One Heart Is All I Have. Part 1

By Nataliya Lang

The GDR no longer exists, but people continue to live ruined lives.
The same is true for Eduard, a former political prisoner who, more than thirty years after the reunification of Germany, cannot free himself from the horrors of life in the GDR. His journey has included failed love, being stalked by the Stasi, imprisonment, and a dysfunctional family life. When he meets a novice writer at an airport, he suggests to her that his life could be a good subject for her new book. Anna is interested in working with him, but she also has plenty of doubts, since this man clearly has an aversion to women. What is more, Eduard imposes his own terms… 

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookRix
• Release date: Sep 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9783755420200

Book preview

Chapter 1. An editorial commission

I felt a vague urge to write something, so I sat at my home computer and opened a blank file. A short while later, I found myself gazing out of the window at a large, dense bush in the garden.

My attention seemed to have been drawn by the activity and chirping of a flock of sparrows who had flown there to roost. They were all singing at the same time, as they perched on the branches. How they could possibly hear each other, and whatever they were talking about, was a mystery to me. It was just as confusing as the commission from the editor of our local Blieskastel publishing house to ‘write something realistic, emotional, and with an exciting storyline’! In addition, the action must take place in Germany – a country where people rarely live according to their feelings and where daily ‘passionate outbursts’ are not commonplace…

But why? Why would anyone need a book like that?

My initial proposal was to write a novel about a young woman’s love for a mature man who has lived as a hermit in his own home for many years. For reasons known only to him, he not only avoids contact with strangers, but also with his own relatives. However, the attention and concern of a new lady neighbour, who, with her son, has moved in nearby, help him to gradually return to a normal life, despite the fact that, at the beginning, the man is openly hostile towards her.

I was sure that I would be able to develop the plot quite easily, since, after several not particularly successful attempts to build relationships, I was reasonably well versed in matters of the heart. However, the publisher didn’t find my proposal interesting enough because, although the story touched on the emotional side of love, it did not venture beyond the boundaries of an ordinary provincial town.

Finally, Christoph Brunner, the editor whose duties consist in working with writers and who helped me with the publication of my first two books, consented to a realistic novel about love, but with a few conditions.

Firstly, it had to clearly follow the actual lives of the main characters and their struggle to fight for their happiness all the way to the finish. Secondly, the novel should be a true reflection of human destiny, so the readers would feel that the events were real. Then, thirdly, the plot must unfold on a more global scale in order to attract the interest of a wider public.

In other words, the publisher had little interest in banal, romantic stories with the usual selection of scenes, and a predictable fairy-tale ending. The kind where the characters meet, fall in love, are separated by the cruel hand of fate, then find each other again and live happily ever after. All the shelves in bookshops were already crammed with books like that. The agency was endeavouring to find something special which would turn things inside out, and engage the reader in its fast-paced whirlwind of action from the first few lines.

You need to come up with the kind of story that will make people talk not only about the book, but about the publisher, too! Christoph told me during one of our morning meetings. Otherwise the publisher won’t invest any money.

Is it absolutely necessary that the setting of the novel is Germany? I asked.

Yes, it is. Not much has neen written about Germany and we want to fill this gap, he replied. Then, as if out of the blue, he asked whether I felt intimidated by their proposed terms of cooperation.

Without thinking, I answered, No! Then I even added that, not only was I not frightened by the proposed terms, but I actually found them intriguing. Also, I was looking forward to getting down to work. I would make every effort to ensure that my pen produced the kind of novel they needed: emotional, realistic, in line with the spirit of the times, and with unconventional characters and complex circumstances. In fact, it would be impossible not to talk about it!

After signing the contract at last, I found myself in a state of euphoria for a while, imagining myself at a book fair, giving out autographs and receiving bouquets of flowers…

Interviews… Touring the country… Meeting readers... The empty dreams of a novice writer. How was it going, then? So far, I didn’t even have a plot.

Suddenly, the flock of sparrows outside the window shot up out of the bush and flew off in different directions. Once again, I directed my gaze at the computer monitor. It was as if my wonderful ideas had flown away with the sparrows.

The file which was open in front of me had not changed: it read, Novel. Part One, and nothing more…

Chapter 2. The torment of creativity

For a whole month I started writing all sorts of things, but none of them interested me. To tell the truth, the ideas weren’t bad, but they didn’t comply with all of the publisher’s criteria.

