Brandenburg (17 page)

‘This was probably painted by a young man some eighteen thousand years ago. In the same cave there are other animals, which we know from radiocarbon dating were painted by other people much later. To us they seem all of a piece, the same period, but in fact two thousand years separate the artists. They probably didn’t even speak the same language.’ He looked up from his paper. ‘Those two men were as far apart as Karl Marx and Jesus Christ.’ There was a nervous shifting among the staff and some of the students smirked. ‘Not in their nature, I hasten to add, but in time.’

He couldn’t think what had got into him to make this aside, which would only weaken the message of his text. He asked for the next slide, which was of galloping bison from the Altamira caves in northern Spain. He sensed the effect it was having on his audience. Someone in the front clapped his hands in delight. ‘If the bull was a great work of art,’ he continued, ‘this one, painted about seventeen thousand years ago, is a masterpiece without parallel. Through the subtle application of tones and shading, and the skilful use of colour, the image reaches a perfection unequalled by any modern artist. There is volume, mass and energy in this creature and it emerges alive and concrete from the rough surface of the rock, almost as if the rock has given birth to the bull. The hair, beard and fur of the animal have an almost tangible reality. This beast
lives
, my friends, and it is as great a work of art as any of you will see during your lifetimes.’

The foundations had been laid. Rosenharte now moved to his theory. If the height of art had been 7,000 years before man planted seeds, millennia before he mounted a horse or invented the wheel, how was it possible to think of art in terms of evolution? Evolution implied a gradual improvement over time, an accumulation of qualities and a discarding of flaws. ‘But in no area,’ he said, turning from the bison to the audience, ‘has this painting been equalled in all the history of art - not in the simplicity of technique, the overall harmony of design or the expressive animation of form. This man observed and analysed with all the speed and confidence of modern man. In fact he was better at it than us.’

He continued on this theme for twenty minutes, showing paintings from different eras, but before he could move to the final section of the lecture, a voice boomed from the middle of the auditorium. Rosenharte shaded his eyes and looked up to see a large man on his feet, plucking at his chin with hopeful authority. ‘But what purpose did these paintings serve society, Dr Rosenharte?’

‘None, because there was no society,’ Rosenharte shot back.

‘That’s my point,’ said the man. ‘That’s exactly my point. We must all agree that the principal function of art is to serve society by expressing that society’s aspirations and reflecting its qualities and achievements. If these primitive decorations, these doodles and daubs, bear no relation to any recognizable society, then they must be disqualified from the realm of art.’

Rosenharte shifted to his right so he could see the man. ‘Why
must
we all agree? Do you really believe that all art, no matter from what period, is dependent on our views about what is and what is not a society? I have to tell you that it is a very old-fashioned view.’

There was a murmur of approval among the students, who were clearly excited by this rare exchange of convictions. The man was having none of it. ‘Is it old-fashioned to favour works of art produced by an advanced state like the German Democratic Republic - perhaps the most sophisticated society ever known on earth - over the graffiti of primitive tribesmen?’

Rosenharte’s blood began to rise. He went to the front of the stage and addressed the man personally. ‘The problem in the GDR is that we don’t know what art this society has produced. Why is that? Because most of the artists who have anything to say are banned. They have been gagged and, ironically enough, work in conditions similar to the primitive tribesmen you disdain - alone, in the dark and without a public. They paint for themselves and for the future because our society cannot or will not hear its own voice, will not listen to its own heart.’

The man could stand it no longer and started pushing along the row towards the aisle.

‘Oh come on, why don’t you stay and argue this one out?’ said Rosenharte.

‘I will not listen to any more nonsense, and if people know what’s good for them they will follow me from this hall.’ One or two made to move, but the majority cried for them to stay and began a slow handclap. This was not at all what Rosenharte wanted. He put his hands in the air and appealed for silence. ‘I did not come here to embarrass the university authorities, but merely to talk about the destructive idea that all art must be seen in terms of evolutionary progress.’

