New Lives

[Letter of April 17, 1990]

Voting

— So twenty?

— Ten, four buttons, ten marks.

— Hey! You just said, twenty. Four buttons, twenty.

— Ten! — Michael held out his hand.

— No way, you doofus. — Rolf blinked through the smoke of his cigarette. As the ash fell it bounced off his sweater.

— Twenty.

— Ten. I’ve only got ten. Here. — Michael smiled and pulled a crumpled bill out of his pocket.

— Then you’d better start worryin’ about how to come up with the rest. Twenty for four buttons. — Rolf flicked the butt into a flower bed and sat down on the rim of a trash can.

— And what if she’s already here? — Michael checked his watch.

— You think they’re waiting for you? — Rolf nodded in the direction of the polling place, where two photographers were standing at the entrance. A group of women emerged laughing. Two of them were holding little red flags. A man in a light-colored suit walking behind them sang: “So comrades, let us rally and the last fight let us…” and then fell silent when a few people turned around to look at him. The women snorted and nudged one another and walked faster.

Rolf rummaged in his sack. He pulled the red cap off a plastic bottle, filled it to the brim, and drank. He poured another and handed it to Michael.

— Smoking leaves a man thirsty.

— What’s in it? — Michael gave it a cautious sip.

— Tea, what else? — Rolf grinned.

Michael sipped a second time and made a face.

— Take a gander! — Rolf whispered. A well-dressed, middle-aged couple had come to a halt not far from them. The man buckled forward as if he had a stitch in his side. The woman was trying to comfort him and caressed his shoulder briefly. The man stood up straight again. They linked arms and, taking small steps, slowly made their way to the polling place.

— Full ballot — Michael said.

— He hasn’t gone for three days. I remember how it was with my old man.

— Three days?

— That’s what I said! — Rolf drank straight from the bottle. — That’s nothing for them. They used to hold out for a whole week.

— They didn’t use to have anything to eat. That was no great feat back then.

— Bullshit! There’s always been plenty right before elections, even chocolate. They really chowed down.

— My mother couldn’t hold out any longer yesterday and started bawling, I mean really bawled. And my old man just kept going: You’ll make it, you’ll make it, you will. And when she wouldn’t stop bawling, he said, okay, fine, do whatever you think is right.

Rolf whinnied. — Do whatever you think is right?…whatever you think?

— Do whatever you think is right — Michael repeated in all seriousness.

— And, did she? — Rolf coughed. He pulled out a pack of old Juwels and tapped it on the bottom until a filter popped out a little.

Michael shrugged. — Things calmed down. She crept back into bed or whatever. Do I get one?

— Moocher! — Rolf held out the pack. — I thought you didn’t like the taste so early in the morning? — Rolf gave him a light.

— Look at ’em waddle. — Michael glanced over to the bus stop.

— They’re used to it. They’ve been waddling their whole life long.

The oldsters had trouble stepping from the bus onto the sidewalk. Once they managed it, they hurried as fast as they could to the end of the waiting line.

— Why don’t they order the mobile ballot box? I’d cast my vote with the mobile.

Rolf made a face. — Too revolting for me.

— Revolting, yes, but still better than a hullabaloo like this.

— Absolutely revolting. — Rolf downed the bottle in one gulp, screwed the top on, tapped the last few drops out of the red cap, and fit it back over the bottle.

— A mobile ballot box turns my stomach! — Rolf turned away to one side and let his spit drip down the trash can.

— Frau Rollman said the Free German Youth unhinged three doors, at least three.

— Three doors? They’re not allowed to do that, not by law at least.

— Don’t give me any bullshit, you’ll see. It was an FGY initiative, from way high up.

— My grandma without a door, no way.

— Your grandma’ll get a door.

— And Tina?

— Are you so dumb or do you just act like it? — Rolf let the spit splat on the sidewalk pavement between his sneakers.

— Dammit all! — Michael hid the cigarette in the palm of his hand. — Shit, they’re waving, hey, they’re waving us over!

— No need to piss your pants. — Rolf wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His cigarette fell to the ground, he wrapped the bag around his wrist, and followed Michael.

— Don’t fall asleep, sports fans! — Michael and Rolf broke into a run the last few yards.

— So why the loitering? — The policeman hooked his thumbs into his belt.

— Just for once we were…

— I didn’t ask how often, sports fans, the question was why!

— I’m not feeling good — Rolf said.

— But smoking like a chimney?

— An occasional cigarette.

