27.
they divided the sky 172 punctually, carefully and without haste. She forced herself to take the time to look in a few kiosk windows on the platform (so those are the oranges and chocolates, the cigarettes and the cheap books … ), and discovered that she had pictured them just like that. She was among the last to reach the barrier. There she encountered a small group of people who were blocking her way, completely engrossed in their own affairs, and expressing effusive joy or profound pain—it was hard to tell. Maybe both. Suddenly, Rita noticed that her fellow traveller from the fast train was at the centre of this group. The woman with whom he’d passed through the barrier was now hanging from his arm, crying openly along with a few other women who had probably come to meet the couple. Rita stopped short. At the same moment, the man spotted her and recognized her. He raised his arm in a greeting—he couldn’t get out of the circle of women—and gave her a knowing smile. Rita quickly ran down the steps. It could not have been a worse start, she thought. Why did that person have to cross her path? Am I as marked as he is by a guilty conscience? 27. She shut her eyes for a moment to have the whole picture in front of her, the way she’d seen it on the big city map, neat and clear. Turn right first. Cross the wide street, where (and the map does not show this) you have to wait for minutes before the impeccably trained policeman executes the elegant arm movements that stop the stream of cars in both directions and let people cross. Turn into the famous shopping street (that has become the source of legends, reputed to be so beautiful, so rich, so brilliant that it hasn’t been able to keep up with its own mythology). Follow this street to the fifth cross street and turn right. Rita entered a quieter area now, still following the thin line she’d drawn on the map and which she saw more clearly than the actual streets. Without once having asked for directions, she was suddenly standing in front of the house where Manfred lived. Christa Wolf 173 She’d been here in her thoughts every day, and now she actually saw it. She suppressed her surprise that this place—an ordinary apartment block in an ordinary city street—could be the object of someone’s longing and their refuge. She stepped into the cool entrance and only then noticed how hot it was outside. Slowly she made her way up the worn but polished linoleum-covered stairs. The harder she felt her heart beat, the more she knew: this is not some harmless venture you’re engaged in. It is risky, and you should not have undertaken it alone. But it’s too late to turn back now. She was already at the door with the bright nameplate. The doorbell was sounding, a brief, thin tone. Footsteps. The gaunt woman in black who stood before her had to be Manfred’s aunt. The entire building gave off a sour smell, redolent of poverty struggling to appear elegant. It was teetering at the edge of the abyss; workers’ housing started one street over. The sour smell and the shiny linoleum in the stairwell had made their way into the dark entrance of the apartment where Rita was now reluctantly ushered in. Bashful, she stepped into a room and in the brighter light got a better view of the woman, who plied her for information. Yes, this was the sister of the deceased Frau Herrfurth. A sister whom fate had discriminated against, at least as far as it was possible to say that a dead person has some advantage over a living one. The slightly triumphant look mixed with self-pity and pious grief on this woman’s face could well have stemmed from the realization that, finally, she had gained the upper hand over her dead sister. “Go ahead,” said Frau Herrfurth’s sister. For the first time since her nephew had been living with her, she was opening his door to a visitor. All the tears Rita shed later were set off by what she saw in the few seconds as she entered the room. Manfred was sitting at a table that had been moved directly in front of the window, with his...
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