They Divided the Sky: A Novel by Christa Wolf

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Christa Wolf 159 “Then I kept wandering around. Don’t even know exactly where. And yes, I really did meet a girl from before. She didn’t want me …” He pushed these hours aside, and said, “I couldn’t stand losing you. You know that. I will try to control myself. I’ll stop running around like a nut. I will stop being jealous.” She smiled. You will keep on running around the world like that. You will keep on being jealous. And? And we will keep on loving each other. But Rita knew now: we’re not safe from anything. We’re just as exposed to all the dangers as anyone else. Anything that happens to others can happen to us, too. She forgot this after a while. But she noticed that not a day went by without her expecting a disaster. 25. She had another two or three weeks. No matter how hard she tries to remember, those weeks have been deleted from her memory. The days must have gone by, they must have talked to each other, they must have lived—she doesn’t remember a thing. Manfred left, just for a few days, to attend a chemistry conference in Berlin; she doesn’t even remember if she missed him or had a sense of foreboding. She remembers only one thing: Frau Herrfurth met her at the door one evening (I wonder what she’s so happy about today, Rita thought, with an unpleasant premonition) and held out a letter from Manfred. Rita still didn’t know. She opened the letter, she read it, but she didn’t understand a word. She didn’t understand until his mother said, “He’s finally seen reason. He’s staying there.” She was content. She’d done her work. Rita read, “I’ll let you know when to come. I live only for the day you’re with me again. Don’t ever forget.” Only someone in our immediate surroundings can touch us this way, someone who knows our most vulnerable spot, who can take his they divided the sky 160 time to aim and strike because he knows: you’re not expecting this. Can someone who causes so much pain actually be gone? Frau Herrfurth said, “Of course, you will continue to live here.” She could afford to be sympathetic now. Things would remain the same, right? She would just clear a few things out of the room—his clothes and his laundry, his books, a bookcase. Oneevening,Cleopatratheturtle,whohadwokenfromhibernation, wandered back and forth, back and forth, across the bare floorboards in the last strip of sunlight. Rita watched her until her eyes hurt. She got up and put the animal in its box. Suddenly it was disgusting to touch her. The dull, sad gaze of her ancient eyes seemed sinister. Rita went to bed. She lay with her arms folded under her head, staring at the ceiling. Completely still. She felt a deadly rigidity creep up inside her. That was all right, she didn’t mind. He’s gone away. Like some passing acquaintance, he left the house and shut the door behind him. He’s gone away and will never return. We smile indulgently about old books that tell of frightening chasms and terrifying but irresistible temptations. They do not lie. Rita spoke to no one during this time. She gathered up the last remnants of her strength and protected herself with silence. She let Sigrid, eager, grateful Sigrid, tow her along through the feverish exam period. She did what she was told. Sometimes she felt a little perplexed: how was it possible to drift off like this, die off bit by bit, among all the others, and have nobody notice … But she didn’t complain. She hardly suffered. She was just the outer shell of herself. She was wandering through stage sets like a shadow, unsurprised that real things—walls and houses and streets— silently moved aside for her. It hurt to touch people. She avoided them. In the Herrfurths’ apartment, which Rita never set foot in again (“living coffin, dining coffin, sleeping coffin”), a bitter struggle had broken out. A struggle for life or death, as it later turned out. Frau Herrfurth could only interpret her son’s flight as a signal that she Christa Wolf 161 herself should go. She demanded that her husband immediately burn all his bridges. I’ve prepared...