The Draining Lake

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. Ha

One day he came across Ha

“Aren’t you, Ha

Ha

“I’m Tomas.” He held out his hand.

Ha

“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, Ha

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

Ha

“Did you say Tomas?”

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

“I know who you are,” Ha

“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?” Ha

“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.”

Ha

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

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

“Maybe,” Ha

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

“Nothing,” Ha

“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 Ha

“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?”

“No idea,” Emil said.

Lothar was his liaison, his Betreuer. Every foreigner at the university had a liaison who was available for help. Lothar had befriended the Icelanders at the dormitory. He offered to take them around the city and show them the sights. He assisted them at the university and sometimes paid the bill when they went to Auerbachkeller. He wanted to go to Iceland, he said, to study Icelandic, and he spoke the language well, could even sing the latest hit songs. He said he was interested in the old Icelandic sagas, had read Njal’s Saga and wanted to translate it.

“Here’s the building,” Rut said all of a sudden, and stopped. “That’s the office. There are prison cells inside.”

They looked up at the building. It was a gloomy stone edifice of four storeys. Plywood boarding had been nailed over all the ground-floor windows. He saw the name of the street: Dittrichring. Number 24.

“Prison cells? What is this place?” he asked.

“The security police are in there,” Emil said in a low voice, as if someone might hear him.

“Stasi,” Rut said.

He looked up along the building again. The pallid street lights cast a murky shadow onto its stone walls and windows, and a slight shiver ran through him. He felt clearly that he never wanted to enter that place but had no way of knowing then how little his own wishes counted for.

He sighed and looked out to sea where a little sailboat was cruising by.