They Divided the Sky: A Novel by Christa Wolf

24.

Christa Wolf 151 When they got home that evening he took her past the door to his parents’ apartment, where their supper was waiting for them. He led her into their little room, pulled her over to the window that was framing a cloudy-pink sunset. He took her face in his hands and looked at her closely. There was no trace of arrogance or provocation. “What are you looking for?” she asked fearfully. “The fixed point,” he replied. “The fixed point one needs to not get completely lost … ” “You’re looking for it in me?” “Where else?” he asked. “So weren’t you sure of me anymore?” “Yes, I was, my little brown miss,” Manfred said. “Please let me always be sure.” “As sure as you want,” she replied. They kept their eyes shut. How far and how long and through what strokes of fate could love offer certainty? 24. May was cold that year. The people, who longed for warmth, felt cheated and grumpily kept stoking their stoves; the fruit trees in the gardens blossomed in vain. The wind swept the snowy petals into the gutters. But still, all this—the cold, the sadly swirling useless blooms, and the penetrating wind—should not have been reason enough to make a person feel cold and fearful to the very depths of their soul. Rita had come to know the city well. When she closed her eyes she could see every detail of the streets and squares in her head, the way you retain images you have seen a hundred times. But in the light of these May days the city felt strange. A vague menace hung in the heavy clouds covering the sky, and a sombre flood of lies, stupidity and betrayal seemed to be collecting below ground. This was still invisible, but how much longer would it take for it to start seeping through the cracks of houses and basement windows into the streets? The people’s deep discomfort was sometimes vented in oaths and they divided the sky 152 furious outbursts in the overcrowded streetcars. Rita was equally perturbed by Erwin Schwarzenbach’s tense and focused manner whenever he stepped into the classroom, as though he were ready for any kind of surprise, primed for any kind of fight. He was more sensitive than usual, but at the same time demanded more from them, and combatted any sign of laxity with unusually severe sanctions. But worst of all was the change in Manfred. Distress and danger had combined to narrow his focus to one point. Only sometimes, when he was with her, did he have the burning desire to at least suffer. She was the only person he was still careful with. He was openly hateful to his parents. Every evening Rita expected the worst when she sat in the circle of light cast by the Herrfurths’ lamp. She hardly knew what she was eating, and paid no attention to the paltry conversations. She listened only to the smooth, trained voice of the radio announcer (Eine freie Stimme der freien Welt: A free voice from the free world), who provided Frau Herrfurth with her dogma. When would this voice drop its civility and strike? When would it make the shift from promises to threats? Rita looked up from her plate at the faces of the others: the nervous, irritated flicker in Frau Herrfurth’s eyes, Herr Herrfurth’s pathetic indifference, Manfred’s impenetrable hatred. No one kept up appearances any longer. Not even the most superficial conversation. Naked alienation. Only once was there another flare-up: one night Manfred pressured his father so savagely that he finally admitted: yes, I was removed from my position at the factory. Yes, I am now a bookkeeper. Frau Herrfurth reached for her heart and ran sobbing from the room. Manfred kept up a stream of ridicule until Rita sharply told him off. He stopped in mid-sentence and left the room. Rita stayed behind, alone with his father. Herr Herrfurth looked at her plaintively, not trying to maintain any of his usual pose, his manliness, his chivalry. “Miss Rita,” he said, “I believe you are a good person. Maybe you can tell me, what did I do to deserve this?” Christa Wolf 153 “And you find that upsetting?” Manfred asked her later. “The same old story of the toothless old folks who don’t want to harvest what...