— So what’s that? — The policeman pointed to Rolf’s right hand, to the yellow stains on his index and middle fingers.

Rolf winced.

— First-time voter, huh?

— Yes — Rolf and Michael responded both at once.

— Your papers!

Rolf and Michael handed the police their passports.

— So what’s with all the trips to Czechoslovakia?

— Mountain climbers — Michael quickly replied. They could hear the radio in the police car. The shotgun responded as car 17.

— The Red Mountaineers, ever heard of ’em? — The policeman thumbed back and forth in their passports.

— Kurt Schlosser, sure, know about ’em — Michael said.

— The bag. — Rolf handed it over. The policeman unscrewed the bottle and sniffed.

— Chamomile tea, why’s that?

— Little sick to my stomach — Rolf said.

— So why haven’t you voted yet?

— Waitin’ for a buddy.

— And what’s the buddy’s name?

— Sebastian — Michael said. — Sebastian Keller.

— Keller, Sebastian. Okay. And where does this Keller, Sebastian, live?

— Georg-Schumann Strasse, one hundred…

— Don’t you own a blue shirt?

— I’ve got it on underneath — Michael pulled at the crewneck of his sweater and tugged the blue collar out over it.

— And you?

— I’m not in the FGY.

— Not in the youth organization?

— Religious reasons.

— But elections, I mean, casting your vote, you are going to cast your vote, right?

Rolf nodded warily. — Plan to. — Rolf turned around and spat on the lawn.

— Well then, enjoy yourself, have a good one! — He handed Rolf back both passports. — And congratulations as a first-time voter! — He gave a nonchalant salute. As he opened the driver’s door of his Lada, his shotgun was just saying — Over and out!

Michael and Rolf shuffled in the direction of the polling place.

— What kind of shit was that, religious reasons? — Michael whispered.

— Didn’t you see how he backed off?

— And what if he checks it out?

— What’s he supposed to check out?

Squad car 17 passed by them and stopped right in front of the polling place.

— Religion is always good. They’re even glad if you say you’re religious and then tell them you’re voting anyway.

— Have you ever imagined being the only person to do it.

— Do what?

— Cast a vote.

— What d’you mean, the only person?

— Just picture it. You come here to do it, and nobody else shows. You’re the only one to vote, just you.

— Oh man…

— I’d die. I’d rather die.

— Why die?

— Because it would be so embarrassing. Everybody would say that’s the guy who cast his vote, and then they’d giggle and shout stuff as I walked past.

— I’d like to have your problems, I mean really.

— I’ll be damned, meathead, there’s Tina. There!

The crowd in front of the polling place had begun to stir. The two photographers trotted toward the curb, a second squad car pulled up, a man with a tape recorder and mike around his neck was the first to step up in front of the family, in whose midst stood a young brunette of average height in a blue blouse, a bright red ribbon in her ponytail.

Running the last little bit, Rolf and Michael arrived to hear Tina tell the man with the tape recorder — Oh, quite normal really, like always, lots of exercise, healthy diet, lots of fresh air. — As the reporter was about to ask his second question, she added with a smile — And never get to bed too late.

Everyone laughed, Tina’s dark eyes sparkled.

Michael pulled off his sweater, so that he was standing there in a blue shirt now too.

— Four, there are exactly four! — Rolf said in triumph. They had to stand on tiptoe.

— Twenty, Mishi, you owe me twenty. Four buttons!

Michael gazed spellbound at Tina’s blue blouse and nodded. — Okay, okay.

— As far back as kindergarten — Tina said — I always pictured just what it would be like, casting my vote for the first time. We painted pictures of it, lots of times. And once we were even allowed to use modeling clay. We’ve still got that one at home in the living room.

Her father and mother nodded. Tina was the spitting image of her mother, down to the eyebrows almost merging.

— My vote is my good health. My parents taught me that early on. And I always envied my parents, how genuinely happy they were after they had cast their vote. Yes, really, they’d come home simply beaming. And I thought, I want to be able to do that too.

The faces of those waiting in line bore a look of concentration and strain, if anything was said at all it was in a low voice. The line was moving so slowly that some of them had sat down on the pavement, and didn’t even stand up to edge forward.

— Is that really necessary? — a balding, skinny man asked as he emerged from the polling place. But the woman who was seated on the steps up to the entrance didn’t answer. She didn’t so much as look up. The volunteer election warden shook his head and walked on, greeting someone now and then and tugging at the knot of his tie. He stopped beside Michael.

