‘Everything has two sides.’
Sven turns the letter over. ‘This doesn’t.’
‘It’s my fault, Sven. I should have known—’
‘You did. Otherwise, you couldn’t have done it.’
There’s a rushing sound in my ears. Tears pour down my face.
‘I envy you. You can be proud of yourself,’ says Sven.
‘But I don’t want to live in Marzahn.’
‘We’re not going to live in Marzahn.’
Sven folds up the letter.
‘Then where?’
‘No idea.’
We have frozen pizza from the late-night corner shop; the shops still close at five o’clock, even on Sundays, when they’re allowed to be open.
Frozen pizza is unhealthy. I buy Cola Orange soda too, which makes it even worse.
‘Are we celebrating something?’ Jack asks when we’re sitting at the table.
‘She won a prize,’ says Kieran.
‘Money?’ Jack asks.
I nod.
‘A lot of money?’
Bea groans. ‘By our standards, yes. But not enough for what you want.’
‘What do you want?’ I ask Jack.
‘What do I want?’ Jack asks.
We look at Bea.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘A Ferrari for Christmas.’
‘Yeah!’ yells Kieran.
Sven and Lynn say nothing, as usual, and eat their pizza.
There are six of us. It’s like being in a film.
Our flat has been whipped out from under our arses, and we don’t know where to go.
There’s jaunty Jack, eleven years old, with his stinking dental brace next to his glass of Cola Orange soda. He’d love to be a millionaire rapper, a YouTube star, a football god. He knocks back his drink in one gulp, and his dark eyes flash as he refills his glass right to the very top.
‘Stop!’ cries Kieran. ‘You scumbag.’ A fighter whose face is already grim and furrowed. You can see the man he will become, with hunched shoulders and a piece in his waistband, prowling the streets. God help the person who tries to pull anything on him.
Lynn chews on her pizza in silence. Her gaze wanders across the heads of her brothers and sister into the distance. The dining-table lamp dabs her dark-blonde hair with highlights. She’s still on her first piece of pizza, unconcerned that somebody might eat her share, or that there might not be enough. She has no food envy.
And Bea, the eldest, self-disciplined daughter, goes without Cola Orange soda. She feeds on the knowledge that one single glass has the equivalent of fifteen sugar cubes—
And then there are the parents. They only have themselves to blame, but in the bosom of the family, they radiate a childish innocence. At least they have produced and reared these four so far. Resi, who seems quite tired in her ugly red tights, and Sven, who says as little as his youngest daughter and is already rolling himself a cigarette. They’re basically nice people, and don’t deserve to be out on the street in two weeks instead of dragging a Christmas tree up the stairs, a large but crooked one without a proper top, because they were going cheap and it was already shedding its needles.
‘Typical,’ says Bea, who is in charge of decorating it and has decided that this year there will only be silver baubles. A bummer for the hand-painted play-dough angels from nursery days. Kieran storms out, banging the door, and Lynn secretly hangs one up anyway in the bottom back corner.
We’re victims. And we’re architects of our own happiness! We can bring it off no matter what the backdrop: we’re the main characters of our own lives!
Christmas Eve with no tree. The children carry their personal belongings in a case each and a backpack. We parents are shouldering the kitchen equipment and memories.
In the late afternoon, the InterCity to Hanover has some free seats again, and from there they take the privatised regional train, then the bus. Okay, no one takes buses anymore — so it’s a taxi. Or rather two taxis, or a minibus cab, otherwise they wouldn’t all fit in.
Spending Christmas Eve with the grandparents is fine. There might be presents in the backpack. And anyway, it’s the holiday season, and the pensioned couple in the living room have spent much too long on their own. Finally, some life in the old place!
There are endless stories about eight-year-old boys who soften the hearts of their seventy-year-old grandpas and bring light into their dark, curtained lives. It’s a popular genre: the other six just stay in the background of the story and the living room of a ramshackle detached home in Lüneburger Heide. On a Friday evening, the TV audience won’t pay too much attention to details and plotlines—
Perhaps Christmas Eve in K23 around Frank and Vera’s Christmas tree would be nicer.
They have driven to Stuttgart with Willi and Leon in their Volkswagen camper van, but they have put up a tree in Berlin anyway to get into the mood. Or for the cats?
Whatever the case might be, there’s the tree, brightly decorated and going spare, and around it, their ex-friends’ pile of belongings, spilling out of suitcases and rucksacks.
When Frank and Vera return, we’ll have to think up something quick. We can write suggestions on a flipchart. Who knows, perhaps there’ll be a piece of Christmas cake going spare too?
At least there’ll be a decent discussion. Perspectives will be added. What will Frank say, for example, when he can no longer hide behind his stamp but has a speaking role? It could be really exciting: the plot will develop from the confrontation, and even if the end is predictable, the family will make sure they celebrate Christmas outside Zone A too.
Disparaging looks from the old-time residents in the far-flung district of Ahrensfelde. In the unofficial balcony-decoration competition, the newcomers are barely contenders. But next year they’ll be initiated, and then they’ll be among the best. They’ll put up fairy lights and inflate plastic Santas.
The move is a kind of experiment. Resi can write a book about it: what it’s like to live outside Zone A or B. What makes the neighbours tick: gruff voices, tender hearts. And the fact that Resi and Sven still smoke makes their integration into the community easier. Jack
