We’re worried now. Frau Kranz walks down to the lake with a firm tread. We’re not happy about the evening dress she is wearing under her cape tonight. It doesn’t suit the night, it doesn’t suit her work, although it suits Frau Kranz herself very well indeed.
Last time she wore that dress was in 1977 in Schwerin, when she was given a certificate for artistic services to the Schwerin area in the category of painting, sub-category “The land and its people.” Frau Kranz went up on the platform, but she didn’t make a speech, she sang a song in bad Croatian. It was called “Polijma i traktorima” (In praise of fields and tractors), and one thing soon became clear: Frau Kranz does not sing well, but she does sing at the top of her voice, and what with that and the loudspeakers being turned up, and what with her ignoring the planned program of events, and a few men made more and more aggressive by the crude Croatian language and wanting to escort Frau Kranz off the stage after seven or eight verses when it looked as if the song was going on for ever, but some other men didn’t like their attitude and tried to protect Frau Kranz — well, what with all of that, there was a scuffle as background to the music that sounded like the roar of a rutting stag, and thinking it all over you can hardly imagine what a crazily wonderful evening that was for Frau Kranz in Schwerin in 1977. The certificate is hanging in her kitchen, rather yellow now from all the steam.
Why has Frau Kranz dressed up like that tonight, when she usually goes painting in the Fürstenfelde Football First Eleven tracksuit? On arriving at the ferry boathouse, she unloads her stuff and stands at the water’s edge. The ash trees breathe in her perfume. They know the smell of her. Frau Kranz unscrews her thermos flask, raises it to the boathouse, drinks and closes her eyes.
IMBODEN WANTED TO TELL A STORY OF THE OLD days, but the garage interrupted him and only then took the piss a bit. Nothing can be taken seriously at the garage unless someone answers back. Things are serious enough at home and at work. So there was some teasing, which is only right, and Imboden let it all wash over him, which is only right too, so that a good feeling of peace could come back sometime, respectfully, which is right as well, when an old man who doesn’t usually say much, sitting with a cold beer in his hand, a Sterni, like a jester holding his bauble, says something that begins like this:
“A brawl doesn’t make any Feast better unless it saves the day. And it’s not true that we had better Feasts in the old days. Times were even worse then. The worse the times, the more important the Feasts are. Hairstyles and shirts were clearly worse, but the dancing was much better.”
By “the old days” Imboden, like everyone else, always means the entire time before the Wall came down. In theory, “the old days” could mean the darkest Middle Ages, but definitely not the time when Gerhard Schröder was Chancellor.
In concrete terms, Imboden meant an Anna Feast in the early 1960s. He meant a tombola, singing, a variety show, and then dancing in Blissau’s restaurant — when did Blissau’s actually close down? The early 1990s, when else? Was it where Gitty now has the kiosk with the neon ad over it? Well, not really an ad, it just says “Open” when Gitty opens it. Gitty is Blissau’s granddaughter. Gitty, Gitty, Gitty, what about her? Four kids, or is it six? Hardly any teeth left, otherwise she’s fine, her character too — yes, and now you see how easily the garage goes off at a tangent when someone features in a story and they know everything about that person.
Imboden waited politely until everything there was to say about Blissau and Gitty had been said, and then went on with his story. A day before the Feast he had asked Fräulein Zieschke for a dance. He wanted to give her time. Because if she said yes, then — and Imboden was sure of it — she would never want to dance with anyone else again. Except maybe Ditzsche, but in other respects Ditzsche was no competition.
The garage drank to that. You should give yourself proper credit, no one in the garage objects to that.
“I remember the fabric of her dress perfectly. I’d know it among a hundred fabrics. It scratched like anything.” Imboden closed his eyes. Danced a few bars of the music with Fräulein Zieschke. Hummed their song. Scratched his wrist. Imboden’s hand on Fräulein Zieschke’s waist at the Anna Feast, the flames blazing up, the ruins cleared away at last.
Imboden didn’t call it the Anna Feast, but “the Feast of Comrade Anuschka.” That was rather amusing today, but in the old days you had to be careful who you said a thing like that to. People were quick to take offense and easily responded to provocation. And you always wanted to give offense and provoke them, because you were always just the same: easily offended and provoked. For instance, over and beyond giving offense to those who had the say then, you’d always have liked to smash in their faces. But he was forgetting to stick to his subject, said Imboden to his now fully attentive audience. They didn’t mind. The key phrases “provocation,” “those who had the say” and “smash in their faces,” arranged in that order, sounded very promising.
The dancing had just begun when several Blueshirts from Prenzlau turned up. They were recruiting for the FDJ, the Free German Youth organization of the GDR, and one of them was on the point of making a speech. You don’t make speeches when people want to dance. The ferryman intervened. The bell-ringer was with him, and a couple of other guys. For now, there was going to be more dancing, minus speeches.
“The Blueshirts fancied dancing too. One of them wanted to borrow Fräulein Zieschke, and I swear I’d have let her dance with him, I mean anyone can dance with anyone else, only she didn’t want to. Of course she didn’t want to because — well, what did I say?” asked Imboden, and the garage loved rhetorical questions. He’d said nothing on the political question, but he wasn’t taking this kind of provocation on behalf of himself and Fräulein Zieschke.
The garage drank to him again — that’s a habit of theirs, drinking to someone who wasn’t taking that kind of provocation.
Imboden, so he said, had only warned the lad for a start, but that didn’t help, so what was bound to happen did happen. Imboden invited him to step outside so that fists could fly; there wasn’t room for that on the dance floor. And fists did fly.
A few days later what was bound to happen did happen once again. Imboden was summoned to Blissau’s, and this time his dancing partners were two comrades from the District Administration: someone had reported him. “They were saying I’d stirred up trouble, denigrating the FDJ and therefore the German Democratic Republic.”
The garage drank a toast to that nice long foreign word denigrating.
“But they were wrong,” said Imboden, and as he also said, he’d told them so. “No one was doing any denigrating.” Yes, there’d been a spot of trouble, and he’d take the responsibility for that. But no ideas had been exchanged during the trouble, only blows. It was nothing to do with politics, it was just a normal instinct to defend a young lady from being bothered by a pushy lad carrying on.
However, the comrades from District Admin didn’t want to know about that. They said there were witnesses, a group of observant young men from Prenzlau, who stated that Imboden had been the spokesman and had thrown the first punch.
“And then I found out why they were kicking up such a fuss. ‘You’re a troublemaker and liable to be the ringleader, Imboden. What else can we expect of someone whose father, that Nazi arsehole, is in jail in Waldheim Prison?’”
So at that, said Imboden, he’d jumped up and was about to show them what kind of trouble he could stir up, but then instead of letting his fists speak for him, he heard an apology coming out of his mouth.