— Comrade Becker! — he exclaimed. — Comrade Be… — An elbow struck him in the sternum. The volunteer doubled over.

— What are you making a pest of yourself for? This isn’t your shindig — a young, sturdy guy in a beige anorak hissed. — Can’t you see we’re broadcasting?

The volunteer nodded and raised a conciliatory hand. He gave a little cough, he cleared his throat, but then stood up straight and reached for the knot of his tie.

— My favorite book is Fate of a Man by Mikhail Sholokhov, I found it very moving, such a hard and difficult life, and he struggles and hopes because he wants life to be beautiful. And I have to add that that Sholokhov manages in a hundred pages to capture a man’s fate, where other authors write big fat books and have far less to say, yes, Sholokov.

[Letter of April 21, 1990]

I really do admire him. And Aitmatov, Jamila, how difficult happiness can be, yes, Aitmatov and Sholokhov.

The volunteer held his left arm up high and tapped his watch. The young guy in the beige anorak cast him a suspicious glance.

— Can it.

— Schedule. We do have a schedule.

— So do we. — The young guy in the beige anorak gave him a gloating grin.

— I think I’m well prepared. And I’m looking forward to being able to cast my vote now. And I’m also happy to be doing it together with other first-time voters.

The volunteer reached into the sleeve of his sport coat and pulled his shirt cuff down. He was watching Michael out of the corner of one eye.

— First-time voter?

Michael nodded.

— And you?

— First-timer too.

— And where’s your blue shirt?

— Forgot.

The volunteer was still plucking at his sleeves. — Come along with me, we’re going inside right now — he told Michael.

— Me?

— Got your passport? Police record?

— No, I mean, yes, I have my passport.

— Me too?

The volunteer gave a quick shake of his head. He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and stared at Michael.

— Comb your hair, and don’t fall asleep when the time comes.

The volunteer handed Michael a little white comb and stood on tiptoe.

— We, my friend and I, he’s a first-timer too, we actually wanted to do it together….

— Without a blue shirt? Sorry.

— And if I go get one, I live nearby…

The volunteer took a little hop to one side. — Comrade Becker, Wilfried, here, here I am! — He was waving both arms and running along the queue in the direction of the entrance. Michael and Rolf followed the volunteer.

— Doofus! You’re such a doofus.

— I can’t help it, I just asked him if…

— Such an asshole!

Suddenly the volunteer pulled Michael by the arm, and a moment later the bright red bow of Tina’s ponytail was right in front of his nose. The collar of her blue blouse was rolled up a little. She smelled of shampoo and fresh underwear. Somebody pushed him from behind. — Doofus! — a voice shouted.

In the next instant Michael found himself pressing against Tina. He could feel her rear end, her hair, a shoulder.

— Oh, oooh.

She turned halfway to him so that he could see the dimple on her right cheek.

— Oh, beg your pardon, but…

Michael fumbled for his passport. When he looked up the ribbon and ponytail had vanished. There was the odor of stale air, footsteps echoed through the large tiled room, whose far wall was glass brick. The election commission behind separated desks stood up like a school class and waited. Dead center was the ballot box, a piece of standard stationery covered its opening. The banner on the wall behind it proclaimed in white letters against a red background: OUR VOTES FOR THE CANDIDATES OF THE NATIONAL FRONT!

The lights were switched on, fluorescent tubes flickered. Voices blurred the way they do in an indoor swimming pool.

A fly crawled across the back of Michael’s right hand. He raised the hand, the fly vanished, only to return to the same spot a moment later. Michael slapped at it with a loud smack.

The volunteer looked up briefly and winked at Michael. Stepping forward with him were a boy and a girl, both FGY members. They were waiting for Tina. A man with yolk yellow hair and a black leather jacket shook her hand and smiled. The woman beside him had thin bright red lips that shifted in an ashen pale face. Gold-rimmed glasses dangled from her neck.

— Take your places here, my young friends. Now pull yourselves together. So, here we go now. Lots of luck.

Approaching the long table one after the other, they gave their names, handed over their passports, and quickly received them back. Tina was the last to be given her ballot.

— Hey there, my lad, no daydreaming, report over there now.

Without glancing at the names on his ballot, Michael turned around toward the voting booths. Of those missing a door, the middle one was still unoccupied.

— Look sharp, my lad, look sharp. We have to keep to our schedule here. — The volunteer clapped his hands like a gym teacher.

