Fear of Mirrors Read online

  Fear of Mirrors

  Fear of Mirrors

  TARIQ ALI

  This edition first published by Verso 2016

  First published by Arcadia Books 1998

  © Tariq Ali 1998, 2016

  All rights reserved

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Verso

  UK: 6 Meard Street, London W1F 0EG

  US: 20 Jay Street, Suite 1010, Brooklyn, NY 11201

  versobooks.com

  Verso is the imprint of New Left Books

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78478-693-9

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78478-694-6 (US EBK)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78478-692-2 (UK EBK)

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  Typeset in Minion Pro by MJ&N Gavan, Truro, Cornwall

  Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays

  For Chengiz

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Author’s Note

  Glossary

  FEAR OF MIRRORS

  TARIQ ALI

  A Fall-of-Communism Novel

  One

  WE LIVE IN A DREARY VOID and this century is almost over. I have experienced both its passion and its chill. I have watched the sun set across the frozen tundra. I try not to begrudge my fate, but often without success. I know what you’re thinking, Karl. You’re thinking that I deserve the punishment history has inflicted on me.

  You believe that the epoch that is now over, an epoch of genocidal utopias, subordinated the individual to bricks and steel, to gigantic hydro-electric projects, to crazed collectivization schemas and worse. Social architecture used to dwarf the moral stature of human beings and to crush their collective spirit. You’re not far wrong, but that isn’t the whole story.

  At your age my parents talked endlessly of the roads that led to paradise. They were building a very special socialist highway, which would become the bridge to constructing heaven on earth. They refused to be humiliated in silence. They refused to accept the permanent insignificance of the poor. How lucky they were, my son. To dream such dreams, to dedicate their lives to fulfilling them. How crazy they seem now, not just to you or the world you represent, but to the billions who need to make a better world, but are now too frightened to dream.

  Hope, unlike fear, can never be a passive emotion. It demands movement. It requires people who are active. Till now people have always dreamed of the possibility of a better life. Suddenly they have stopped. I know it’s only a semi-colon, not a full-stop, but it is too late to convince poor old Gerhard. He is gone forever.

  These are times when, for people like me, it sometimes requires a colossal effort simply to carry on living. It was the same during the thirties. My mother once told me of how, a year before Stalin’s men killed him, my father had told her: ‘In times like these it’s much easier to die than to live.’ For the first time I have understood what he meant. Life itself seems evil. The worst torture is to witness silently my own degeneration. I really had intended to start on a more cheerful note. Sorry.

  Your mother and I, she in Dresden and me in Berlin, moved towards each other, seeking shelter from the suffocation that affected the majority of citizens of the German Democratic Republic. We yearned for anarchy because the centre of our bureaucratic world was based on order. Gerhard and all our other friends felt exactly the same. We loved our late-night meetings where we talked about the future full of hope and kept ourselves warm by the steam from the black coffee and the tiny glasses of slivowitz. Even in the darkest times there was always merriment. Songs. Poetry. Gerhard was a brilliant mimic and our gatherings always ended with him doing his Politburo turn.

  We were desperate for liberation, so desperate that, for a time, we were blinded by the flashes emanating from the Western videosphere, which succeeded in disguising the drabness of the landscape that now confronts us.

  The old order possessed, if nothing else, at least one virtue. Its very existence provoked us to think, to rebel, to bring the Wall down. If we lost our lives in the process, death struck us down like lightning. It was mercifully brief. The new uniformity is a slow killer; it encourages passivity. But enough pessimism for the moment.

  This is the story of my parents, Karl. It is for you and the children that you will, I hope, father one day. Throughout your childhood you were fed daily with tales of heroism, most of which were true, but they were repetitive. And for that reason, perhaps, you will hate what you are about to read. Just like the poor used to hate potatoes.

  Ever since you became a cultivated and capable young man, your mother and I have found it impossible to draw you out, to make you talk with us, to hear your complaints, your fears, your fantasies. Now I know why you couldn’t say anything to us. In your eyes we had failed, and to the young failure is a terrible crime. Whatever your verdict on us, I would like you to read this till the end. At my age the passage of time appears as a waterfall, and so please treat this request as the last favour your old fart of a father is asking of you.

  It has been so long since we have sat next to each other, laughed at memories of your childhood, exchanged confidences. You were still at school, your mother was still at home, the Wall still stood. I did not feel we were just father and son. I thought we were friends. Gerhard, the only one of my circle you really liked and trusted, would watch us and say: ‘Lucky, Vlady. To have a cub like Karl.’

  We had our differences, of course, but I preferred to believe they were generational, even oedipal. In recent years, you have mocked my beliefs and, on one occasion, I was told you referred to me in public as a dinosaur. I was born in 1937. Not that old, is it Karl? It was your choice of epithet that surprised me.

