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

subject, and the teachers’ favourite. But at the same time, he was against everything: against the system. To top it all, he had green eyes and lightly tanned skin even in winter, even at the age of fourteen when all the others were covered in zits—

Ulf was good-looking.

And I wanted to be with him.

Everybody wanted to be with Ulf; when he talked, the others listened, and when he laughed, it was infectious, and when his T-shirt slipped out of his trousers, you only saw smooth, lightly tanned skin. He knew stuff but wasn’t arrogant, sang in the choir but wasn’t a sissy.

And then it happened! To me! My love of Ulf was requited.

We were sitting in a big group, and he started cracking jokes just for me. All of a sudden, I was in the limelight, and, because Ulf was paying me attention, the other boys started paying me attention too. That had never happened before, and it was the most wonderful day of my life.

I was fourteen.

We set off on the bus, which in itself was a good prospect. Three days away from home on our confirmation trip. Singing and learning and ‘finding ourselves’ was on the programme, and there was nothing I would have rather been doing. Perhaps not quite in the way that Reverend Löffler and the congregation imagined it, but what did they imagine? I was eager and all for it.

The whole setting was so awful and tacky, it was hilarious: a youth hostel in the middle of nowhere with bunk beds, a canteen, and a bowling alley. Pinboards in the classrooms for the collages we were supposedly going to make. The themes were: ‘Me & You’, ‘Trust’, ‘Hope’, ‘Forgiveness’. Four groups. We were good at making fun of the tasks; we were fourteen, so we’d already had eight years of doing things we didn’t feel like at school all day and still making it entertaining. Failing all else, somebody just fell off their chair.

Reverend Löffler found it quite a challenge. Didn’t know how to handle us. Those who refused to join in could be sent home, but we were joining in; we could do it all standing on our heads.

In the evening, bowling. No one knew how to; we watched each other. The way we sized up the lane before taking a run-up, the way we giggled, collapsed, waved our hands dismissively. Major beginner’s luck, that’s for sure. And everything was in flux.

Then later, at the table in the empty canteen. Outside, the middle of nowhere was silent. Where was it again? The Swabian Alps?

Reverend Löffler had long since gone to bed. Why didn’t we have a deadline when we had to be back by? Because that word hadn’t been invented yet. I wasn’t paying attention to what we were talking about. I knew that I wanted things to carry on like this forever; it was half past two and no one wanted to go to bed, and if they did, then not alone. I was powerful. If I stood up to go, Ulf would stand up too. If I sauntered out, he’d follow me. We could have swapped beds — he with Vera or me with Christian, but it didn’t have to happen. It was more than enough for me to know that I could. And that I wouldn’t get tired. Ulf’s attention was like being on speed, and I had Gerald’s and Christian’s and Heiko’s, because I had Ulf’s. I was the greatest. God, it was fucking cool. God, it made me attractive! God, it turned me on. It was like magic.

I had what the others wanted. I was what the others wanted.

It was amazing.

It was unfair.

Tough luck

I go to bed. Down the long corridor, all in darkness. The floorboards creak.

The varnish Vera and I applied over ten years ago has been worn away down the centre. It doesn’t matter. It’s shabby chic. Will the landlord see it that way? What is the exact wording in the contract? Will we have to renovate before we move out? Re-varnish the floor before they sand it anyway? How will Frank find out if he’s managed to get rid of us? Will he send somebody round or come himself? What will he say?

Sven is asleep.

I undress and lie down next to him in bed. Protected by the twilight, his closed eyes, and our relationship sealed by four children, I look at his profile. How am I supposed to know what love is? It gives me a lump in my throat to look at him; I’d rather die myself than have somebody lay a finger on him. I’m afraid for him. Of him? It’s probably the same thing.

First, I saddled myself with Sven’s hungry heart, then with those of our four kids. It’s particularly bad when you’re all asleep, because then you’re all so beautiful it hurts.

Behind Sven’s nose, the wardrobe sticks up, and I focus on it: an ugly, half-broken thing. It won’t survive another move; Ikea furniture can’t be taken apart more than three times. But not having a wardrobe isn’t an option either, no more than not having children.

‘No one promised you a rose garden!’

Says Renate.

And I say: ‘Yes, they did. You planted your hope in us like a seed: hope for a fresh start, a new leaf. It sits there inside us, and speaks to us — and if not of roses, then of what? The promise lies in our existence. No, don’t deny it, Renate; I’m sorry that my gripes with your generation always end up at your door. No, I’m not sorry; actually, it’s your fault. You’re the one who raised the subject in the first place. We could’ve chatted over tea about unimportant things, but you didn’t want to. And why? Because the seed doesn’t add up to much, and nothing else adds up either. You need to do more than turn over a fresh leaf all the time. A few tips would be useful, a bit of practical