Fritze is waiting in front of the Renaissance Theatre, in his neatly ironed Nehru jacket, tickets in hand, looking for Anna. There she comes now, in a white blazer herself, one of Mother’s, now two sizes too large.
“It isn’t ‘Der Raub der Sabinerinnen,’ after all,” says Fritze, “it’s a new play. ‘Wir heissen Euch hoffen.’ Never heard of it before.”
“Same here,” says Anna, “but sounds good. Let’s give it a chance, shall we?”
They go inside. The performance has been sold out for days. The hastily patched up theatre is packed. Management believes, as do the Berliners, that what’s going on on-stage is more important than aesthetics for now.
During Intermission they stand close together in the Foyer, not speaking. The audience is quiet, lost in thought.
When the curtain comes down people slowly stand up and clap in appreciation, and Anna and Fritze watch, for the first time, as actors step up to the ramp and applaud the audience.
They walk endlessly through ruined streets, as so often before, and eventually come to a park close to Fritze’s own neighbourhood.
“No littering,” says a battered sign on the lawn. It sits next to two concrete foundations, formerly connected by the wood slats of a bench. Berliners had used them for firewood. So Fritze and Anna sit down, two meters apart, and spot several familiar figures.
Picco is drawing with a stick in a shallow puddle, next to the Pipsqueak, who is smoking. Anna doesn’t recognize the third boy. Slowly they approach.
“Good Day,” says Picco politely, and it sounds strange.
“Heil Kräuter,” they had said last time they met, meaning ‘medicinal herbs.’ And they would part with, ‘stick around’.
It seemed like an eternity had passed.
An old man came limping along the path. He wore a band on his left sleeve, with an inscription intended to lend him authority of a questionable sort.
“Go on now,” he said, “go. Don’t you know that you aren’t supposed to assemble?”
“Just relax. Nothing bonds like losing a war together, we’re just talking,” said the Pipsqueak. And the man shuffled off.
They stood in silence. So much needed to be said, but no words came. Picco continued to draw in the mud.
“Stick around.” Here they were together, entirely unsure of how many of them had been able to follow that recommendation.
“Any news on our Moor?” Picco wanted to know.
“Von Moor? The Red Moor?” said Fritze. “No. Still no word.”
The third boy was whittling, cutting a heart into the tree rind next to them.
“The awful thing is,” said the Pipsqueak, “that no one knows what to believe any more.”
“There’s a rumour the Russians got him,” Picco said slowly, with furrowed brow.
“It won’t be for long,” said Fritze. “Once they’ve stared at the man’s fire engine coloured head for a week, They’ll chase him out of the camp with a stick. Too hard on the nervous system.”
“Or put a hat on him.”
Picco looked at Anna.
“And you? What’s up with the privileged daughters of the Reich? Still trying to join the poor? What good does it do, being a walking dictionary, all that allied vocabulary? In a couple of years you’ll say, ‘unfortunately, my family starved to death, but I’m a high school graduate…’”
“Picco, would you cut it out?” Fritze shouted. “I mean, a few weeks ago we would have given each other the shirts off our backs, and now we fight dirty? And don’t knock school. I’m thinking of going back.” Picco made a face.
“I hear you were working in Treptow?” said Anna, taking a deep breath.
“The guy hired his cousin,” said Picco, “I’m to check back later. I told him not to hold his breath.”
“Hey, look at it this way. You got ration card #2,” said Fritze, “maybe for another month even. Labourers get twice as much bread and fat as the rest of us. A loaf of bread and 20 grams of fat a day. Right?”
“True.”
“How about becoming a pimp?” said the Pipsqueak. “A user-friendly one, I mean, you know? Nicest kind,” and backed away a little.
“What is that exactly?” asked Anna.
“You don’t really want to know,” said Fritze. “It may or may not be listed in the dictionary.” Anna looked confused.
“So, you familiar with that line of work?” Picco said in the direction of the pipsqueak.
“Tell me, people, what do we expect?” Fritze said. “The war hasn’t been over for more than a few lousy weeks. Look around. What do you see? I see rubble. How is that supposed to get sorted out overnight? Teacher puts up a glossy poster of the Reichstag and everything is back to normal? Like nothing happened?”
“How come you two are so spiffed out,” said Pipsqueak, ignoring Fritze.
“We’ve been to the theatre,” said Anna. “‘Wir heissen Euch hoffen’, a new play. Set here and now, but I don’t know yet how I feel about it. It was just speaking to us, our generation, or was it, Fritze?”
“Yes, exactly. My old guys, they would’ve felt totally ignored once again, just like before. Let’s not start that. What this guy wants to offer me doesn’t appeal in the least, doesn’t connect.”
“That was precisely my own reaction. I was so uncomfortable, feeling like the innocent children were being separated from the appalling adults. It sounded so strange, as though this playwright wasn’t one of us, didn’t really speak our language, do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, indeed.” Fritze shook his head. “Not like this.”
“He meant well, of course. Wanted to encourage us,” said Anna. “During the war I think we didn’t trust most people over twenty-five, but now I’m not going to throw them in the garbage. We’re in this together.”
“I don’t know. You two talk like that,” said Picco. “Last time someone encouraged us — what was that about? Weren’t we clutching a gun or something?”
“Yes, I know,” said Anna, “I can’t really explain it. I’m just feeling angry. Resentful about the play. I feel manipulated. Maybe you should go too. Looks like one comes out wanting to talk. That can’t be all bad. What time is it? Don’t I have to go catch my train?”
The goodbyes are just a little reserved, not like the old days. Picco turns away, the Pipsqueak waves a little.
Fritze walks Anna to a station, along abandoned streets, ruins left and right, but they talk and talk.
As the train is about to pull out, and Anna leans out of the ancient local-style car, minus windows, Fritze says he’ll come and visit again soon.