“Thirty minutes.” He, too, spoke in broad Berlin dialect.
The couple nodded to reinforce this statement.
“Everywhere’s closed,” added another man. “It’s the energy crisis. Makes you wonder there’s anywhere open at all.”
“You know what it’s like,” whispered the other man—obviously encouraged by so much fellow feeling. “Can you name the four archenemies of socialism?”
The couple exchanged glances again.
“Spring, summer, fall, winter,” said the man, chuckling to himself. The couple exchanged more glances.
Sasha laughed.
Kurt had heard that joke already, from Gunther before the Party meeting.
They left the restaurant after waiting for fifteen minutes. At least they had warmed up slightly.
“There’s Stockinger over there,” said Sasha. “Expensive, though.”
“My God,” said Kurt.
They crossed to the other side of Schonhauser Allee. Sure enough, Stockinger was open. Furthermore, there were still tables available. Or anyway, a notice on the door said:
After a while a waiter wearing a bow tie appeared.
“A table for two,” said Sasha.
The waiter looked him up and down: his mended jacket, his washed-out jeans, his scratched, dirty hiking shoes.
“Sorry, all reserved right now,” said the waiter.
“But there’s no Reserved notice on that table,” said Sasha.
“I said sorry, but it’s all reserved. Try the Balkan Grill over the road.”
Sasha marched past the waiter and into the restaurant.
“Sasha, don’t,” said Kurt.
The waiter followed Sasha, trying to grasp his arm.
“Kindly take your hands off me,” said Sasha.
“Kindly leave this restaurant,” said the waiter.
Sasha sat down at an empty table and waved to Kurt.
“Come on!”
A second waiter arrived, and shortly after that a third. Kurt left the restaurant and waited outside. After a while Sasha came out and joined him.
“What’s the idea? Why didn’t you come in?”
“I don’t feel like kicking up a fuss,” said Kurt. “We’ll look for somewhere else.”
“There won’t be anywhere else. The Peking is gay. And there won’t be anything but bockwurst, at the most, at the subway bar.”
They went on in the direction of Alexanderplatz, on the left-hand side of Schonhauser Allee now. Kurt waited a while before asking the question that had been on his mind for the last twenty-five minutes.
“What do you mean, you’ve finished your studies?”
“I mean I’m not studying anymore.”
“Have you finished your dissertation?”
“I’m not going to finish my dissertation.”
“Look, have you gone right out of your mind?”
Sasha did not reply.
“You can’t throw it all up so soon before qualifying. What are you going to do without a degree? Work on a building site or something?”
“I don’t know,” said Sasha. “But I know what I
“Nonsense,” said Kurt. “Are you saying that I’ve been lying all my life?”
Again, Sasha did not reply.
“You chose your subject for yourself,” said Kurt. “No one forced you to study history, on the contrary…”
“You advised me against it, yes, I know. You’ve always advised me against things. Everything! I suppose I ought to be glad you didn’t advise me against existing.”
“Don’t talk such garbage,” said Kurt.
However, the idea seemed to amuse Sasha.
“But I do exist,” he cried. “I exist!”
Kurt stopped. He tried to keep his voice as calm as possible.
“I beg you, just for once in your life listen to my advice. Right now you’re in an unstable frame of mind. You ought not to be making decisions in a state like that.”
“My mind is perfectly clear,” said Sasha. “It’s never been clearer.”
His breath rose in vapor. He looked at Kurt. There it was again: that crazy expression.
“Right,” said Kurt. “Do as you like. But then…”
“Then what?” said Sasha.
All Kurt could think of to say was, “Then it’s all over.”
“Oh, is it, though?” said Sasha.
“You’re out of your mind,” said Kurt.
His words were drowned out by the roar of approaching traffic, and Kurt said it again, shouted it again:
“You are right out of your mind!”
“And you,” shouted Sasha, pointing at Kurt, “you advise me not to study history when you’re a historian yourself! So who’s out of his mind now?”
“Oh,” shouted Kurt. “So now you’re telling me how to live my life? That really is the limit! If you’d lived my life, you’d be dead!”
“Here we go again,” said Sasha, perfectly calm all of a sudden.
“Yes, here we go again,” shouted Kurt. And although the noise of the traffic had ebbed again, he went on shouting. “Living in clover! Your mother gets you an apartment! Your father pays your car insurance…” Sasha took a key off his key ring and held it in front of Kurt’s face. “Here you are, the car key.”
“For heaven’s sake, in other places people are starving to death,” shouted Kurt.
Sasha dropped the key on the ground, turned, and walked on. “That’s right,” shouted Kurt. “Starving to death.”
The wind whistled.
A woman coming toward Kurt made a wide detour around him.
Another subway train passed, this time going in the direction of Alex. The people inside it were sitting motionless—like cardboard cutouts. The train gradually came down from the overhead track and disappeared underground. Cardboard cutouts and all. Going to hell, thought Kurt, not quite sure what he meant by that.
The car key that Sasha had thrown at his feet had disappeared in the snow. Kurt put on his glasses. The snow was dirty and yellowish. Kurt shrank from putting his hand into it. He felt around for the key with his foot, but couldn’t find it. At last he groped in the snow with his hands after all—but the key was gone. Gone to hell.
Kurt went on. Followed his son. He walked fast, but he did not run. From the place where the subway trains disappeared underground, Schonhauser Allee turned into bleak terrain. No more bars. No display windows. No people. Only up ahead, fifty or sixty meters in front of Kurt, a thin figure with its hair shorn: his son.
Not turning around, simply walking on.
To the left the Jewish cemetery appeared: the long wall bordering the cemetery itself. Kurt had never set foot in it, and had never wanted to. To be honest, he hated cemeteries. Although it was odd that you never saw anyone going in or coming out. It was also odd that the subway ran so close to the cemetery, taking its passengers
