Dieter Zimmer

Thomas still didn’t dare to admit that he wanted to hear the Saturday motet in St. Thomas’ Church. In contrast to the top division games between Chemie Leipzig and visiting teams in the Georg Schwarz Stadium, the motet wasn’t a typical event for any boy with a little self-respect. But he had loved the singing in the old church ever since his grandmother had taken him there for the first time. He went there every few months and now he couldn’t imagine a midnight Christmas service without the church’s boys’ choir.

Past the Peace Church where tomorrow Thomas would go to the children’s service for the last time. Would the organ-blower manage to turn up again or would he, as Thomas expected, have been gotten rid of? Down the Gohliser Strasse with its grand residential houses from the turn of the century, most of which had survived the war. The Red Army had made themselves at home in the side streets. On the corner with Springer Strasse the brief glimpse, as always, of the ruins of house no. 19.

‘That’s where we hid in the cellar, during the big raid.’

Petra nodded, but didn’t betray any sign of admiration.

Thomas remembered Uncle Wolfgang’s experience: women want to be entertained. They’re happy to listen and nod graciously. Not too vigorously, there must be room to show more graciousness later. Talk, talk, talk. Without a break. The topic was irrelevant. Now and then a little promise, nothing that would cost too much. Uncle Wolfgang knew his stuff. His Eva, he sometimes said, was a real Eve, a textbook Eve. If he didn’t watch out, she would soon have him eating out of her hand and perhaps even sitting up and begging. Oh yes, and today Eva was supposed to come back from her trip to Berlin with her Free German Youth group.

Thomas carried on chatting away. ‘Talking of eating out of your hand,’ he said near the zoo. ‘Omar, the bull elephant that’s lost a tusk, ate out of my hand. I can’t have been six yet.’

‘Me too. Dried bread.’

About time, thought Thomas.

With every mile the walk became more arduous. At St. Thomas’ Church he paused and tried to hide his wheezing. He locked his bike and took Petra’s hand, she didn’t try to stop him.

‘Ready?’ he said.

A typewritten note hung on the church door: ‘The St. Thomas’ Boys’ Choir motets are cancelled this week due to the tour of Scandinavia.’

Thomas’ heart dropped.

‘Did you want to go to the Boys’ Choir?’ Petra asked. ‘But it was in the paper that they’re on the road.’

‘Yes, yes, I know. I wanted . . . I just wanted to look. I mean, sometimes a tour like that doesn’t work out. We’ll just have to go another time . . .’

Petra smiled. Thomas felt an icy grip around his heart.

If Uncle Wolfgang was right, the important thing now was not to lose control for a second.

‘Have you been up the town hall tower?’ They looked down over their city from a hundred yards up. To the southeast the memorial to the Battle of the Nations, a grey block of Beucha granite, a bone of contention between its detractors, who found it pompous, and those who admired its nobility. Below their feet lay the Southern Cemetery, they had to go there next week to say goodbye. To the northeast the big chimney of the power station, the city’s tallest construction. Behind it, not visible from here, the Red School. You could just about make out the Peace Church. Visibility wasn’t good. They looked for their houses, without any luck. The central station, behind it the brown delta of tracks. At their feet the city centre with its ruins and gaps. The old town hall. St. Thomas’ Church. Damn the Boys’ Choir! Further to the west, by the Elster river’s flood basin, the fairground’s big wheel.

‘Hold on tight, I want to look down.’

Thomas held her very tight.