I WAS SITTING AT THE TABLE in my dorm room on a hot June afternoon, wrestling with a pesky math problem, when Rosi stepped into the room. Rosi was one of the girls in the dorm who often mingled with the guys. She was bright, funny, attractive, and friendly.
“Hey, Albrecht, a bunch of us are going to see The Three Musketeers at the open-air theater tonight. We got permission to stay out late. Do you want to come?”
I stared at her in surprise and said shyly, “I don’t know. I have a lot of homework left to do.”
Rosi let out a hearty laugh. “Since when do you have a problem with homework? I wish I had your smarts. Come on, it will be fun!”
Rosi was almost a year older than me, and she was already a fully developed young woman. For a scrawny, awkward country boy, she was clearly out of my league. And yet . . . was this for real? It wasn’t exactly a date, but had this pretty girl just asked me out?
Up until that moment, girls had been creatures to secretly admire from afar. From kindergarten on, there had always been a pretty girl or two that I wished I could have as a special friend, but I was always too shy to ask. To me, girls were to be adored, admired, and treated with kindness and love—especially the dainty ones.
And now, here was my chance. A beautiful young lady had shown enough interest in me to ask me to join her. I hoped that Rosi couldn’t detect my accelerated heartbeat as I leaned back, scratched my head, and said with phony equanimity, “All right, you talked me into it. When are we leaving?”
I felt suddenly light-headed, and all thoughts of staying back to work on math problems fled from my mind.
For this special outing, the dorm administrator had moved the curfew from 10:00 p.m. to midnight. As nine o’clock approached, we began the twenty-minute walk to the outdoor theater. There were a dozen boys and girls in our group, but as if by secret agreement, Rosi and I stayed a few yards behind the others, walking silently side by side along the meandering back path through a garden ablaze with late spring flowers. The temperature outside was still near eighty degrees, and Rosi was wearing a sleeveless summer dress with a flowery print design.
Emboldened by her proximity, I “accidentally” brushed her hand, and to my surprise and delight, she took hold of mine. For the remainder of the walk, we held hands but didn’t say a word.
After viewing the movie—of which I remember nothing—we began the homeward stroll, again lagging behind the group. Under the cover of darkness, I awkwardly tried to find her lips. When I did, she responded passionately and (in hindsight) with experience. Before we withdrew to our respective dorm rooms at midnight, there was one more sweet good-night kiss and our first embrace.
The next morning, my lips were sore and my jaw hurt, but I was walking on air, and the blissful grin that seemed permanently engraved on my face was a dead giveaway to anybody who cared to look. After sixteen years without meaningful love, and many years of yearning for female companionship, I was certain I had found the love of my life and the girl I would one day marry. What was probably only a casual flirt for Rosi was head-over-heels passion for me.
To my dismay, only two weeks remained before summer vacation, so I focused the grand sum of my pent-up emotions on my new girlfriend and spent every possible minute in Rosi’s presence. When we were apart, I daydreamed about her and wrote her name on books, bags, desks, my hands—whatever suitable object could be victimized by my smudgy ballpoint pen. I sent her little slips of paper with love notes, including one that said, “I am you and you are I.”
It was going to be a long summer without her, but I would write to her and think about her the entire time. And I was certain she would do the same.
Although the school year was winding down, I still had time to get in trouble before the summer break began.
My mother always declared proudly to anyone who would listen, “Albrecht is very, very smart and easy to handle.” But given the occasional lashings I received from my father, the “easy to handle” part may have been more fiction than fact. In any case, parental discipline at home did nothing to change my behavior when I was away at school. And as my ability to think, reason, and respond had improved, I had begun to challenge authority.
Oma Hedwig always advised me to count to ten and take a deep breath before I opened my mouth, but that wisdom was not on my mind one warm afternoon in June when I threw out a challenge to my math teacher in front of the entire class.
We were slogging through a stretch of the most boring mechanical algebra: square roots and logarithms. As Herr Traubach was filling the blackboard with formulas copied from a large notebook, I raised my hand.
“Yes, Herr Dittrich?” Our teachers always used the polite form of speech to address us, and in keeping with customary practice, I rose from my seat to reply.
“Can you tell us why we have to learn all this quatsch?” I said.
Herr Traubach’s face turned beet red, and there was dead silence in the classroom.
“Sit down!” was all he could muster, and we finished the final ten minutes of class under a cloud of severe discomfort.
The following day, I was moved from the front row to the back and was also summoned to the principal’s office. The principal was a short, wiry man with penetrating eyes, an aquiline nose, and a full head of wavy, dark-blond hair. He exuded authority and was one of the few people at the school whom I truly respected. When I closed the door behind me and stood in front of his desk, there was no mistaking that I was in trouble.
“Herr Dittrich, your behavior in class is unacceptable. You are such a smart young man, but your performance does not live up to your potential. High school is a privilege. Do not squander it by clowning around. You must shape up or we may have to resort to punishment.”
Blah, blah, blah, I thought on my way back to the classroom. My father’s hand is a lot more dangerous than your mouth. But I would soon get a painful reminder that a principal’s words must be taken very seriously.
On Monday of the last week of school, the students gathered for the customary general assembly. As usual, I paid no attention to the announcements until I was rudely awakened from my daydreaming by the sound of my own name.
“Herr Wlochal and Herr Dittrich, step out in front of the assembly!”
