September 2014.
You remember, don’t you?
You were there too, Bea, at the huge christening party for Fritz, the son of Vera’s friend Nele, for whom Frank was the sperm donor.
You kids didn’t think it was anything special. Fritz was just a chubby baby with two mums. A father is necessary, but he doesn’t have to be the dad.
Frank donated sperm so that Nele and Tina could have a child, and it was Vera’s idea to have the post-christening party in K23, because there was plenty of room, and the right atmosphere, and we were one big happy family, and Fritz was part of this colourful chosen family and its gene pool.
Of course, there were a few pensive frowns here and there; somebody standing next to the tall grasses by the rubbish containers with a glass of beer wondered what he should make of this whole queer family business — some old uncle from Bavaria who immediately got a top-up from one of the mothers in a strappy dress. She had been standing at the font earlier; in fact, there was a real crowd up there, what with the mothers, the biological father, his wife, and three godparents. The uncle wondered who was who again, and who you-know-whatted whom? But that was precisely what this was all about: uncles like these were no longer in charge but had to stand and be quiet next to tall grasses by the rubbish bins and drink their beer. And the rest of the people at the party were happy that Fritz had been born and would have a good life, with his two mothers and two half-brothers, and the donor father who was throwing a frisbee around in the back garden, while his wife and her friends passed the cute baby around, in a house whose garden was such a wonderful place to celebrate in.
I realise I sound ironic, Bea. Even though it’s all true.
It was a fantastic party, there were piles of food, and everybody looked terrific. You had those plaits, do you remember? And that red velvet skirt. Tina already fitted back into her black jeans, although Fritz was only four months old, and Nele was wearing a dress that Vera had bought for herself from Oxfam years ago and never wore, but which Nele looked great in; she’s one of those women who can really wear 1950s dresses. The atmosphere was fantastic. The weather played along.
The only person who didn’t want to play along — surprise, surprise — was Willi.
‘That’s not my brother! I don’t know him!’ he yelled in the church. So loudly and angrily that everybody heard him.
Do you remember?
You were supposed to go up to the altar, all you children, and make a circle for Fritz. The pastor was an old friend of the family’s, one of the ’68 generation, progressive and well-meaning. He’d come up with a plan to stop the kids being bored and include them in the ritual. You were all called up to the front to make a circle for Fritz — to welcome him into the community together. ‘As your friend and brother!’ said the pastor, and you were supposed to raise your arms and cry out ‘Welcome, Fritz!’
Which you all did, you big kids slightly hesitantly. You threw me a look, then joined in.
Only Willi refused. ‘He’s not my brother!’ he yelled and tried to run away.
Frank bounded over to him in two strides and grabbed him by the arm.
‘Let go!’ Willi yelled. ‘You can’t make me! He’s not my brother and never will be!’
And Frank covered his mouth with one hand and dragged him out.
Not that I didn’t understand Frank’s reaction; Willi, of all people, Fritz’s real half-brother. It was embarrassing, especially as Willi hadn’t properly understood. The pastor had meant ‘brother’ in the sense of ‘fellow believer’ or ‘comrade’, hadn’t he? Not as a reference to Frank’s sperm donation. But why couldn’t Frank accept Willi’s refusal to take part? Why did he react so harshly?
It was a delightful party, but one where nothing was supposed to disturb the planning — a family gathering where you had to keep your mouth shut and play along, like at any family party. Sure, the circumstances were different, and other people had to shut up — the Bavarian uncle instead of Berlin butches — but it wasn’t liberal and carefree either, let’s not kid ourselves.
But we did.
Because we weren’t going to let our display of a colourful, progressive get-together be ruined any more than others would their patriarchal hierarchy or happy family. Not by a snotty-nosed brat like Willi, and certainly not by a hallucinating witch like me, who only sees the worst in everything.
I open my eyes again. Ulf, who is drinking quite quickly, has already finished his second bottle of beer, and I ask: ‘Do you want another?’
He shakes his head.
‘What do you think you’re going to change?’ he asks. ‘Why didn’t you step in straight away if it was such a big deal for you?’
‘Because I was afraid. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as I thought. Perhaps it just comes with the territory. Perhaps it would go away if I ignored it. There’s always something going on, and always somebody who ends up crying, and on the whole, it was really nice.’
‘You obviously didn’t think so.’
‘But I wanted it to be. I wanted everything to be nice — you, your house, our friendship, the past, the future, the children, the parties. Why do you think I didn’t want it to be nice?’
‘Because you don’t act like it.’
‘No! Willi wants it to be nice too. Everybody does. BUT – IT – ISN’T – NICE!’
Ulf glances to one side where a group of young women is sitting. They’re still radiant and fresh, so clearly they’re not mothers, and they don’t seem bothered by me screaming my head off. The