My joyful euphoria was replaced by doubt, and my dreams turned into self-searching. After another month, I began to blame myself for flippantly accepting the commission. Before signing such a binding contract, I should have thought carefully and weighed up my options realistically. Basically, I should not have rushed into it! Now, time for reflection was running out. With every passing day, it melted away treacherously, moving inexorably towards the deadline when the draft manuscript must be submitted.

Interestingly, it was not my first contract with this publisher. When I was studying at university, I had published two collections of short stories with them. The books had been favourably received by the critics, which may have influenced the publisher’s willingness to continue working with me. However, I had never written to order, so I felt like a novice writer all over again.

While I was studying at university in Saarbrücken, I had mainly written stories based on my own experiences and the real things going on around me. Now that I had more time, though, I felt inclined to take on something more serious: a contemporary romance, for example. This was simply personal preference, though. If the publisher had insisted on a particular genre, I wouldn’t have objected to trying out other options, such as crime or fantasy. In fact, I would have accepted any kind of project, as I had adored books since I was a child.

After the publication of my two short story collections, our local mayor invited me to the town hall and gave me an award for my significant contribution to the development of the region’s literature. Then, three months later, straight after finishing university, I was offered a teaching post on a course for beginner writers at a private literary school in Blieskastel. I viewed this as tantamount to winning the lottery, since it embodied everything that a literature graduate could possibly dream of.

In spite of my rather modest success in the literary field, I was something of a local celebrity for the students or, at the very least, someone who had been written about in the press. In any case, my classes were always over-subscribed, which inspired me to take up my writing again.

Before publishing my first book, I  felt as if my life in Blieskastel was hindering me. As far as I could remember, I had always complained about not having been born in Berlin or some other large city, and my friends found this puzzling. Many of them couldn’t understand why I didn’t like living where I did. The provincial infrastructure did leave a lot to be desired, but there were plenty of places within reach. We might not go to the theatre every day, but we did often go shopping in Saarbrücken at the weekends.

Although my head understood all these arguments and even partly agreed with them, my heart betrayed me by wanting more.

When I was little, I couldn’t help feeling that an invisible wall separated our town from the rest of the world. From the bright and beautiful world I had read about in books, or seen in films. It was quite unlike our real world, and I dreamed of finding magical wings that could take me there.

My writing became those magical wings! Perhaps I began writing because I wanted something more out of life. And anything was possible on paper!

After I started to write, my sense of being detached from the world faded. Life in Blieskastel ceased to bother me, and I even found some advantages to it.

If I had lived in a city, the publication of my first books would have gone unnoticed. They would have been lost among the tens of thousands of other new works which appeared year upon year. The publishing houses in the capital would barely have paid any attention to my stories, since that genre never featured on bestseller lists. No-one would have made anything of it... In other words, for a novice writer, I had been extremely lucky!

My successful debut was entirely due to Christoph Brunner, who could not only see my writing talent, but also helped me to believe in myself.

When he received the manuscript of my first book, he didn’t toss it into the rubbish bin, as often happened, but took the time to familiarise himself with it. He was the one who had persuaded the Blieskastel publishing house to set up a regional literature section, in order to support local talent. 

Christoph believed that, without this, they would be reduced to reprinting faceless texts from elsewhere. He saw it as the main aim of his work as a publisher to discover new names who, being at the start of their journeys, were in need of not only financial, but also moral and technical support.

So, thanks to Christoph’s efforts, I became a debutante of regional literature and many people in Blieskastel began to recognise my face.

It was all like a real-life fairy-tale, albeit within a rather limited framework. It was precisely these limitations which troubled me, though, since I knew that, beyond them, fairy-tales no longer existed! Beyond them was ordinary life, where I was not known as a writer.

Nevertheless, I so wanted to break out of the confines of this mythical world and prove to everyone that I hadn’t chosen this path by accident! 

Chapter 3. Time to broaden my horizons

Working as a teacher in a writing college couldn’t fully satisfy my desire to discover new horizons. On one hand, I liked it very much because it allowed me to do something I really enjoyed, but on the other hand it pinned me down to Blieskastel.

I began to wonder more frequently about whether it was time for me to leave my familiar surroundings and start a new, interesting life in a different place. I hadn’t yet worked out where exactly, though, so I hoped that life itself might give me a clue sometime soon.

