Hugo had been devastated when Wolf Biermann left. But no one was surprised. By that time, many artists were tired of how things were, of the constant surveillance, of how disappointing the government was, of how they’d become the opposite of what they had promised to be. The lack of goods didn’t help, nor did the fact that they had things better than the vast majority of the population and even then, they didn’t have the things they wanted. Desire for good things or a good life were seen as capitalist, as greedy. People were confused; they wanted, but they were ashamed of their desires. And was that such a bad thing? Eva thought shame had its purpose. When she occasionally looked at American magazines—People, Vanity Fair, Glamour—she was often disgusted. It was too much. To have some shame was not a bad thing.
Of course East Germany had its problems, but airing frustration—for which Wolf was known in his work—was considered just plain heretical. Communism was the religion, the only real religion allowed. Wolf was lucky to get out safely. Others had tried to escape. People had disappeared. But Eva didn’t like to think about those things. Not then, not now for the most part, but now, now, she knew that it was cowardly of her.
They had Wolf and Greta and their daughter Nina over before they left. At that point, Hugo knew that his house must be bugged. But what did it matter? He felt he had nothing to hide. He knew he would die a fairly loyal Communist, die there in East Germany. He knew it from the moment that Eva and he arrived. What did it matter that the Stasi, the government, wanted to hear him fuck Greta—or his own wife, for that matter—listening to scratchy, barely audible tapes? Sometimes, he did complain, mildly, to Eva. But never to Wolf or the other disgruntled intellectuals. Around them, he was often quiet and even sometimes defensive of the GDR. This was the country that had saved him from the Nazis! This was the country that educated all of its people, where no one was hungry. No one was without a home or without an education, and everyone got excellent health care. Yet he knew there were things wrong. As the years wore on, the problems became obvious, often painfully so.
“What a waste of human effort, of the short time we have here on this planet. Just a useless folly,” he had sighed, looking older than usual in bed next to her. Eva stroked his coarse hair. His hair was dry, brittle even, now that his gray hair had turned white. “Forcing Wolf to leave. Spending all this time and energy eavesdropping, collecting useless information, and then filing it properly. As if having proper files matters when the information is utterly useless.”
Eva remembered this as she contemplated the jars of smells in the bag. Hugo would say, “To think what this country could be like if the money and time and energy were used in other ways. It’s a tragedy.”
Eva had said nothing. What country wasn’t a tragedy? They had made their bed here, and now they would lie in it. Eva didn’t believe that anywhere else was better. Just different. She stroked his hair until he fell asleep and then, content, she slept, too.
Later she realized Hugo missed Greta more than Wolf when they both defected. She could tell when he missed a woman, when one of his affairs ended. He paced slowly around the house and stopped taking pictures. He drank too much coffee. He even became grumpy and short-tempered with Elena. And yet, he became very kind and needy toward Eva.
“Bitte, Liebchen, würdest du mir einen Kaffee machen?””he’d ask, his eyes a bit droopy and guiltridden.
“Sicher. Kommt gleich,” she’d answer, grateful for his neediness. It was a happy time for Eva. He would always turn to her. Until, of course, he started seeing Mausi. By then, he didn’t turn to anyone, really. It was just the two women, circling a dying man. He never had to ask for anything.