.

I don’t want to stay here any more, I can’t stand it here any more. She nestled close to his throat, dried her tears on him, rubbed at her wet eyelashes, no one but Thomas could comfort her. Her skin was still burning, but she could bear it as long as Thomas held her in his arms. The lodger. .

Shh. Thomas laid a finger on her mouth. We’ll find you a room, an apartment, we’ll get you out of here.

The lodger. . he. . she sobbed.

That’s a promise. Thomas held Ella close; he thought he knew what she wanted to tell him. But he didn’t. Applications would have to be made, the housing management committee of the commune would have to be convinced.

. . I think I’m pregnant.

Abruptly, Thomas held Ella away from him. He had taken her by the shoulders, he stared at her. He looked defeated. Ella could see him searching for sensible ideas, something sensible to say. Whose is it? He swallowed, looked down as he suddenly realised how foolish this question was; he knew the answer and whispered it quietly, without looking Ella in the face.

His arms dropped, slack, powerless. All his love, his unconditional concern for Ella, his watchfulness, his careful silence in spite of the boundless fury he felt, none of it had been able to help her or prevent this.

Ella nodded, gritted her teeth and looked straight at Thomas. He had only to open his eyelids for her to see herself in his eyes; he opened them, his eyes were brimming over.

When? Thomas asked so quietly that she had to lip-read the word.

A few weeks ago, when you were camping with Roland and Michael. The weekend after your exams.

He lowered his eyes again wearily, a tear was running down his nose. Why didn’t you tell me?

What could I have told you? The lodger came back? He lay in wait for me and he fucked me?

A woman’s screech of laughter could be heard from the corridor, a man was talking non-stop to her, she laughed, something went off with a bang, presumably the cork from a bottle of sparkling wine.

Thomas leaned forward, reached under Ella’s chair and picked up the parrot feather. She must have dropped it. He held the feather in his hand and said nothing.

What is it?

Perhaps he didn’t know what to say. His silence made Ella despair.

Oh, say something, speak to me! Do you think I didn’t resist? Do you think I just let it happen? I threatened him, he threatened me. He can do us all harm, Käthe won’t get any more commissions, she’s already lost her lectureship. .

Thomas lay down on his bed and folded his arms behind his head. He stared at the ceiling, but only briefly; then he closed his eyes. He certainly wasn’t asleep. No one could be asleep now, with the party merrily in progress outside. Was he thinking?

Ella crossed her legs. She mustn’t cry.

It can be got rid of, she said quietly. But Thomas did not reply; his face showed no emotion.

Maybe it will just go away of its own accord.

Thomas said nothing.

Are you asleep?

No. He sat up and slowly picked up single sheets of paper with his poems on them, typed on the only typewriter in the house, which belonged to the lodger.

What are you reading?

Once again, Thomas did not answer. When it took him so long to find his answers it made her furious. Recently he had often resorted to going away.

Leave me alone. I can’t talk any more, he said without looking at her.

Ella waited for a while. Maybe he would read one of them aloud to her, maybe he would close the blue folder of poems and come over to her, be with her. But then she saw the shame in his face. Helplessness tormenting him. He could neither protect nor save his sister, he couldn’t do anything. She could hardly bear to see him, she was ashamed of herself; she shouldn’t have told him about the pregnancy.

She wouldn’t be able to bear it here much longer. Someone had put a record on outside. Dance music.

Am I in the way? Shall I go out? Ella was not expecting an answer. She positioned herself in front of the mirror and, with a brush, painted huge red marks on her cheeks, outlined her mouth and eyes with the same brush. Let him read poems if he liked, write new ones, regret the damn freedom he talked about, lie miserably on his bed — she was going to dance.