how she will describe the scene to Jochen. She feels excluded, but also in a way relieved. Not German.
__
After German reunification many streets in eastern Berlin were given their pre-GDR names again. One such street was Dimitroff Strasse, which returned to being Danziger Strasse in 1995. Georgi Dimitroff was a communist and one of three men falsely accused by the Nazis of setting the Reichstag fire in 1933. He defended himself in court, humiliating the Nazi lawyers, and eventually winning his case.
Blue
The boy arrives early. He is a young man, really; older than he looks. Soft down on his upper lip, no bum on his legs. He has come for the keys, a wad of crumpled notes in his pocket. The neighbour takes him across the landing, keen to get the matter over with. The boy looks the flat over, unhurried, but he’s excited about something. It shows in his skin. The flat is a shell with curtains. In the kitchen the cupboards hang off the walls.
– You square with Malky?
The boy nods, the neighbour leaves.
Kenny hadn’t planned to stay in the flat until he’d done it up, but now he’s here he doesn’t want to leave. He lays his blankets on the floor, takes the curtains off the window and wraps himself up in a warm corner. Streetlights flood the room, the long, bright shape of the window all along one wall. Kenny lies, eyes wide open in his scratchy, cosy curtain nest.
He spends his first two days scrubbing the place down. The kitchen floor makes him retch; the stink of the muck in the corners where the hot, soapy water has soaked in. He pours neat bleach into a bucket and sets to work. His fingers itch all night, but the clean floor in the morning inspires him to scrub the walls and the window frames, too. That afternoon he goes round friends and family for donations. His granny gives him an old washing machine, and he gets a fridge and a cooker cheap from a friend of his brother’s.
Kenny’s dad brings the whole lot over in a borrowed van, and they haul everything up the stairs together. Between appliances they drink cans of lager in the kitchen and watch telly on the portable that Kenny’s mum gave him. Her own one from the kitchen. At midnight, they decide to plumb in the washing machine and give it a trial run with the curtains. Kenny’s dad leaves after the cycle finishes, too far gone to drive the van.
The third night Kenny sleeps soundly. The windows are open and his brother’s sleeping bag undone, night air on his skin.
In the morning, Kenny climbs up through the attic onto the roof. He spreads his curtains out to dry, half bricks on each corner. He’s not too steady on the sloping tiles, but he enjoys the height and the sun. He looks out over the city for a while, tracing the path of the river, identifying landmarks. Kenny’s never lived so close to the centre before.
– What you doing?
A girl stands by the chimney, same red hair as the neighbour across the hall. The sun is behind her head, so Kenny can’t look at her straight.
– What you doing?
– Minding my own.
– What you doing with the curtains?
– Feathering my nest.
– What?
– Never mind.
The girl shifts from one foot to the other and, when Kenny ignores her, she turns on her heel and goes.
Kenny lies back down again, glad to be left alone. He allows himself a mid-morning kip to make up for his short night.
A couple of days’ work gives him enough money for some paint, a duvet and a mattress. He finds some chairs to go with the table he hauled out of a skip, and buys some pots and pans with his giro. Kenny has enough stuff in the flat now to live quite comfortably. Part of him misses the emptiness, the adventure of making do, but he doesn’t think Maria would like it. He needs some rugs for the floor. He has been here for two weeks.
He calls her from the phone box on the corner, but she knows already. Someone told someone, who told someone else, who told her sister, who told her yesterday. Maria is difficult to talk
__
After German reunification many streets in eastern Berlin were given their pre-GDR names again. One such street was Dimitroff Strasse, which returned to being Danziger Strasse in 1995. Georgi Dimitroff was a communist and one of three men falsely accused by the Nazis of setting the Reichstag fire in 1933. He defended himself in court, humiliating the Nazi lawyers, and eventually winning his case.
Blue
The boy arrives early. He is a young man, really; older than he looks. Soft down on his upper lip, no bum on his legs. He has come for the keys, a wad of crumpled notes in his pocket. The neighbour takes him across the landing, keen to get the matter over with. The boy looks the flat over, unhurried, but he’s excited about something. It shows in his skin. The flat is a shell with curtains. In the kitchen the cupboards hang off the walls.
– You square with Malky?
The boy nods, the neighbour leaves.
Kenny hadn’t planned to stay in the flat until he’d done it up, but now he’s here he doesn’t want to leave. He lays his blankets on the floor, takes the curtains off the window and wraps himself up in a warm corner. Streetlights flood the room, the long, bright shape of the window all along one wall. Kenny lies, eyes wide open in his scratchy, cosy curtain nest.
He spends his first two days scrubbing the place down. The kitchen floor makes him retch; the stink of the muck in the corners where the hot, soapy water has soaked in. He pours neat bleach into a bucket and sets to work. His fingers itch all night, but the clean floor in the morning inspires him to scrub the walls and the window frames, too. That afternoon he goes round friends and family for donations. His granny gives him an old washing machine, and he gets a fridge and a cooker cheap from a friend of his brother’s.
Kenny’s dad brings the whole lot over in a borrowed van, and they haul everything up the stairs together. Between appliances they drink cans of lager in the kitchen and watch telly on the portable that Kenny’s mum gave him. Her own one from the kitchen. At midnight, they decide to plumb in the washing machine and give it a trial run with the curtains. Kenny’s dad leaves after the cycle finishes, too far gone to drive the van.
The third night Kenny sleeps soundly. The windows are open and his brother’s sleeping bag undone, night air on his skin.
In the morning, Kenny climbs up through the attic onto the roof. He spreads his curtains out to dry, half bricks on each corner. He’s not too steady on the sloping tiles, but he enjoys the height and the sun. He looks out over the city for a while, tracing the path of the river, identifying landmarks. Kenny’s never lived so close to the centre before.
– What you doing?
A girl stands by the chimney, same red hair as the neighbour across the hall. The sun is behind her head, so Kenny can’t look at her straight.
– What you doing?
– Minding my own.
– What you doing with the curtains?
– Feathering my nest.
– What?
– Never mind.
The girl shifts from one foot to the other and, when Kenny ignores her, she turns on her heel and goes.
Kenny lies back down again, glad to be left alone. He allows himself a mid-morning kip to make up for his short night.
A couple of days’ work gives him enough money for some paint, a duvet and a mattress. He finds some chairs to go with the table he hauled out of a skip, and buys some pots and pans with his giro. Kenny has enough stuff in the flat now to live quite comfortably. Part of him misses the emptiness, the adventure of making do, but he doesn’t think Maria would like it. He needs some rugs for the floor. He has been here for two weeks.
He calls her from the phone box on the corner, but she knows already. Someone told someone, who told someone else, who told her sister, who told her yesterday. Maria is difficult to talk
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