The Draining Lake

ancient cooker. There was an old-fashioned stove beside it. He looked around for his friend, but could not see him. And as he was looking at the group in the kitchen, he suddenly realised that it was a mixed residence.

One of the young women came over to him and said something in German. Although he had studied German at school, he did not understand her. In halting German, he asked her to speak more slowly.

“Are you looking for someone?” she asked.

“I’m looking for Emil,” he said. “He’s from Iceland.”

“Are you from Iceland too?”

“Yes. What about you? Where are you from?”

“Dresden,” the girl said. “I’m Maria.”

“My name’s Tomas,” he said and they shook hands.

“Tomas?” she repeated. “There are a few Icelanders at the university. They often visit Emil. Sometimes we have to throw them out because they sing all night. Your German’s not so bad.”

“Thanks. Schoolboy German. Do you know about Emil?”

“He’s on rat duty,” she said. “Down in the basement. It’s swarming with rats here. Do you want a cup of tea? They’re setting up a canteen on the top floor, but until then we have to cater for ourselves.”

“Rat duty?!”

“They come out at night. That’s the best time to catch them.”

“Are there a lot?”

“If we kill ten, twenty take their place. But it’s better now than it was during the war.”

Instinctively he looked around the floor as if expecting to see the creatures darting between people’s feet. If anything repulsed him it was rats.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and when he turned round he saw his friend standing behind him, smiling. Holding them by their tails, he lifted up two gigantic rats. He had a spade in his other hand.

“A spade’s the best thing to kill them with,” Emil said.

He was quick to adjust to his surroundings: the smell of rising damp, the appalling smell from the bathroom on the middle floor, a stink that spread through the whole building, the rotten futons, the creaking chairs and the primitive cooking facilities. He simply put them out of his mind and knew that the post-war reconstruction would be a lengthy process.

The university was excellent despite its frugal facilities. The teaching staff were highly qualified, the students were enthusiastic and he did well on his course. He got to know the engineering students who were either from Leipzig or other German cities, or from neighbouring countries, especially from Eastern Europe. Like him, several were on grants from the East German government. In fact, the students at the Karl Marx University seemed to be from all over the world. He soon met Vietnamese and Chinese students, who tended to keep themselves to themselves. There were Nigerians too, and in the room next door to his in the old villa lived a pleasant Indian by the name of Deependra.

The small group of Icelanders in the city stuck very closely together. Karl came from a little fishing village and was studying journalism. His faculty, nicknamed the Red Cloister, was said to admit only party hardliners. Rut was from Akureyri. She had chaired the youth movement there and now studied literature, specialising in Russian. Hrafnhildur was studying German language and literature, while Emil, from western Iceland, was an economics undergraduate. One way or another most of them had been picked out by the Socialist Party of Iceland for study grants in East Germany. They would meet up in the evenings and play cards or listen to Deependra’s jazz records, or go to the local bar and sing Icelandic songs. The university ran an active film club and they watched Battleship Potemkin and discussed film as a vehicle for propaganda. They talked politics with other students. Attendance was compulsory at the meetings and talks held by the students” organisation Freie Deutsche Jugend — abbreviated as FDJ — the only society allowed to operate at the university. Everyone wanted to forge a new and better world.

All apart from one. Hannes had been in Leipzig the longest of all the Icelanders and avoided the others. Two months passed before Tomas first met him. He knew about Hannes from Reykjavik: the party had big plans for him. The chairman had mentioned his name at an editorial meeting and referred to him as material for the future. Like Tomas, Hannes had worked as a journalist on the party paper and he heard stories about him from the reporters. Tomas had seen Hannes speaking at meetings in Reykjavik and was impressed by his zeal, his phrases about how warmongering cowboys could buy out democracy in Iceland, how Icelandic politicians were puppets in the hands of American imperialists. “Democracy in this country is not worth a shit for as long as the American army spreads its filth over Icelandic soil!” he had shouted to thunderous applause. In his first years in East Germany, Hannes had written a regular column called Letter from the East, describing the wonders of the communist system, until the articles had ceased to appear. The other Icelanders in the city had little to say about Hannes. He had gradually distanced himself from them and had gone his own way. Occasionally they discussed this but shrugged as if it were none of their business.

One day he came across Hannes in the university library. Evening had fallen, there were few people at the desks and Hannes had his head buried in his books. It was cold and blustery outside. Sometimes it was so cold in the library that people’s breath steamed when they talked. Hannes was wearing a long overcoat and a cap with ear muffs. The library had suffered badly in the air raids and only part of it was in use.

“Aren’t you, Hannes?” he asked in a friendly tone. “We’ve never met.”

Hannes looked up from his books.

“I’m Tomas.” He held out his hand.

Hannes stared at him and the outstretched hand, then buried his head back in his books.

“Leave me alone,” he said.

Tomas was surprised. He had not expected such a reception from his compatriot, least of all from this man, who enjoyed great respect and had impressed him so deeply.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. Of course, you’re studying.”

Instead of answering, Hannes went on jotting notes from the open books on the table in front of him. He wrote quickly in pencil and was wearing fingerless gloves to keep his hands warm.

“I was just wondering if we could have a coffee sometime,” Tomas went on. “Or a beer.”

Hannes did not reply. Tomas stood over him, waiting for some kind of response, but when none came he slowly backed off from the table and turned away. He was halfway behind a rack of books when Hannes looked up from his tomes and at last answered him.

“Did you say Tomas?”

“Yes, we’ve never met but I’ve heard…”

“I know who you are,” Hannes said. “I was like you once. What do you want from me?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just to say hello. I was sitting over on that side and I’ve been watching you. I only wanted to say hello. I went to a meeting once where you—”

“What do you think of Leipzig?” Hannes interrupted.

“Brass-monkey weather and bad food but the university’s good and the first thing I’m going to do when I get back to Iceland is to campaign for legalising beer.”

Hannes smiled.

“That’s true, the beer’s the best thing about this place.”

“Maybe we could have a jar together sometime,” Tomas said.

“Maybe,” Hannes said, and delved back into his books. Their conversation was over.

“What do you mean, you were like me once?” Tomas asked hesitantly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Hannes said, looking up and scrutinising him. He hesitated.

“Take no notice of me,” he said. “It’ll do you no good.”

Confused, he walked out of the library and into the piercing winter wind. On the way to the dormitory he met Emil and Rut. They had been to collect a package posted from Iceland for her. It was a food parcel and they were gloating over it. He did not mention his encounter with Hannes because he did not understand what he had meant.

“Lothar was looking for you,” Emil said. “I told him you were at the library.”

“I didn’t see him,” he said. “Do you know what he wanted?”