The unknown was beckoning me, just as it did to many other writers, and beginning work on a fresh, serious project was, for me, like the first step towards this new, more interesting life. Anyone who has ever taken on something new knows that it isn’t easy. It’s not so simple riding a different wave when you have been working in the same way for years.

Another fruitless week went by. I became nervous. As before, the ideas which came into my head didn’t seem interesting enough. They clearly lacked scope and drama, but I didn’t know what to do about that. In addition, I needed to stay within the  bounds of reality, as I was aware how much drama the human psyche is able to withstand.

So much depended on this novel, but I just couldn’t get it going!

I learned from the internet that the large book fair in Leipzig was coming up soon, where the best new literary offerings from all over the world would be presented. Moreover, famous authors and bloggers, invited as special guests by publishers, would be there for open press conferences and to meet with readers.

Strange as it may seem, I had never been to the book fair in Leipzig before. Each time, for one reason or another, I had put it off until the next year. Realising that there was nothing to prevent me from going this time, I decided to book a hotel room for one night straight away. I couldn’t afford to stay longer, since the room rates were triple the usual price.

I decided to travel to the fair by plane from Frankfurt am Main, since the flight only took about an hour, whereas by train it would be over four hours, including changes. Also, although the train was more attractive to me for financial reasons, when I heard the news about possible rail strikes I decided not to take the risk and opted for the plane.

All I could think about for the next two weeks was the book fair. I couldn’t wait to immerse myself in the delightful chaos where everything except books faded into the background. At the fair, I was hoping to see a few world-famous authors, listen to them speaking, see how they conducted themselves in public and how they spoke to journalists. I might even manage to get a turn with the microphone and ask one of them the question that had been puzzling me for a long time:

What do you need to create an interesting story-line for a novel?

I had plenty of theoretical knowledge, but some practical advice wouldn’t hurt. Besides, I was sure that I wasn’t the only person who had ever had difficulty choosing a subject.  

Admittedly, I was excited about the trip to Leipzig for more than just literary reasons. I had another secret wish as well. I wanted to become a city girl, even if it was just for a few hours. To walk along its wide streets… feel its pulse… and its vastness… To get a sense that much more was possible in life…

I had never been to East Germany before, so I jokingly called it a ‘voyage to discover new lands’. In order not to spoil my impression of the city, I refused to look at photographs of it on the internet before I went.

Chapter 4. The airport

I reached Frankfurt am Main airport fairly quickly, as the traffic on the autobahn that day wasn’t as heavy as usual. Pleased with the way things had turned out, I drove into the airport car park and looked around for a space.

I remembered from a conversation with my friend that there was a designated women’s parking area in the first parking zone, so I headed straight there. Car parks like this had appeared quite recently, and I wanted to see what they were like.

I spotted the women’s parking area straight away, since its walls were painted bright pink. The colour was quite loud, in my opinion, but I couldn’t think of a better alternative.

As I drove up to the ramp, I rolled my window down half-way and peered out into the parking area. Although its walls were painted bright pink, most of the spaces inside were occupied by impressively-sized, powerful, aggressive-looking cars. In just a few places, there were small cars with low-capacity engines, which seemed to be cowering in fear, and whose colours and proportions suggested that their drivers were women.

Suddenly, a rather plump middle-aged man appeared in the car park, wearing a slightly crumpled business suit. He was pulling a small suitcase which was full to bursting and missing a wheel. As a result, the suitcase was veering sideways, causing its owner no small amount of irritation.

Pausing for a second near my car, the stranger casually declared in a loud voice, Why should women have privileges? What makes you any better than men!? Then, clearly pleased with his utterance, continued on his way.

Apparently, he considered the existence of a women’s parking area to be a terrible injustice to himself. With an obvious expression of disgust directed at the pink walls in that part of the car park, he continued to pull a demonstratively sour face all the way to his car.

Slamming his car door shut turned out not to be an option. His blue executive class BMW was sandwiched between the wall and a much more powerful Land Rover. In order to reach the driver’s seat, the man had to literally slide into the car through a barely open door. Nor did he manage to make a quick getaway from the car park. Due to the large size of the monster beside him, he was obliged to manoeuvre one centimetre at a time, which he did jerkily, obviously furious at his awkward situation.

When the man had gone, I immediately took the space he had vacated. Driving into it was a piece of cake for my small Peugeot!