  Dinosaurs died out over a million years ago, but we are still obsessed with them. Why? Because the knowledge of how and why they became extinct has a lot to teach us about the life of our planet. There is even talk of genetically reconstructing a dinosaur. In other words, my boy, I am proud to be a dinosaur. Your analogy was more revealing than you think. Perhaps deep, deep down we are still on the same side?

  My parents were revolutionaries in the golden days of communism as well as through its bloodiest years. I was a child in Moscow during a war that is now a distant memory in Europe. I have lived most of my life in the twentieth century. You were born in 1971, and with luck you’ll live most of your life in the twenty-first century. All you remember is the death agony of the Soviet Union, the final decadence of the state system they called communism, your mother and me working for a future that never arrived, and the re-unification of Germany.

  And, of course, you remember your mother packing her case and walking out of our apartment. I know you hold me responsible for the break-up of the relationship and your mother’s subsequent decision to accept the offer of a job in New York. You thi
nk it was my affair with Evelyne that was the last straw, but you are wrong. Helge and I were far too close for that to happen.

  How does a marriage like ours come to an end? I think we were too similar in temperament, too like each other in too many ways. Our marriage had been an act of self-defence. She needed me to break from her orthodox Lutheran household. I needed her to get away from my mother, Gertrude. When the outside pressures disappeared, our lives suddenly seemed empty, despite the tumult on the streets. We were trapped in ourselves. Evelyne was a postscript.

  Sometimes I feel that you also hold me personally responsible for the crimes that were committed in the name of Communism. And now you are angry because I have joined the PDS.* Why? Why? I can still hear the anguish in your voice when I first told you of my decision. I, who had never been part of their officialdom, was now joining a Party you saw as nothing but a cover for the old apparatchiks.

  Was it just that, Karl? Or did you think it might affect your own meteoric rise inside the SPD† and your future career? Am I being unfair? All I can say is that I would be very surprised if my decision to join the PDS kept you out of an SPD government in the next century. Judging from what I read and what I hear, I feel you will go far. You are already an expert at making socialism ‘reasonable’ to its natural enemies, by purging it of any subversive charge. Better that than a turn to religion. If you had become a priest or a theologian, your mother and I would have excommunicated you from the church that is our heart.

  Please understand one thing. By the time you are sitting in the antechamber of the Chancellor’s office, memories of the Cold War will have evaporated. You will be faced with very different, real-life monsters. Europe and America are full of demagogues, each busy working on his particular version of Mein Kampf, even though the style will be different. The animal ferocity of the old fascists is giving way to the unctuous paternalism of their successors.

  I joined the PDS to protest against the squalid situation in which we Easties find ourselves, to publicly declare the dignity of distress, to show people that there might be a collective way out of our mess. There have been more suicides in East Germany than anywhere else in Eastern Europe. We don’t starve, but we feel psychologically crushed. It affects us all, regardless of the initials that command our allegiance and for whom we vote in the elections. I know many supporters of our gross chancellor who feel exactly as I do.

  The Westies thought that everything would be fine once our past had been destroyed and all traces of the DDR* eliminated. How foolish they are, these women and men of the West. They thought that money, their money, was the magic solution. It is the only language they understand themselves, and I don’t blame them too much for this weakness. After all, in the post-war period their motto was to strive for money, more money and only then would people recognize their own true worth. They became so preoccupied with this task that it served as a therapy which helped many of them to erase the memories of their own complicity with the Third Reich.

  In our case it wasn’t so simple. However awful, however grotesque the old DDR was – and it was that from the beginning till the end – it was not the Third Reich. The equation is stupid. It insults our intelligence. You know that as well as I, so please make sure that it trickles down to your new masters.

  Over forty years we evolved different cultures. Take our language, for instance. We even speak differently. In the West grammar has been almost forgotten. Life in the DDR schools was stifling, but our kindergartens were really good and in the sixties and seventies the Prusso-Stalinist structures in the universities were beginning to reveal dangerous cracks.

  Your children will never see The Sand Man. Wasn’t it much better than the American rubbish they show the children in the West, or am I just a pathetic old bore, who is beginning to get on your nerves?

  Many of us are happy that our country is one again, but sad that everything here is being crushed. Their new Berlin, the official Berlin for the next century, is being designed and constructed to obliterate the past, to put the genie of history back into the lamp. Yet they are simultaneously creating the conditions to revive the old polarizations. The rich Westies are buying up all the real estate so that they can become even richer. And they bring their own towels and soap when they stay in our hotels. A new homogeneity is being imposed on us. Of course, we have the freedom to protest. This is good.

