the bag down and jumped after it
.
No, Ilse hadn’t written much in the morning before breakfast. But she had made a decision. She wanted to know. Either she would manage to write about the shooting and bombing and killing and dying, or shewould abandon the project and look for something else. And with the decision to try, the desire had awoken to do it—not just the writing, but the imagining. With a shudder, Ilse was beginning to enjoy it: the idea of the explosion hurling the car into the air, the bullet flying at the window, piercing the glass, hitting and throwing its victim against the wall, the pistol set to the back of the neck, the trigger pulled.
He walked along the road, passed several parked cars, found an elderly white Toyota, smashed the window with a stone, hot-wired the ignition and set off. It was his city; he knew his way around. When he was on the highway and swimming in the flow of traffic, he opened the bag and looked in. They had given him a German passport, a bundle of fifty-mark notes, a pistol with ammunition, a piece of paper with a date, a time and a telephone number. He was to ring at seven the next morning; he memorized the telephone number, tore the piece of paper into little scraps and let the driving wind carry them away. At a service area he parked the car at the end of the lot, took a room and asked to be woken at half past six
.
He thought of the life ahead of him. A life as a fugitive without a place to go and hope to rest. But whether the fear of not waking up again after the anesthetic had exhausted his ability to frighten himself, or with the step into his new life the old fears had ceased to be so obvious, he felt light and free. At last the half-truths of his old life were over. At last he was living in the selflessness, absoluteness, uniqueness
of the struggle. He was free, was in debt to no one, committed to no love, no friendship, no concern for anyone, only devotion to the cause. What happiness, what a rush of freedom!
He was woken by his alarm call, showered and at seven o’clock rang the number he had been given. At nine in the evening he was to meet a woman in the bookshop at the Munich railway station, blue coat, shoulder-length dark blond hair, big leather bag over her shoulder and
Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung
in her hand. He had breakfast and found a truck driver to take him along and drop him off at the highway exit for Munich. By early afternoon he was in the city, bought a travel bag and a change of clothes and went to the cinema. They were showing a French film, a laconic and sentimental story about entanglement and parting. Jan came out of the cinema and phoned home from the nearest telephone booth—a low point for which he only subsequently forgave himself by saying nothing and quickly hanging up again
.
At nine in the evening he met the woman. She took him to a flat in Schwabing, a faceless room with a kitchenette and a shower. When she came out of the toilet without wig and makeup, he barely recognized her: a childlike face under brush-short hair. She told him what he had to do the next day. Then they heated up pizza in the oven. Over dinner they didn’t talk—the only important thing was what was to be done, and that had been said. Jan was amazed by the excellent red wine. When it was on his tongue he
wanted to ask the woman how she had got hold of the bottle. After swallowing he let it go
.
Then they lay down in bed and made love. Memories of Ulla darted through Jan’s head. “Let’s make love,” she had urged him when she wanted him, and spurred him on with “Love me” when she wanted to come. It had been emotional, emotional and gooey. Now Jan felt as if he and the woman were dancing a perfect dance in bright, cold light. What purity of pleasure, and again: what a rush of freedom!
They stayed in bed for a long time. That afternoon they took the tram to the suburbs, walked through the streets as naturally as if they were on their way home and
.
No, Ilse hadn’t written much in the morning before breakfast. But she had made a decision. She wanted to know. Either she would manage to write about the shooting and bombing and killing and dying, or shewould abandon the project and look for something else. And with the decision to try, the desire had awoken to do it—not just the writing, but the imagining. With a shudder, Ilse was beginning to enjoy it: the idea of the explosion hurling the car into the air, the bullet flying at the window, piercing the glass, hitting and throwing its victim against the wall, the pistol set to the back of the neck, the trigger pulled.
He walked along the road, passed several parked cars, found an elderly white Toyota, smashed the window with a stone, hot-wired the ignition and set off. It was his city; he knew his way around. When he was on the highway and swimming in the flow of traffic, he opened the bag and looked in. They had given him a German passport, a bundle of fifty-mark notes, a pistol with ammunition, a piece of paper with a date, a time and a telephone number. He was to ring at seven the next morning; he memorized the telephone number, tore the piece of paper into little scraps and let the driving wind carry them away. At a service area he parked the car at the end of the lot, took a room and asked to be woken at half past six
.
He thought of the life ahead of him. A life as a fugitive without a place to go and hope to rest. But whether the fear of not waking up again after the anesthetic had exhausted his ability to frighten himself, or with the step into his new life the old fears had ceased to be so obvious, he felt light and free. At last the half-truths of his old life were over. At last he was living in the selflessness, absoluteness, uniqueness
of the struggle. He was free, was in debt to no one, committed to no love, no friendship, no concern for anyone, only devotion to the cause. What happiness, what a rush of freedom!
He was woken by his alarm call, showered and at seven o’clock rang the number he had been given. At nine in the evening he was to meet a woman in the bookshop at the Munich railway station, blue coat, shoulder-length dark blond hair, big leather bag over her shoulder and
Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung
in her hand. He had breakfast and found a truck driver to take him along and drop him off at the highway exit for Munich. By early afternoon he was in the city, bought a travel bag and a change of clothes and went to the cinema. They were showing a French film, a laconic and sentimental story about entanglement and parting. Jan came out of the cinema and phoned home from the nearest telephone booth—a low point for which he only subsequently forgave himself by saying nothing and quickly hanging up again
.
At nine in the evening he met the woman. She took him to a flat in Schwabing, a faceless room with a kitchenette and a shower. When she came out of the toilet without wig and makeup, he barely recognized her: a childlike face under brush-short hair. She told him what he had to do the next day. Then they heated up pizza in the oven. Over dinner they didn’t talk—the only important thing was what was to be done, and that had been said. Jan was amazed by the excellent red wine. When it was on his tongue he
wanted to ask the woman how she had got hold of the bottle. After swallowing he let it go
.
Then they lay down in bed and made love. Memories of Ulla darted through Jan’s head. “Let’s make love,” she had urged him when she wanted him, and spurred him on with “Love me” when she wanted to come. It had been emotional, emotional and gooey. Now Jan felt as if he and the woman were dancing a perfect dance in bright, cold light. What purity of pleasure, and again: what a rush of freedom!
They stayed in bed for a long time. That afternoon they took the tram to the suburbs, walked through the streets as naturally as if they were on their way home and
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