After checking in my luggage and going through pre-flight checks, I headed for the waiting room. There were no other passengers waiting for my flight yet, so the room was deserted. Having been afraid that I might be late and miss the plane because of traffic jams on the way, I had left home quite early, and now I had an excruciating, almost two-hour wait ahead of me.

To make good use of the time, I took my laptop out of my bag and began to note down my thoughts on the incident in the car park. Insignificant as it was, it clearly reflected the view of some men with regard to women-only car parks.

Time passed. When I was close to finishing my description of the scene, the waiting room was already half full. Suddenly I heard the sound of a child crying on my right, and I automatically turned my head in that direction. It was a little boy whose mother had confiscated his toy gun because he had been using it to hit his younger brother on the head. The brother had opted for a cleverer tactic and, instead of screaming loudly, had merely rubbed where it hurt, and then rushed into his mother’s arms. A moment later, he was playing with the gun, while the offending older brother screamed at the top of his voice, demanding the return of his toy.

It wasn’t just the children who were being demanding in the waiting lounge, though.

At the coffee machine, a plump gentleman in a smart grey suit, who was almost certainly a businessman, was telling off a bewildered member of staff in a loud voice because there were no paper cups. Slightly further away, in an attempt to attract the attention of some guys standing nearby, two teenage girls were complaining in a deliberately noisy way about the selection of free reading material on offer.

Only stupid newspapers! one said to the other, rolling her eyes upwards. Who reads those, for goodness’ sake? Boring!

Well, the same type of people who write them… or any kind of nerd… replied the other, and they burst out laughing.

Then, glancing at the guys, but not receiving the desired reaction, the girls went on.

Well, they could have given us one fashion magazine to share, one of them began.

Or at the very least a comic, the other snorted. Without pictures, I would fall asleep within five minutes! Then they would have to carry me onto the plane…

A minute later, having found nothing of interest, the girls walked away from the shelves and settled down in the seating area, two seats away from me. They tuned into some music on a mobile phone and, putting in one earpiece each, they began to listen to it, whilst swinging their legs.

As I watched what was going on in the waiting lounge, I surprised myself by coming to the conclusion that there were only unhappy people around me. How could that be the norm in Germany? Everyone there was accustomed to such a high quality of life, so that even the tiniest deviation from the usual standards sent people off the rails. And it didn’t just apply to adults, but it was true for young people, too.   

I sat there, in good spirits, looking forward to my trip and attending the book fair. Suddenly, male voices burst into a heated exchange in the waiting area. I looked up from my laptop and glanced in the direction from where the voices were coming.

It was the same businessman in the grey suit. He was furious again, but this time it was about the coffee machine. Although he had been brought a selection of cups, they turned out to be useless, since, a minute later, the machine itself broke down. The man simply could not bear this personal affront. His face turned red with anger, making him resemble a steamed tomato which had just had its skin removed.

He paced up and down for a while, in front of the broken machine and, when he was sure that it wasn’t going to be mended any time soon, he went over to the newspaper stand. There, in an irritable mood, he began examining the reading material.

He picked up each newspaper, gave a cursory glance at a few of the main headlines, then, shaking his head in dismay, replaced the paper. Although, instead of ‘replaced’, it might be more accurate to say that he ‘hurled’ it back, whilst uttering caustic remarks for all to hear.  

"Party struggle. Who will win? he read aloud, and then began his commentary: For goodness’ sake, no matter who wins, nothing will change! They’re all fed from the same pot!"

"Oil reserves will not last much longer! Ha! Have they taken precise measurements of all the oil under the ground, or what? he said, frowning. They’re scaremongering with their unfounded claims. If it was really all that bad, they would have stopped selling petrol at filling stations a long time ago!"

With these words, he waved the newspaper in the air angrily, and, tossing it back onto the stand, grabbed another one straight away.

"Coffee can be harmful to your health! So, did the airport pay them for this reverse advertising? he yelled at the surrounding area as he put the newspaper back. And what’s this trash doing here? he went on, addressing his non-existent audience. Just look at this rubbish!"

He jabbed his finger in the direction of the newspaper stand.

I can’t even bring myself to pick it up! Publishers like that should be shut down at once!

As he was saying this last part, the man turned even redder. Within a matter of seconds, his face had become the colour of Bordeaux.

He’s heading for a heart attack! I thought, unable to understand what was making him angry. If he reacts like this to every trivial problem, his health will struggle to cope!