  Gerhard’s letter arrived the day after I had heard his suicide reported on the radio. A few lines. A former professor had hanged himself in his garden in Jena. That’s all. I read Gerhard’s letter over and over again. This was the voice of my closest friend. Less than a fortnight ago, we had spent an evening together. Like me, Gerhard had been dismissed from his post. He could not remain Professor of Mathematics at the university in Jena because of his political views. Here was a man who had celebrated the fall of the Wall like everyone else.

  Alas, Gerhard’s father had been a general in military intelligence. The Westies were purging us with a vengeance. Tell me something, Karl. What use is a Germany that sentences people like Gerhard to death? You wept when I showed you his letter. Do you remember that mild, beaming face, often dreaming, often filled with self-doubt, but never withdrawn or gloomy?

  At first it’s like an ember. Then it begins to flicker and soon there’s a flame. It is this flame that penetrates the brain. The result? Constant pain. It’s when my mind cannot contain the pain; when it overpowers everything – hope, love, pleasant memories, everything – it’s when it brutally occupies the past that the thought first occurs. The pain refuses to go away. And then, on a beautiful sunny afternoon like today, I think of the best way to go. Why shouldn’t I hang myself from the old oak in the garden? A semi-public act. The neighbours will report the event. Ultimately, Vlady, it is the only means of escape left to us. The Westies want to write us off completely. We never existed. Everything was shit. I cannot live in a country where human beings are once again being seen as rubbish to be swept aside … Spiritual poverty is worse than death, degradation or suicide …

  The only image you have of us, Karl, is that of a vanquished generation whose entire legacy is poisoned. Telling you Ludwik’s story may give me the opportunity to tell you more than you know about your grandmother and about myself. Don’t panic just yet. Spare me your condescension and pity. This is not going to be a self-justification or an attempt to wean you away from the apparatus to which you have become so attached. Everything in this world is now relative. I rejoice that you are a Social Democrat and not a Christian Democrat, and one day you must explain what divides you from them today.

  What I want, above all, is to rescue the people in this story from the grip of all those whose only interest in the past is to justify their version of the present. Those of us who have been formed by and survived the fire-storms of this century owe this, if nothing else, to ourselves.

  If you don’t want to read what I have to say, perhaps you’ll drop it in a drawer somewhere and let it lie there till your children or their children take it out. Perhaps by the time I’ve reached the end, I might not want to send it to anyone. Much of what you will read is my imagination. The spaces between what I know for sure could not be left empty. With your permission, then, I’ll start in the time-honoured tradition.

  Once upon a time, in the village of Pidvocholesk, in the province of Galicia, in the last decade of the preceding century, there were five boys whose names began with L. They all swam in the same river, went to the same school, chased the same girls and grew up indifferent to the fact that their little village, situated on the border between the Austro-Hungarian lands and the domains of the Tsar of All the Russias, was subject to the vagaries of imperialism. It changed hands every few years. All this meant was that they learnt two extra languages instead of one and were taught to read Pushkin and Goethe in the original.

  Your grandmother, Gertrude, used to talk of a photograph she once saw in Moscow. There they all were. Five boys, virgin and uncorrupted, dripping with
water from head to toe, their faces full of mischief, caught by the camera in their knee-length swimming trunks.

  It was not till they were older that Ludwik, Lang (whom they always called Freddy), Levy, Livitsky and Larin, realized that the Tsar’s regime was far more oppressive. The Austrians had encouraged the building of a library and a reading-room where they could read all the German-language newspapers and periodicals. The reading-room had become a trysting place even for the less literate youth of the village and there was anger when the Russians closed it down.

  Of the five Ls, three, including my father, Ludwik, came from Jewish backgrounds and spoke Yiddish. The other two were of Polish peasant stock. Everything was mixed. People spoke each other’s languages. When it was time to mark their tenth birthdays your grandfather and his friends were equally fluent in German, Russian, Polish and Yiddish.

  We all know the negative features of the old empires, but they did have a positive side as well. Their existence united the populations over which they ruled by providing them with a common language and a common enemy.

  The young men growing up in little Pidvocholesk never suspected that, within the space of a few years, most of them would be decimated by the First World War. Not that they were unaware of the turbulent times in which they lived. Life in a border village is rarely serene. It attracts fugitives of every hue. Criminals, political exiles, deserters from various armies, young couples fleeing from parental tyranny and trying desperately to find a way to the New World.

  The Ls were well placed since Schmelka Livitsky’s father owned the village inn. In his black caftan and matching black beard, Schmelka’s father inspired both awe and respect. He was a kind man and clothed even the basest of his visitors with a rare dignity. It was here that Ludwik and his friends first heard from Polish exiles that a revolution had broken out against the Tsar in St Petersburg. The year was 1905.