Higher Ground by Anke Stelling (ap literature book list .txt) 📕

And I: ‘Or must really like us?’

And Sven: ‘Friendship and money don’t mix.’

And I: ‘Perhaps that’s exactly what he wants to disprove.’

After that, we didn’t know what to do. We couldn’t think of anything else to say, and I haven’t got a clue what went through Sven’s mind over the next few days, but in mine, the words ‘fantastic’ and ‘crazy’ alternated: ‘fantastic’ as in ‘wow, this is the big moment,’ and ‘crazy’ as in ‘Jesus Christ, there’s something not quite right about this.’

During our next conversation, Sven said: ‘I honestly think he’s a good bloke,’ and I said: ‘It’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.’

And Sven said: ‘Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.’ And I said: ‘The wise virgin must always have enough oil in her lamp.’

But that didn’t get us much further, and so we thought we should definitely go to a notary and seal the matter with a contract. Only to realise that there are other kinds of currencies besides euros and cents.

‘I don’t want to be too closely tied to Ingmar and Friederike,’ said Sven in the end, and I said: ‘Okay then, let’s just leave it.’

Which felt cowardly and petty.

But Ingmar said it was fine.

‘I understand,’ he said. ‘It’s a real shame, but I understand.’

How exactly he didn’t say, which was a real shame too, because if he had, perhaps I would have understood. Instead, I was depressed by my cowardice, and impressed by Ingmar’s generosity — both by his offer and our rejection of it.

He took it in his stride and wasn’t insulted in the least.

And I was tense and only had myself to blame and no project.

Vera and Frank thought it was a shame too.

‘Then at least take our flat when we move out,’ Vera said, and I said: ‘Sure, that’d be great,’ as Frank served up his quiche Lorraine that we were all addicted to.

‘Then at least we’ll all be near each other,’ I said, and Sven said: ‘At least not in Marzahn,’ and Frank said: ‘To be honest, I’m glad there are still two of us who aren’t directly involved.’

‘It’s still a shame,’ said Vera, and prodded the quiche with her fork. ‘I mean, it was our idea in the first place!’

And she looked me in the eye and smiled her crooked smile, which I’d already fallen for back at kindergarten: that longing smile, implying something bigger was waiting for us out there, and we hadn’t got to the best part yet.

‘The idea of a commune, yes,’ I said. ‘Where we live and work and bring up the children together.’

Vera sighed, and then Leon called from the bedroom, and she stood up.

‘Commune?’ asked Sven when Vera had left, and Frank shook his head. ‘That’s not what it is,’ and I thought, true, but still — they’ll all be living together, and when Vera doesn’t come back from the bedroom, which is likely because she always falls asleep next to Leon, then they could all still have breakfast together the next day, which I couldn’t do living five blocks away.

And then I was back to brooding over things.

When I add this to the story about the ski trip, Bea, it all gradually makes sense: I was the one who had a problem. Who couldn’t just loosen up and come around to the idea. Just like in 1989, when I should have gone to the hut with everybody else. It would have been really great, I’m sure. But no, I had to insist on our differences, dig my heels in, and snub those around me who were trying to find a compromise.

The thing about differences is really tricky.

It’s taken me nearly thirty years to tell the story about the ski trip, and even now I’m worried that you or somebody else might think I want to make myself out as the victim. Because that’s quite a common accusation aimed at people who point out differences.

Inequality divides us into those with privileges and those without; and for those who want justice, that’s a problem, no matter which category they fall into. Ingmar might like being rich as little as I like being poor. Why can’t everybody just go skiing, for Christ’s sake? And if this is how things are, can’t we at least pretend? So that I don’t have to be the loser and Ulf and Ingmar the winners?

There’s barely any air in my broom cupboard.

I can’t stop smoking, even though it’s a pathetic sign of dependence. But I can’t air the room either, because then I’d have to stand up and fetch a jacket.

Bea’s in the kitchen, making herself a tea. I can hear her walking around, shuffling her feet, clattering the dishes. I bet she wants to talk: after ten at night, she suddenly opens up, or at least doesn’t feel like going to bed — she never has.

When she was little, I used to sing to her, one song after the other, because I knew them all by heart. The first survival strategy of a mother with small children: detach your thoughts from whatever is coming out of your mouth. Mum: a pacifying, singing robot.

But that’s all over now. I don’t want to sing or recite anything else by heart. I want to help my children by helping myself, seventeen-year-old Resi: by asking Ulf, for example, whether he still thinks Resi should have just taken something to read and then everything would have been fine. I want to help the uncertain couple, who shrank back from an opportunity, and ask Ingmar what exactly the opportunity was and for whom: being offered to borrow money, honestly? Or being able to dump money on someone to soothe your conscience?

I don’t know where Ingmar got his money from. I haven’t known him since we were children, like I have Ulf; he’s never made a vow in front of me. I only know