I had barely enough time to come forward before the principal began reading a statement to the students and teachers. “Herr Dittrich, you are herewith receiving a strong reprimand for lack of discipline, disrupting class, and inciting your classmates to behavior unbecoming of a young Communist. We are placing you on probation. Failure to turn things around will result in expulsion.”
The “blah, blah, blah” had become a real threat. Expulsion from high school would have a severely negative impact on my future. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach, and throughout the day I was unable to produce a single coherent thought. On the walk from the classrooms to the dorm—normally a joyful, chatty occasion—I trailed behind the group, hanging my head and brooding.
This was the first serious crisis of my life. When I met up with Rosi, she said, “Albrecht, if you care about me and about yourself, please, please improve your behavior!”
Well, I would show her I was worthy of her love, a motivator stronger than all the others taken together.
I filled the two months of summer vacation with activity—going on camping trips and working in a local factory—but life seemed entirely meaningless without Rosi. We had promised to think about each other every night by looking at the brightest star in the sky at exactly 10:00 p.m. This I did faithfully, every night, often overcome with emotion. The few letters we exchanged made the wait more bearable, but I was incredibly anxious to return to school in September.
One Sunday morning, I woke up early and proceeded gingerly down the creaky steps of the wooden staircase connecting the main living quarters to the second floor. My parents often slept in late on Sundays, so I tiptoed into the study in search of a book to read until it was time for breakfast. To my surprise, my parents were already awake and arguing rather intensely, albeit in hushed voices, in the adjoining living room. As I got closer to the door, I could hear what they were saying.
“I’ve had enough,” my father said. “I’m filing for divorce.”
I heard my mother laugh and say, “Calm down already, Heinz. It is normal for couples to have arguments. Let’s stop this silly discussion before we wake up the boys. Should I make breakfast?”
This response infuriated my father, and he raised his voice.
“You don’t seem to understand: I am getting a divorce. I am sick of your mothering and setting all the rules in this house. I want to live! I want to breathe! I am getting a divorce!”
With that, he walked out the door, got into the car, and drove away. I tiptoed back up the stairs, stunned and guilt-ridden for having eavesdropped.
Before reaching the second level, I heard a loud thud in the living room and rushed back down to find my mother passed out on the floor. I sat her up and pulled her onto the sofa, which was not an easy task for a skinny sixteen-year-old. Before I could think of what to do next, my mother came to and sat up in silence. There was a dazed, otherworldly look on her face as she stared into nothingness for what seemed an eternity. Finally, she raised herself with a forceful jolt and hurried up the stairs.
When I heard heavy footsteps in the attic just above me, I couldn’t ward off the ghoulish vision of my mother dangling from a rope attached to the rafters. So I went up the attic steps and took a peek through the half-opened door. To my relief, she was engaged in some routine cleaning activities.
My mother and I barely spoke the rest of that Sunday. I didn’t ask where my father was, and if my brother asked, I didn’t hear him. Over the next week, conversation was kept to the bare minimum required to manage the logistics of the household.
My brother and I were never given any insight into the divorce proceedings. One day, my father called me into the living room. As we stood across the table from each other, he said, “Albrecht, the court will soon make a decision on the divorce. Since you are sixteen years old, they are willing to give you a voice in deciding who you want to live with when you’re not at school.”
In my mind, the decision had already been made, and I wasted no time in making that clear.
“Vati,” I said, “Hans-Günther and I would like to stay here with Mutti.”
By the characteristic swirling of his tongue inside his mouth, I knew that my father was displeased with my response, but he didn’t say a word. Instead, he nodded curtly and walked out the door.
In late July, he moved into a one-bedroom apartment near the school in Bad Muskau. And though I went to visit him one time at his request, it was clear we had nothing left to say to each other. The relationship that had never really been had now reached its final destination—a dead end. After a few minutes of awkward silence, I made an excuse about having to help a friend with some bike repairs, and I got up to leave. He seemed almost grateful to see me go. I never saw my father again after that day—and never gave him much thought, either.
On our first day back at school, I didn’t see Rosi until after class was out. We walked back to the dorm together, across the Spree River and along a dirt road. I was ecstatic to be reunited with my one true love, but something didn’t seem right.
When Rosi finally opened up, she spoke hesitantly at first, and then quickly got to the point.
“Albrecht, you know I really like you . . .”
I looked over at her, but her eyes were averted and her head was down.
“What is it, Rosi?”
She took a breath and started over. “Albrecht, I had a boyfriend before you and I got together. He’s from my village, and he’s in his second year studying medicine at the university. He came looking for me this summer, and now we are back together.”
I stopped dead in my tracks, and for a moment everything was a jumble. Finally I managed to sputter, “But . . . but . . . what about your promise? What about the star? What about everything we had? Don’t you know how much I love you?”
Rosi responded gently, with her eyes still averted, “I thought we were just having fun. You took everything too seriously. But I should have told you. I’m really sorry.”
Despondent at the thought of losing her, I could already feel the distance between us growing wider.
“Well, can we still be friends?”
“Yes, of course,” she said with relief in her voice, and for the first time since we had left class, she made eye contact with me.
For me, her answer left the back door ajar, and I decided I would win her back. We still had two full years of school together, which gave me the advantage of physical proximity. During my entire junior year, I hung around Rosi and made myself useful whenever and wherever I could. I helped her with her homework, carried her bags on the walk to school, and made myself available to talk whenever she wanted to. I was dogged in my pursuit and even faked a fainting spell one time. Yet nothing worked, and when we parted company at the end of the school year, we were still just friends. But I wasn’t giving up.