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

ashamed of his privileges; in any case, Ulf’s mother is always very nice to me. The fact that they’re ashamed is to your advantage, but it’s quite risky and can change at any moment — if they think you’re accusing them, for example. So be careful. Pretend that everything you find strange is second nature to you. Watch how Ulf and his sister behave; but remember you’re not one of their children, so don’t be cheeky to the parents. Whatever Ulf and his sister are allowed to question, pretend not to notice. Or perhaps stick up for the parents? That’s another possibility. To be on the safe side, though, just pretend not to notice. It’s best to be quiet. But not too quiet! You have to say something: ask a few questions, but the most important thing is to listen. And to smile. Not in a stupid way, but as if you’re really interested. Never turn your back on Grandma. She’s thirty years older than Werner, so the same age as his father. And definitely not a member of the SPD. But it doesn’t matter, she’s not the one who invited you. You’ve come through Ulf, on his recommendation. He probably chose you just to rile his parents — that was definitely part of Werner’s motive I think, even though he might not have realised it— anyway, try to find out what each person wants. What their attitude is towards you. Are they secretly hoping for something better? Find out if they like you. You might rely on Ulf’s father’s protective instinct, but don’t get drawn into flirting with him. If there’s anybody you have to win over, it’s Ulf’s mother. Which side is Grandma from? Hers or his? It’s not good if you don’t know. Don’t turn your back on her! Try to find out how the different family members get on with each other and where you can act as a go-between or scapegoat, and get them to let out their aggression towards each other on you. Sacrifice yourself; it’ll pay off in the end. Find out who wants you there and why, and remind them of their social project.. You’re just the object, in any case, meaning that you don’t decide or want anything. Except in the worst case, to escape very quickly. Before they throw you out, you leave of your own accord, okay?’

I wash up my plate. Hide the ravioli tin right at the bottom of the bin. Crave a cigarette for my digestion. Sorry, Bea, I can’t give up smoking, can’t be a role model for you. Smoking is an unmistakable sign that you don’t believe in your own mortality. That you think you can carry on forever, and keep regenerating each day. I have to believe this. I can’t give up; I have no pension plan, you see? I have to stay young forever — and don’t tell me ‘smoking has the opposite effect’. I know. But what’s important is believing. Hey, are you even listening? I have to believe I can carry on like this.

I mustn’t play all my aces at once:

I’m young so I don’t need a pension plan.

I can cook, bake, sew, hang wallpaper, clean, cut hair, and do all sorts of unpleasant jobs so I can always be of service of others.

I need next to nothing, and can live off tinned ravioli and sliced white bread, so I will have no problem surviving.

I’m not as spoilt and mollycoddled as the others in the group — like Caro and Ulf and their wannabe-democratic building group. But I’m terrified. I am, Bea. I’m terrified of being terrified, and can’t imagine anything worse than realising I’ve failed to move up in the world and will have to see how I get on with my kind out in the sticks, in Marzahn.

Because I’m not one of them either.

That’s the awful thing about failing to move up in the world: there’s no way back down.

I have inherited Marianne and Raimund’s distaste for the hoi polloi but not any money; they placed all their bets on one card — that I’d move up in the world. But as it turns out, it wasn’t an ace. And now I’ll have to manage on my own.

If only they’d given me karate or pole-dancing lessons instead of the recorder. The recorder! You won’t find one in an orchestra, and it’s no use in a band. It’s just a way of gagging you.

Instead of embarking on that doomed plan to move up, recorder in mouth, to the carefree, silk-clad soprano singers, I should have learned to say ‘Fuck you!’ in kindergarten. Now I could be voting for populists with a clear conscience and showing the big knobs what’s what.

The rest of the time I’d go to the social services office, which I do anyway for top-up benefits and the kids’ meals’ and activities’ allowance, and if I had money to spare, I’d go to the solarium or get my nails done. Nails are almost as much of a giveaway as furniture; I could just get a French manicure, for example, because anything else would be trashy.

After years of hiding my shortcomings, I would have to hide my privileges. And not use the word ‘privilege’, for starters. Say ‘toilet’ instead of ‘lavatory’. Not say anything anymore. Become invisible.

So that nothing happens to me out there in the big wide world.

The common people’s lack of education, you see, makes them stupid, and that makes them dangerous. They don’t have a clue about the damage they wreak, or how to control their impulses. They’re like wild animals. Have you ever taken the M8 tram towards Ahrensfelde at around five in the afternoon? It’s full of overweight people wearing polyester t-shirts with logos, giving their toddlers imitation Red Bull and cuffing them around the ear now and then out of boredom.

I would have to be fast, strong, and fit to stand up to them or run away; but I’m stiff and pampered. I