‘The only person you have embarrassed is yourself,’ cried the man from the door.

He resumed his lecture, which was heard respectfully but without enthusiasm because it was clear that all anyone wanted to talk about was the exchange between him and the anonymous academic. When he reached the end there was silence, then a deafening round of applause. The philosophy professor who had introduced him did not get up to the platform to offer formal thanks, as was the custom, but slunk away with a colleague, shaking his head. Rosenharte busied himself with his papers and reluctantly accepted the congratulations of the students, then stepped down from the platform and joined the crowd filing through the door.

‘Well, Doktor, I guess that’s the last time we’ll hear one of your stimulating talks here.’ He glanced to his left. A woman in her mid to late thirties was looking ahead of them, smiling. ‘I’m glad I came. It was easily the best so far.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, wishing she would turn her face to him. ‘But I screwed up with that crack about Marx and Jesus Christ. I think that’s what annoyed my critic. Do you know who he was?’

‘Manfred Böhme, professor of political science and a senior figure in the local Party.’

‘Böhme! Yes, I’ve heard of him. What was he doing here?’

‘Checking up on you. Your last lecture - the one about the drawing by . . .’

‘Carracci.’

‘Yes, Carracci. It was excellent. However, one or two people suspected that you were criticizing the Party in a sly way. No one had a text, so it couldn’t be checked.’

They reached the corridor. He lit a cigarette and looked around. ‘I always feel a sense of anti-climax after these things. Would you like to go for a drink somewhere?’ He noticed a very confident face, full lips and an acute but well-defended expression in her eyes.

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean, why?’ he said.

‘I mean what is your motive?’

‘I haven’t known you long enough to form a motive.’

‘You will soon.’

‘Know you, or form a motive?’

‘The second,’ she said.

‘Do you want a drink, or not?’

She gave him a long-suffering look. ‘Okay, I will take you to a place I know. We can talk there. My name is Ulrike. Ulrike Klaar.’

He hooked his bag over one arm and they walked a little self-consciously to a place on a quiet street not far from the station, where they sat across from each other at a small round table. Rosenharte was able to study her properly. The arch of her eyebrows made him think he should watch what he said but there was also a humorous glint in her eyes. He noticed that she was pale for the time of year, that she was slightly built despite her height and had a habit of smiling at the end of a sentence. He had the sense that she was the opposite of Sonja; that she underplayed her looks and wasn’t particularly interested in appearing attractive. He liked this about her, too.

‘We can’t be long,’ she said, after they had stumbled through some awkward pleasantries. ‘I have an appointment at five.’

‘Anything important?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, it’s very important, Herr Doktor.’

‘Rudi - my name’s Rudi.’

‘I prefer Rudolf. It suits you better. But I will call you Rudi, if you like.’

‘I have to go soon, too. I want to take a walk before I leave, maybe to the Clara Zetkin Park.’

‘Why?’

‘I need the exercise. ’

She shrugged. ‘It’s okay. But why do you
have
to go?’

‘I don’t
have
to go. I just want to stretch my legs.’

‘But you said you
had
to go.’

This was not going well. He took a mouthful of beer and watched three police trucks that were disgorging Vopos.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘There were riot police at Dresden station at five thirty this morning. Do they think something’s going to happen?’

‘Monday evening prayers at the Nikolaikirche. That’s where I’m going after this. We meet every Monday to pray for peace. The authorities don’t like it because other groups come - the environmentalists, people who want to leave the GDR, people who want free speech and reform, people protesting about prisoners of conscience. Some day the Stasi are going to break into the church and take everybody. They’ve already arrested many of my friends.’ Her eyes flared, then she looked out of the window and suddenly straightened. ‘Were you followed here?’

‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘There was a man looking at us from the other side of the street. You can’t see him now because of the trucks. I think he was at the lecture.’

‘It was open to the public. Perhaps he’s an admirer of yours.’

