Higher Ground, Anke Stelling [historical books to read .TXT] 📗

It was treason. Suddenly everybody knew: Ulf and Carolina had one of those wardrobes, and others, like Sven and me, didn’t — and Bea, if you pointed out that everybody knew this beforehand, you’d be completely right. But knowing something and saying it out loud — or even writing about it and publishing it — are two different things.

As soon as the article was in print, it was out in the open: the elephant in the room, the thing you could deduce from the Bible quotations we had picked out for our confirmations.

Idea for a Bible quotation for a confirmation: making it to higher ground doesn't mean befriending the animals on the ark. It means having your own private cabin and a stake in the mountain.

It wasn’t until the article came out, and all the trouble started, that I realised my parents had, of course, wanted to move up in the world. Not necessarily so they could have a walk-in wardrobe, but so they could decide against it without being suspected of envy. And I realised that Ulf’s mother, for her part, longed to get rid of that silly wardrobe and all it stood for. Nobody wanted to feel ashamed of the unfair distribution of wealth anymore; but if it wasn’t redistributed or reallocated, the only escape was to focus on being the architect of your own happiness, personal failure, and foolish decisions. Which in my case meant: I could have been a part of it. Studied law. Married an heir. Accepted Ingmar’s money. Been proud and happy with little money, carried on doing my own home repairs, and suffered inequality in silence instead of attracting unnecessary attention.

Moving up in the world

The bells in the Gesethmane Church strike midday. I can hear them even through the closed window of my broom cupboard. This is one of Berlin’s top locations. The old gaps between buildings caused by bombs and explosions in this Wilhelmine quarter have been filled by discreet blocks of new flats; small boutiques and attractive cafés line the pavement with outdoor seating or ice-cream shops that offer hot chocolate to lure in passers-by in winter. Small children wheel around on balance bikes, big children on skateboards. Teenage wannabe gangsters have a hard time looking threatening, even when they’re drunk and playing beer pong in the park — they’re too well-dressed and fragile, and you won’t catch them rolling around in the dirt or getting blood on their clothes. It’s not a test of courage to go to school here. It’s very peaceful. Or tastefully subdued, I should say.

You can disparage it. To do so is even in fashion, but not in any way that would actually change something. It’s just a ritual to prove your power of discernment and appease the haters. Because there are more takers than flats available here, of course. And no one in their wildest dreams would leave of their own accord.

Living in the city centre is not a human right. In Paris, only wealthy Russians can afford it, and Marzahn, for example, is still totally okay. The layout of East German prefabs is actually better for families than pre-war flats: and anyway, prefab buildings came back in style a long time ago, because you can do them up so wonderfully in 1970s décor.

True, in the lifestyle feature I read, the prefab in question was on Alexanderplatz, which is about as central as it gets, but it’s only twenty-five minutes by S-Bahn from Marzahn. With a direct connection! And it’s green out there. So nice and green.

The stamp on Frank’s letter of notice to the landlord is green too. ‘For Your Attention’ is emblazoned in aggressive green on the copy of the letter. Because of this stamp, Frank doesn’t have to phone me or find the words for a personal note, like ‘Hi Resi, take a look at what I’ve sent the landlord.’ The stamp says it all.

The only question I have left is where he got the stamp. It’s a lawyer’s or clerk’s stamp; a freelance management consultant doesn’t own such a thing. Frank doesn’t have a secretary or a receptionist, and he doesn’t usually send documents for attention so he must have borrowed the stamp, or even had it specially made by a stationery shop. How much effort did he go to not to talk to me personally?

I’m an animal, Bea. Unpredictable and dangerous.

People might think I am imprisoned and confined in my broom cupboard, but I am nothing of the sort: it’s what I do in here that makes me dangerous to begin with.

Where I’m sitting used to be the space for Vera’s washing machine, and before that, for Frank’s. But when Vera moved in with him, she brought her own washing machine, a high-quality Miele, and Frank’s old Privileg was dumped on the street.

That wasn’t the only violation Frank had to stomach: Vera also ripped up the East German PVC with the geometric pattern against an olive-green background in his kitchen and hallway, even though Frank was against it.

‘Help!’ he appealed to me. ‘You know it’s going to be cool one day.’ But I didn’t help him: I helped Vera rip it up.

July 2005; me and Vera on our knees in Frank’s kitchen.

‘You should always change something before you move in with somebody,’ said Vera. ‘So that it feels like home to both of you!’

We were shoving our paint scrapers underneath the glued-fast PVC.

‘But he’s attached to it,’ I said.

Vera laughed. ‘He’s attached to the past. To the leftovers of a failed system! To his flat-share life, or to being single!’

We were sweating after ten minutes; it was July, and the sun was blazing through the curtainless windows. Sarah Connor was singing on the radio. It was fun working with Vera — she was full of get-up-and-go, even though she’d been having doubts for the past six months.

‘I’ve lived on my own for too long,’ she said. ‘I’m bound to ruin it.’

‘If