Vera loves me.
I love her too.
I was never envious of her, not even as a child, although her parents had a house with an enormous garden, a massive fridge that was always well stocked with food, which we were allowed to help ourselves to. The garage was the size of a small house and full of clutter — including skis, of course — and in the cellar, there was a deep freezer with popsicles.
It doesn’t sound like anything special to you, Bea, because everybody has them these days. But back then, you could only buy popsicles in a shop or at the petrol station. It wasn’t something you had at home. But Vera did. Vera had it all and more, but that was okay. She wasn’t mean; she shared. And most of all, with me, her soulmate and friend.
1981; Stuttgart.
Vera and I were special. Our friendship went deeper than anyone else’s, and we were going to accomplish things no one had before. Our future was a shining beacon, our strength was infinite.
When people asked us what we wanted to be, we would say: ‘Chancellor of Germany.’ Because we were sure that no other girl would say something like that. We hadn’t a clue what chancellors did, but we knew they had power. And that a woman had never been chancellor, so we would be the first, like in so many other things.
We bragged and we were bold. We painted our faces and played pirates. Pretended that the world belonged to us. And it did.
We bellowed songs on the tram until old people stepped in, then we outdid each other in impertinent replies to their scolding. Those people had no idea of all the other things we could do.
We were strong. We were equal.
Our family homes looked different because our families were different. Vera’s mother was more laid back than mine about eating salami without bread. At Vera’s, we could eat and do as we pleased. And we didn’t have to clean up after ourselves. We were supposed to play and feel at home. I felt at home.
1984; Stuttgart.
We both wore berets: Vera’s was pink, mine was turquoise. We never took them off, ever, especially when we were asked to.
‘Ladies may keep on their hats in enclosed quarters,’ Vera said, in reply to her English teacher’s request to take hers off. She should know, after all — just look at the Queen.
We giggled.
‘Does your hat have a religious meaning?’ my sports teacher asked, and I was briefly tempted to say it did, but I didn’t want to lie, and so I said: ‘Well, kind of. To me it does.’ Which the teacher let pass, because she liked me, and so I was allowed to keep it on.
We talked to each other about our battles in the afternoons and at weekends, because we now went to separate schools. I didn’t know why that was, just that Marianne was upset about it. I didn’t mind. Vera and I fought for freedom and justice at our separate outposts, and then counted our successes afterwards. And we were very successful; in our reports to each other perhaps more than in reality. But mostly, we couldn’t wait to see what life would be like in the glorious time after school was over. Like famous female pirates Anne Bonny and Mary Read, we’d hoist the flag and sail away, and nothing and no one would be able to stop us.
Marianne didn’t explain to me why she was upset. She didn’t want the parents’ differences to cast a cloud on the girls’ friendship. And anyway, perhaps she was wrong: perhaps sending your child to a private school wasn’t a decision based on principles, but just a concession to the grandparents’ wishes. And so, not a rejection of the joint social project that was supposed to change everything. Marianne didn’t dare explain all this. Or her hope was greater.
1991; Stuttgart.
School was out for ever, and we were ready to start the new phase of our lives. No matter what our A-level certificates said, it was going to consist of art, sex, agriculture, and house-squatting; of brightly painted rooms, sofas in the kitchen, shooting films, making masks and puppets, doing street theatre, and singing as we drove through southern Europe in converted vans. Starting bands, or at least having sex with musicians in converted vans. And, of course, goats wandering among old barns.
Where did it all come from? Our imaginations or the vans? Old barns or musicians?
We wondered that too. And we soon realised we had to reconsider, study for some kind of career and learn instruments, find allies or sponsors, and suitable places or possibilities to set them up so that our ideas could become a reality.
Vera’s father wanted Vera to get a degree. Especially because she was a woman.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ we asked, outraged. And we really didn’t know.
But in the end, Vera accepted his money and went to a private design school. In the end, she was the best paid of all of us for a while because she could use Photoshop and edit digital videos before anybody else could. I didn’t take computers seriously. I wanted something tangible. I applied for art school and got rejected. I didn’t care — those who failed there would end up as teachers anyway.
1993–94; Berlin.
At last! A taste of the life we’d always wanted. One and a half years in Mühsamstraße in the house Christian’s father bought or repossessed or came by in whichever way — we didn’t care; Christian found it and told us, and we arrived and set off, pointing our Super-8 camera at it all.
Kurt Cobain sang that Sunday morning was every day, for all he cared. His voice patched together the contradictions, shaded over the parts where the ideas didn’t quite meet reality. The sun shone down on us.
I cleaned and cooked and proofread. The others went to university twice a week and got money from their parents. The main thing was to