She gave him a withering look. ‘You shouldn’t smoke so much at your age. You’re in the danger zone.’

He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘What did he look like?’

‘Tall, thin, russet-coloured hair almost like yours. He looks strong - maybe he works with his hands - but nervous, unsure of himself. Someone who is out of place in this town.’

‘You’re very observant,’ he said.

‘But does it mean anything to you?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. Tell me more about these prayer meetings.’

‘They started last year. Last January we tried to advertise them by leaving leaflets in people’s letterboxes. But one man went along to the police and, before everyone got up the next morning, the Stasi and the police had removed the leaflets from the letterboxes with long tweezers. Somewhere, the Stasi had a supply of specially long tweezers for this exact purpose. That’s the most amazing part of the story.’

‘So no one came?’

‘No, about five hundred people showed up in the end. That was really the start of it.’ She smiled and stirred her tea. Rosenharte watched her.

‘Of course,’ she continued, ‘a lot of people took the leaflets to the police out of fear. Still, they
are
beginning to understand. In the summer there was a man who organized a festival of street musicians. I remember the date because it was my birthday, June the tenth. Musicians came from all over the GDR and began playing in the centre, but because it was not officially sanctioned, the police moved in and arrested anyone with a musical instrument - they even rounded up members of the city’s orchestra because they were carrying violin cases.’ She suppressed a giggle but her eyes began to water. ‘Can you imagine? They arrested players from the orchestra
in the city of Bach
.’ She placed a knuckle at the corner of her eye to stop a tear.

‘They’re frightened of their own shadows,’ he murmured.

‘No, they’re frightened of us. We, the people.’

‘We, the people,’ he mused.

There was a silence, a good silence, he thought, because neither felt the need to say anything.

‘A friend of mine,’ she started, ‘thought you might be the brother of Konrad Rosenharte, the filmmaker. Are you?’

‘He’s my twin.’ He paused and looked away. ‘He’s in prison.’

‘What for?’

‘The usual . . .’ He stopped, suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of Konnie. ‘You see, he can’t take any more. They broke him last time.’

Her hand fidgeted indecisively on the surface of the table. ‘I’m sorry. It’s nearly as bad for those on the outside,’ she said, ‘the helplessness, the not knowing. That’s the way they designed it, to hurt as many people connected with their target as possible.’

‘You sound as if you know about it.’

She nodded. ‘Everyone knows something. The best anyone can do is support loved ones. That draws some of the poison.’

‘What a country,’ he said under his breath. ‘They’ve got Konrad’s wife, too. The children have been taken away.’

She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Then why did you take such a risk today? It won’t be ignored. Believe me. Not with your brother in jail.’

‘I didn’t intend to say anything,’ said Rosenharte. ‘But then I made that stupid remark about Christ and Marx and when that fool started spouting, I . . .’

‘I had the impression that you were cooler than that.’ Her rather critical demeanour had returned.

‘Maybe I should have been, but the attitudes of that man are the ones that imprisoned Konrad. You know every formal act of expression has to be checked by a committee of nincompoops. The entries in the catalogue I have written for the Gemäldegalerie are being checked by five people. And each one thinks he should weigh in with a correction or some simple-minded observation. I have to tell them that Rembrandt
wasn’t
a Party member. Konrad’s only crime was to make a private film that displeased the authorities - and for this they put a block on his career and jailed him. They destroyed his health because they didn’t like his film.’

She nodded in the direction of a couple that had sat down near them. It was a warning to him that he could be overheard. ‘When will you return to Dresden?’

‘This evening, probably - I’m not sure. I’m hoping to meet someone.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s not important. It’s related to work.’

‘You’ll see this person after your walk in the park?’

He nodded.

‘And in Dresden, what will you do when you go back?’

‘My life is taken up with Konrad at the moment. It’s a pretty complicated business.’ He paused. ‘Then I suppose I’ll eventually get down to writing a book from these talks - a book that will never be published, of course.’

‘But a book that will be read,’ she said brightly.