they divided the sky 164 They didn’t talk about him. Rita did not have to worry that a small spark of misplaced hope might light up Wendland’s eyes when the other man’s name came up. As always she could look into this reliable face for a long time. No other face could help her in this situation the way his could. And she told him that. He understood her so clearly that even that didn’t light a spark of hope in his eyes. 26. That July the sun shone equally on the just and the unjust. When it shone. It was a rainy summer. August started well: hot and dry, with high open skies, though people hardly noticed, except when they looked up at the planes, more numerous than usual, that were flying over the country. “Let August be over,” people said, “and a bit of September. Nobody starts a war late in the year.” Rita thought: you can’t even talk about summer or winter without that coming up. Later we will wonder how we ever put up with this. There is no getting used to it. You never get used to this kind of pressure. It is the first Sunday of August. Early morning, and Rita is on the fast train to Berlin. Since yesterday she has had a letter on her that says: “This is the moment. I expect you any day. Don’t ever forget … ” Nobody knows where she is going—that is the advantage of living alone and not having to render accounts. And nobody, not even she herself, can predict whether she will return. Though her suitcase is light. She is going to him without any luggage. As though to test out this option, she lets her farewell gaze slip over the chimneys that slide along the horizon, over villages, woods, a single tree, groups of people who are harvesting grain in the fields. A week earlier she was working here, in this very region, with Hänschen and some of the others from the train carriage plant. She knows the harvest will be poor, and that it is difficult to bring in even what little there is. But are those still her Christa Wolf 165 worries? Everywhere in the world there are trees and chimneys and grain fields … It would be a hot day. Rita took off her jacket. Unbidden, another passenger reached out to help her. She thanked him, and studied him more carefully. A tall, slender fellow with a pale, long face, glasses, brown hair. Nothing special. His gaze was a little intrusive, or was she imagining that? He averted his eyes when she looked at him. Still, his presence felt oppressive. She got up and went to stand at an open window in the passage. She liked the way one image after another appeared inside the strict frame of the window, colourful and diverse. Only the sky remained the same for a long time: pale morning blue, lit by the low angle of the sun, a few light grey clouds that dispersed as the day progressed. So, what else do you want? Hadn’t he written in a way that allayed all her doubts? He’s waiting for you the way you wait for freedom after a long period of imprisonment, or for food and drink after a long period of hunger and thirst. So, take your little suitcase—it doesn’t matter if it’s light or heavy—and go to him. A two hour train ride; it’s laughably short. And it’s the most natural, most real thing in the world. So what’s the matter? This aching feeling that just won’t go away? You can’t go by that. That’s not a measure. “Are you happy, my child?” Oh, mother, that’s not the issue anymore. And besides, isn’t that exactly the question, a question you think still makes sense to ask, that separates us from you, the constant worriers, the well-meaning oldies, the ones who understand absolutely nothing. All of a sudden she knew what had bothered her about the letter. The same words that had always worked to smooth out a misunderstanding or a shadow between them were no longer sufficient. She wished she’d seen it more clearly: he knows exactly what he’s asking of me, but he has no choice. The casual way he’d abandoned her, though (“they offered me opportunities here...