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

I’m wondering whether this type of list is of any use to anyone.

I bet the only person who sticks in your mind for longer than two seconds is Friederike — because she has such a great nickname that sums up her character. Like in a school yearbook: ‘Friederike, the Fusspot, “Everybody knows that.”’

When we did our A-levels in the early 1990s, some of our classmates made a yearbook because they’d watched too many American high school films. Ulf, Friederike, Christian, and I were grouped together on a page and called ‘The Brains’.

I had to explain to my mother that it meant we were intellectuals but that it probably wasn’t meant nicely. There was also a page for the ‘Knitting Betties’ (the girls who always got out their knitting gear in class) and the page for the ‘No Names’ (the people no one could come up with a name for.)

‘Fusspot’ can be translated as ‘having high standards’; and at eighteen, we were all fusspots, of course — snobbish intellectuals in the eyes of our simpler classmates who liked to party. And then we all moved to Berlin where anyone who thinks they’re someone ends up.

That’s really how basic it is.

And yet it’s true.

Speaking of true.

It’s a battle cry, Bea. I’m using it in a crude effort to make my story seem plausible. It’d be smarter to assume that it seems true by itself. Because you know Friederike! And you understand the thing with the show-offs ending up in Berlin.

The truth is: these are all just words. True words, of course, because why would I write rubbish?

Another story you’ll hear again and again, ad nauseum (or until you’re ready for the gas chambers, as my anti-intellectual classmates would have said, not understanding why that was problematic) is that, sooner or later, the truth will out. Concealing the truth doesn’t work, and hushing it up definitely doesn’t either, and sweeping it under the carpet means it will come back to bite you in the bum. So I’m not even going to try.

I learn from stories, you see.

It’s better than following the principles of a mythical ‘social consensus’, which we call ‘common sense’ in a crude effort to make it seem plausible.

‘Hey, everybody knows that people grow apart, especially when you’re over forty and have kids.’

Yes, exactly. In my case, that means we’ll all be out on the street in January, or our rent will be three times as high.

‘Everybody knows that children cost money, grow up, and need more space. You should have thought about whether you could afford them in the first place.’

Yes, exactly. I’ve lived beyond my means, and now it’s my problem where that leaves me.

Not in Zone A, that’s for sure.

Living in the city centre is not a human right, as a member of the Berlin Housing Department put it. And in a couple of years, perhaps even months, this too will be incorporated into ‘common sense’; and anybody who thinks differently is a late starter.

I’m not going to complain. Pity is for the meek; and for mice whose idea of contributing to the common good has been misunderstood. Those who complain and those who are out of touch steal empathy from the others.

There’s no way I’m going to want something I can’t have. I don’t want to be a victim. I’m strong. I can get a grip on my feelings, and, if need be, tell myself lies, like the fox who says the grapes are ‘too sour’ because he can’t reach them.

Another one of those stories, Bea.

We’re surrounded by stories.

‘Everybody knows that’ is one too, albeit a very short one.

As long as Friederike tells hers, I’ll tell mine, in which the main character takes ‘Everybody knows that’ to mean ‘Shut your mouth, bitch, and just deal with it.’

I know you hate it when I swear. You’re the one thing that keeps me in check, my sweet angel, you’re my better self—

No. You’re just my daughter. And I’m afraid for you. Of you? They’re probably the same thing.

I want you to be happy, or at least not be blamed if you and your brothers and sister make a mess of your lives. But how do you measure a successful life? What do you all need from me? What should I give you? What should I spare you from? What the hell should I do?

‘No matter what you do, it’s wrong,’ as the perennial adage for parents goes. It’s supposed to remove blame, but the effect doesn’t last. Because in the long run, every parent wants to do what’s right.

One way is to do the opposite of your own parents. Even if they did nothing wrong, you’re bound to find something, because no matter what parents do, it’s wrong, so they definitely did something wrong. Which you, in turn, can do differently, and rightly. Wrong again.

Tell me how it’s possible not to lose your mind over these things.

Speaking of losing your mind.

Ingmar has decided I’m mad. And that touched a nerve, because he’s a doctor and has the authority to put people into psychiatric wards.

When people annoy me, I often say they’re mad too, of course, like Ingmar, for example. But it’s different when I say it, because it’s just my way of stating that I don’t agree with his opinions and don’t like how he expresses them, especially considering what might happen to me as a result of his opinion — i.e., being committed to a psychiatric ward.

Ulf replied that I shouldn’t make myself out to be the victim. I started it, after all, and now it was enough.

‘But it’s not enough.’

And off we went again.

‘You’re not the one to decide that, Resi.’

‘Who does then?’

‘Everybody has to decide for themselves.’

‘Exactly. And I’m saying that it’s not enough for me.’

‘We know that. You made sure we all knew that.’

‘Who’s “we”?’

‘You could have been a part of it.’

‘But I didn’t want to.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it wasn’t enough!’

And again, from the top.

‘That’s just your opinion.’

‘Yes, exactly.’

‘Keep it to yourself.’

‘I’m a writer.’

‘Then write