New Lives Read Free Page A

Does she even know anything about it?
    I have no idea what Beirut is like, but I can’t understand why Nicola 13 doesn’t want to bring his mother to Berlin instead? And how much business can there be amid all that rubble and desolation?
    I’m frightened for you—which is also egoistic of me. I won’t be able to help you. I’ve got two thousand marks in my account. Do you need it? How much is that? Three hundred West marks?
    I’ve got plenty of time to give you, however. I’m living under some kind of spell, I’m awake at four or five at the latest. Even though I rarely go to bed before midnight. And yet I’m not the least bit tired, not even in the afternoon. When I get bored with brooding, I thumb through the dictionary. It’s amazing how many verbs and adjectives we know without ever using them.
    I called Johann in the middle of the week to tell him I had quit the theater and am joining the crew of a start-up newspaper. He was extremely distant and brusque. And now I get a letter that could have been dictated by Michaela. I never used to read newspapers, so why was I trying to avoid these new artistic challenges (and he used that very phrase!). And went on like that for four pages. What a stranger he’s become.
    What you wrote about this nobleman sounds really promising. If in fact he does want to come to Altenburg, you can give him my address, and our editorial office will soon have a telephone.
    Verotchka, if I’m not going to be able to see you, at least write and tell me about what you’re doing, about taking care of final details, anything! There is no one else who I can count on.
    Your Heinrich
Thursday, Jan. 18, ’90
    Dear Jo,
    I got your letter and read it, but I simply don’t have the desire or the energy to argue with you. I would just repeat myself anyway. Wait a few months, and then we won’t even need to talk about all this anymore.
    I take short walks, read newspapers, and cook our noon meal. I suddenly have so much time that I don’t know what to do with myself.
    Yesterday I even attended a meeting of the New Forum, I must admit not quite voluntarily. Rudolph Franck, who’s called the “Prophet” because of his gray cotton-candy beard, asked me to come along. I owe my job at the paper to him, he initiated things and put in a good word for me. It’s still a mystery to me what he thought my attendance would contribute. I probably disappointed him.
    Jörg thinks there’s a rumor—no, rumor is too strong, more like a whisper—that something is not quite kosher about people (like me) who couldn’t stop spouting off last fall, but then vanished from one day to the next. I’m afraid it’s Jörg himself who’s spreading this stuff. It would be just like him.
    There were a few hundred people in the hall. I was about to take a seat when I heard my name from behind me. I didn’t know the man—brown eyes, average height, dark thinning hair. He said he was glad to see me here again. His wife assured me that her Ralf had told her so much about my speech in the church that day. I ended up joining her and Ralf at one of the tables up front. Georg and Jörg were already seated with the steering committee. And then things started rolling.
    First came a steady stream of votes confirming all sorts of previous actions. I’ve never had to sit through anything like it in all my life. I felt robbed of my freedom, I was suddenly a prisoner.
    Ralf, on the other hand, seemed happy and excited. He rolled his shopping bag back like a sleeve to reveal a piece of cardboard backing and a letter-size notebook. His hopes, his pride, yes, his fundamental convictions were invested in the care with which he slipped in the carbon paper, lowered his head just above the page, and began to write. Whenever Jörg’s speech was interrupted by applause, he would stop and clap soundlessly, ballpoint clasped in his