From his voting booth Michael was able to watch as the yolk yellow man and the woman held tight to the table while Tina climbed up on it. She stood up carefully and, without grabbing hold of any of the many hands offered her, walked to the ballot box. She laid her ballot across the top of the box, hastily unzipped her trousers, which slid down her legs. She quickly slipped her panties down, squatted over the ballot box, and began to press. With half-open eyes she stared at the damaged tile at Michael’s feet, a vein bulged above her right temple, her face took on a bronze color.

The volunteer, who had turned half away, suddenly shouted — Face toward the election commission, Tina. Toward the election commiss—!

Tina stood up in fright. Even for a fit young woman it wasn’t all that easy to move across the wiggly tables. Tina corrected the position of her ballot and squatted down over the box again. Her blue blouse hid most of her rear end.

In the meantime Michael had laid his ballot across the porcelain bowl, pulled his pants and underpants down both at once, and sat. He pressed hard too. In the booth to his left he could hear a jet of urine meet the water in the bowl, grow gradually fainter, and then abruptly end without any drops to follow. To his right Michael heard a loud fart, and a groan, and then, as something heavy fell on the ballot, a crinkling sound. Closing his eyes, the volunteer gave several nods of approval.

Michael couldn’t take his eyes off Tina. Her blue blouse, beneath which he could see the outline of the broad fastener on her bra, emphasized her athletic figure.

Suddenly she raised her rear end, hiked up her blouse — and something appeared between her butt cheeks, grew longer, a thin little sausage dropped, gases escaped, a restrained—Aaaahh—followed, and then another, somewhat darker, shorter, sausage.

The first-timer on Michael’s right had already shoved his massive vote out in front of his booth and was frantically tearing off toilet paper. And the first-timer to his left had likewise given all the candidates her vote.

Michael got up and carefully removed his work from the bowl. The ballot had gotten a little damp at the top. In the middle, however, lay his vote, round and smooth and ending in a jaunty peak.

— Like a meringue tart, just a little browner.

As he laid it on the floor, Michael couldn’t entirely suppress his smile. The rustle of toilet paper could be heard on all sides. The pattern on Tina’s panties wasn’t red polka dots, no, those were ladybugs. Her cheeks were flush, sweat glistened on her upper lip and forehead. The election commission was already removing the bouquets from their pails of water. Michael needed to hurry up.

Suddenly someone squeezed his arm. — One casts one’s vote for an entire list of candidates, not individuals. — Michael stared in bewilderment at the volunteer.

— You see, there, there, Wilfried Becker, doesn’t he get your vote? Do you have something against the Society for Sport and Technology?

— Should I… — Michael raised his right forefinger.

— Yes of course, do it, do it, everyone’s waiting for you.

Michael tried to smear his round sausage toward the top and bottom, but it was more solid than he had thought. He spit, he spit a second time, it just barely worked. But now it looked so untidy, unaesthetic. Michael was the last to stuff his ballot into the box and now glanced down very earnestly at the Thälmann Pioneer who handed him three carnations with lots of greenery. The handshake that followed the Pioneer salute was limp and damp. Now that everyone had a carnation bouquet, the applause began.

The four first-timers were given a rousing reception outside. All the people standing in front of the polling place had turned toward them and were clapping enthusiastically.

Michael was numb somehow. — I thought they’d be mad at us.

— But why? — Tina laughed. — Why should they be mad at us?

— I just thought… — Michael spotted Rolf clapping wildly. Michael gave him a nod and a tortured smile. Rolf, on the other hand, seemed to be in a great mood, and gestured to him by dangling his right hand below his belt, swinging it back and forth, while his thumb and fingers kept snapping open and shut like a hungry mouth.

— Is that your buddy? — Tina asked.

— Well yes, buddy, we went to school together.

— Tell him he’s a little pig, tell him I said so. A real little piggy.

— Because of the four…

— He wants you to pinch me in the butt. Don’t you see it?

— Oh, he’s just pretending.

— What a little pig. He’s jealous.

— Jealous?

— Why sure. But we deserve this.

Michael counted the number of open buttons on her blouse. There were in fact four. He had lost the bet. But on the other hand he could see her cleavage, the shadow between her breasts.

Tina smiled.

— You’re a little piggy too! — Her eyes were sparkling again. People just wouldn’t stop applauding.

— Wave, wave! — she whispered.

Michael began to move his right hand from side to side.

— You see, Mischa, it works! — Tina exclaimed.

Michael felt uncomfortable because his fingers were sticky. But that didn’t prevent him from waving. And so he kept on swaying his right hand from side to side.