PFITZNER entered the room, bearing more silver bullets on a tray. GRAENER brought me a ring of invisibility. The pale man, frowning and rising, said to me: You’ll be in our thoughts when you’re on the other side.
Then I wondered: What is the other side?
That night I had to meet them on Stresemannstrasse. They injected me into the Russian sector right across from the ruined dome of the Haus Vaterland. It took six motivated ex-Nazis to lift up the Iron Curtain for me. There was no distinction between them and me, except that they knew who they were. One of them slapped me between my shoulderblades and whispered: Thank God somebody is finally doing something.—Another one slipped an American cigarette between my lips. NEY whispered a report into her empty basket. Then off I went. I felt as lonely as a dispatch rider cycling off into the enemy’s field of fire.
I floated around, trying to get my bearings.—We’re going to get all that back, the pale man had insisted, but what exactly would we get back? Was he longing for the good old days of Kontroll-Girls in three grades and Bubis in long coats dancing with their Mädis in lesbian bars? The sleepy feeling retreated, leaving me as nauseous as if I’d overdosed ever so slightly on some narcotic.
Location: East Berlin. Russian soldiers were carrying messages in and out of what used to be our Air Ministry, with the Wall before them. I could hardly prevent myself from envying these individuals. They seemed so happy, with their smoke-blackened faces and their looted wristwatches! (Top secret: Their Party already planned to make office blocks out of the Cafe Kranzler.)
This time I had brought with me, disguised as a rolled-up umbrella, one of those old Faustpatronen we’d handed out to the old men in the Home Guard at the very end; this one-shot weapon was meant to kill a tank, and my plan was to blast it through both of Shostakovich’s pianos, in hopes of finally stopping his heart. The pale man in dark glasses would have been disappointed to be informed, if he hadn’t been already, that I’d given up on his silver bullets. As much as I cared to please him, I preferred to be returned to the list of people who could be trusted. The worst part was knowing that I couldn’t trust myself.
As for the ring of invisibility, I’d already lost it. Well, in every mission something goes wrong. No doubt there’s a scientific explanation for that.
Before I knew it, I was in a wintery sort of place whose frosted icicles reminded me of the snow-white walls and crystal bed of the Cave of Love in Gottfried’s Tristan. Somebody was kissing me; I’m fairly sure that this time it was Elena Kruglikova. Now here came evenly spaced tanks (three abreast) clanking down Gorki Street. Quick! I dodged out of sight. Elena seemed disappointed, but only for an instant, since I wasn’t real; she was already dreaming of someone else, probably a certain, well, you know. Where was he? I spied the triple smokestacks of the Aurora protruding from the harbor’s ice; over there, the Univermag Department Store memorialized Stalingrad; now if only I could see the Bronze Horseman… Pretty women from the Home Guard marched past the long facade of the Winter Palace, with their rifles pointed at the sky; they hadn’t yet begun to starve. Then I heard the inimitable sound of Shostakovich’s fingernails clicking down on piano keys; he was about to play this reduction of the Seventh Symphony; Elena Kruglikova was already beginning to sing. There he was! I could see him perfectly through a frostless circle in the window. What an interesting composition it was, without atonal fallacies; the Rat Theme especially, which made me want to dance. (But I’m positive that had I not been eavesdropping, it wouldn’t have appealed to me nearly as much.) I waited until he had finished. He rose from the piano bench, bowing awkwardly, with his fists clenched at his sides, and E. Kruglikova, who in real life might never have met him (I have no confirmed information on this), smiled lustrously; she was wearing a formal black dress and a necklace of frozen tears. Their friends applauded, thereby imitating static on a clandestine radio.
Excuse me, excuse me; it was nothing but a little nothing, apologized Shostakovich (who was codenamed ELENKA; I neglected to tell you that.)
Standing on my tiptoes, I fist-rocketed him as planned, following up with light machine-gun fire until everybody was dead, blackened and pockmarked like Saint Hedwig’s Cathedral—you can count on it! He was gone, just like the Romanisches Café. His severed hands scuttled inside the piano, where they doubtless lived in some sort of nest or spider-hole; but I had plans for that piano! Two hand grenades later, I couldn’t even have picked my teeth with it, it was so perfectly pulverized. I waited. Very cautiously, blood began to leach out of that pile of sawdust, so I must have gotten his heart at last. Then a sky-blue icicle peeped out, so I stamped on it.
I know I should accept it and simply, so to speak, be, well, dead, said Shostakovich, carefully inserting the bloody teeth back into his mouth, especially since not many people listen to music nowadays. It’s all very… But I can’t. There’s something in me that won’t let me accept, how should I say, fate.
I couldn’t think of anything to say. I certainly couldn’t imagine the report I would need to write. Instantly, I was suffering what we used to call a crisis of nerve—bring your own gas mask! And Shostakovich kept pattering on:
Maybe on account of that bastard, you know who, that Kremlin mountaineer who climbed up his heap of corpses; I could have been one of them, but somehow I was never able to surrender, musically I mean, since of course I did abase myself in every other way—not that I joined the Party, at least. Come to think of it, if you want to kill me you’re going to have to make me write false music—
Clearing my throat (why not try to be pleasant?), I ventured: What about your “Song of the Forests,” Herr Schostakowitsch? Isn’t that a bit of Stalinist ass-kissing?
Not at all, my dear friend! I said, not at all! You see, even there, there’s parody—not that that bastard would ever notice—and it’s swollen with self-loathing. But the one I loathe tonight is you. Just because you’re a monster, do you have to be an idiot?
Herr Schostakowitsch, I’m as tired of this as you are.
Now he could put his spectacles back on, so that he could glare at me. He said: Once or even twice, that’s, you know, because I kept saying to myself, he’ll learn. But you haven’t. This is almost not funny anymore.
With perseverance I’d get him. Back in Berlin-West, I took a sleeping tablet and dreamed of Valkyries. When I woke up, I went to the office, where they gave me American instant coffee. The pale man wasn’t there, but somebody codenamed LEHMANN told me that they were all proud of me; even Adenauer had been informed. Would I like another coffee? I felt valuable. This would constitute the turning point. It had better, since my existence in both zones remained potentially punishable.
I could see a long line of shabby shoes marching eastward under the Iron Curtain, and in a counterattack of self-confidence I told myself: Let those poor dreamers queue up to be examined; as for me, I’ll come and go as I please; I work for the Gehlen Organization!
If only I hadn’t misplaced that ring of invisibility! (The problem was that I couldn’t see it.) At least I had the latest crop of silver bullets; PFITZNER had assured me that they’d been blessed by a Croatian priest. If I failed this time, it would truly be my fault. How embarrassing, that Shostakovich considered me to be an idiot! Once upon a time, in some fairytale or other, I used to think well of myself, but I don’t remember when or where. At least I had one thing going for me: I was a realist.