The girls, who had been listening to music up to this point, began to giggle. The businessman’s inappropriate behaviour clearly amused them, although I couldn’t say the same for myself. After his third outburst of commentary on newspaper articles, I felt my good mood gradually slipping away and being replaced by an unpleasant kind of annoyance. This new emotion worried me very much, as I didn’t want to fly to the book fair in that mood.

Which paper do you think he will eventually choose? the girl who was sitting nearest to me said to her friend, nodding in the direction of the businessman.

"Frankfurter Allgemeine, because it’s very big, she replied, without giving the matter much thought. That’s what my dad reads, too."

I think that one over there, a bit lower down. I think it’s even bigger. We’ll see. Let’s bet a can of cola. Whoever loses gets one from the vending machine.

The girls stopped talking and began to watch the businessman in silence. I secretly listened in to their debate, as I was curious to find out how it would all end.

I completely agreed with the girls’ view that men such as this one like ‘big’ newspapers. Personally, I might also have added ‘big’ cars, ‘big’ wallets, ‘big’ glasses, and ‘big’ contracts to the list, but I didn’t want to prevent them from making their own minds up about the world.

The businessman turned the Frankfurter Allgemeine around in his hands, then shoved it into his laptop bag and strode briskly over to an empty seat on our side. As he walked, there was so much suffering in his face, as if he had just been diagnosed with an incurable disease.

Bingo! I guessed it! exclaimed one of the girls, realising that the businessman had picked the right newspaper.

Yes, you did, the other girl replied curtly, clearly disappointed that her friend had been right, so now she would have to go for the cola.

Meanwhile, the man slumped down onto a seat, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a neatly folded, grey check handkerchief and, his legs crossed, began to examine the newspaper. As he read, he turned the pages so violently that the passengers sitting nearby began to cast furtive glances at him.

Less than five minutes went by before he was standing next to the newspaper stand once more. This time he took the ‘losing’ paper, which made the girl sitting nearest to me clap with delight. Most importantly of all, this move meant that she would not have to fetch the cola, since the subject of their argument had ultimately chosen both newspapers.

Stepping backwards, the businessman once again bumped into the same airport employee to whom he had complained about the absence of paper cups. Fearing another angry outburst from the passenger, the airport worker hunched himself up, almost into a ball, and hurried to get out of the room, pretending to be extremely busy.

But it was no use. The businessman called out to him in a loud voice:

Just a minute! Some of the papers on your stand have already been read! Are you aware of that?

The airport employee stopped and, turning in trepidation to face the now-familiar passenger, he blinked incredibly rapidly.

Here! Look! Used papers! the businessman continued to complain, shaking a newspaper in the air. What’s that all about, then? Do you give them away several times?

A little confused over what was required of him, the member of staff held out his arms in a gesture of helplessness.

Just look at this! It’s even crumpled on the inside! Someone’s already read it before me! the passenger went on, not letting up. What is more, I can feel grit on my hands, which means that it has been lying on the floor! How can that be possible! It’s outrageous! You’re making a mockery of your passengers! he continued with his complaint. Take it away! I’m not going to leave it at that. I shall be complaining to your manager!

After thrusting the ‘crumpled’ paper into the hands of the bewildered airport employee, the businessman returned to his seat with the proud expression of a lawyer who had just won a case. He sat down, took out his handkerchief again, and then, sensing that his duty was done, wiped his face and neck – which were pouring with sweat – several times. It didn’t help, though. A short while later, I noticed that his shirt collar was completely soaked. The man was still sweating even whilst sitting on his seat.

Hmm, I thought. He obviously has problems either at work or in his personal life. It shows in his disproportionate reaction to trivial issues. I once read somewhere that a person can often behave inappropriately because of low self-esteem which, in turn, stems from a deep dissatisfaction with life. This man must be deeply unhappy! Oh, if only I could talk to him about it…

Meanwhile the number of passengers travelling to Leipzig had increased further. However, although the clock on the electronic board showed that there were just a few minutes until take-off, there was still no member of staff at the desk. Anxious whispers were being exchanged around the waiting room.

Eventually, the airport employee who had been unfortunate enough to fall foul of the businessman several times already, approached the microphone. Then, with an insincere smile on his face, he announced: "For technical reasons, the flight from Frankfurt-am-Main to Leipzig will be delayed