Homsarecs! Volume 1, Part 1 of Chapter 1

 

“Isatai”, said my Dad, “under God’s eyes I give my son to you as your Pais.” He took my hand and laid it into Isatai’s hand. “Mother will kill me”, he added. “Maurice, under God’s eyes I take your son as my Pais”, answered Isatai, covering my hand with his own, “and now we have to go.

I Can See More Than You

Iván the narrator of the story

I heard that radio broadcasting can come through the air. And I was dreaming to have such a radio.  They all think that it comes out of the wall. From the state cable. No other way. Wasn't it different in the past? Nobody seems to remember. My Dad does, but he won't speak.

I managed to get a kit to build such a radio. On the black market, of course. How did I get the money? By walking! And selling my annual bus ticket. School children don't get  cash. So I ran to school instead of riding the bus. We were supposed to take the bus -- for safety reasons. I would even have starved for such a deal, but my canteen ticket is connected to my identity card, I can't sell it.

These were the sacrifices I made for my goal: To get a functioning radio. There were the parts. There was an instruction leaflet. I hardly needed it. I connected the parts and with my heart throbbing, I tried it for the first time.

There was a pirate station, I knew, and I also knew who operated it. "Homsarecs" did. Those outside our society who were also called "wild people".

A typical Homsarec

Sometimes I saw them. Their appearance was annoying. They ran around with earrings, with tattoos which could be seen because they were naked or almost naked in any kind of weather. Sometimes, they wore nothing but a belt covered with rivets, sometimes they wore clothes out of strange shining material. Or it was decorated with beads and shells. They had some kind of loin cloth around their hips or hanging from their belts, going down to their knees or even to their ankles, leaving hips and legs free. They did not wear many tattoos: An animal symbol of palm-size on their right breast, another on their left buttock. Some were completely covered with ornaments like geometrical shapes or vines, but if you were able to take a closer look, this was body-paint. They had long hair in braids and buns or floating free or other crazy hairstyles like shaved heads, they laughed and fooled around in the streets, and obviously nobody was able to stop them. They were bearing ridiculous weapons, bows and arrows, stone axes, a kind of sicle by the belt -- if they were under weapons. In most cases, they were not, but even though, we turned to the other side of the street or walked around the corner. The way they behaved was a shame. We were strictly forbidden to copy their style. The first thing we always heard was: "They are dangerous!" And they were most dangerous, as we were taught, when their faces were painted. But this is someting I haven't seen yet.

I did not see them very often, I just knew that they owned a few houses in our town that nobody dared to go to. And they had this pirate radio station. 

But listening doesn't mean I contact them! It doesn't mean they know about me.

I remember forbidden listening to the radio long time ago. I must have been very young, it happened before my Dad was gone. He came back and he was different, resigned, intimidated, and when I was 12, he disappeared again for a few months. He even looked different, they had broken his nose. After his return, he managed to purchase an illegal radio. Listening meant fear and secrecy. Dad and Aunt Elena listened to the news when Mom was not at home. I was more into the music, and this was my reason to get such a radio now. It was real music, rock music that made my bones shiver, not these thin-blooded propaganda songs of government-accredited bands.

And I found the station! 
News -- but certainly there would be music later.

»Hoshvenudos cares Tohörers entra cultura un estra cultura al programma in Lingo Real, de Lingo del Kung. Datem Novosti internationali: Novos waterporten de Lagunas de Sukent sun fa proben suxessfol, promes dat dux al grote fiesta de invisning.«

I understood and did not understand; then, I did not think much why I understood some of it. I understood a lot of the Russian that my Dad and aunt Elena used. I knew more or less what they were talking about, and I also knew it now; it was the 'true' or 'royal' language, and it was an invitation from the Duke for a grand opening of the watergates for the lagoons of Sukent which had been tested successfully. There was a whole range of fantasies evolving in my mind. Where would this party be? Could I learn this language?

And there was music, a kind of music I must have heard before, in an obscure past, in long forgotten places. Tunes winding around each other like a pair of growing beanstalks, sweet flutes causing sweet pain in my heart, there is something mysterious and wise in it like in my aunt Elena’s voice when she told me stories that my Mom doesn’t like. “You scare him to death!” – Sure she did not. She gave me thrills I loved. “Leave him alone with your superstitious nonsense! You will just confuse him!” – Oh no, I loved mysteries. She introduced me into a strange phenomenon called religion which was so suspicious that it became very desirable to me.

So when my mother tried to forbid such issues, I became even more determined to find out what I could.

“We believe in science and reason!” she claimed, at which I imitated Adolf Hitler’s voice: “… and in destiny!” … and took a quick escape.

But how could I find out where such parties would happen? And if it would be possible to join?

No chance. No way to learn more, even if I had stepped up to them out in the street and asked them. They used to laugh and remain silent.

We were warned from them all the time -- in order to protect us. Whatever measures of force -- we had to be protected. We were kept busy with political activities in school and party groups most of the time.

Sometimes I just want to be left alone. I don't want to talk about the same bullshit again and again. But there is no way for an 18 year old school boy to be alone if you live in a Volkshaus -- where else? I did not know anything else.

Our Volkshaus was a simple building in the outskirts of our town. Originally white-washed, now grey, six floors with square windows, six in a row, three families on each floor, seventeen families because one of the flats on the ground floor has been turned into community rooms, assembly room, tea kitchen and the house director's office. It has a window that opens to the corridor and entrance hall, so all coming and going can be observed by the house director, or, as we call him, the Blockwart.

The corridors are grey, the light switch gives a banging sound when pushed, and even if you hurry up, the light will not last long enough for the complete staircase to climb. In the entrance-hall, there is a show case displaying tenants with merits through voluntary work, then a row showing those who lack enthusiasm with a slogan to encourage them for more efforts, and this is where you can see my portrait.

I don't have a room for myself. That's a waste of space. My younger sister Mina "the fun-killer", the "sneaker", sees everything I do. And she tells it all to -- no, not my parents. My Dad would tell her to shut up. No, she runs to the house director Hinschmann. And he will give her candy as a reward. What a luxury! I can't remember their taste. But I don't run to him.  Hey, she's sixteen! Too old to sit on his knees! Whose idea was it to call him "henchman"? It must have been sarcastic Auntie Elena.

My Dad and Auntie have taught me a lot of "foreign" words. Even some Russian! If Mom just knew. She and Dad went to political classes quite often and left me with Aunt Elena, "bless her soul". Elena never spied on me. Never ever. She knew I listened to the radio, but did not say a thing. 

It was the music I was after. I could understand the moderation. The names of the bands were "Accident", German rock music with startling lyrics, "Babushki Molot", Russian punk rock and the best punk rock of our town, "Besoffski Katastrofski" -- "katastrophes of booze" --, both not exactly what I was after. "Simsala Drum", mostly percussion, okay, what else? "Kozodoy". Their music sent shivers down my spine with their sublime, melancholic tunes. The name means "Night Jar", I remember. A very hidden bird with a strange humming voice. They can't be that bad it they love such a kind of music.

Just a few days have passed since I started using this radio under great caution, then I hid it under my bed inside old sport shoes in a box. The radio inside one of the shoes, the ear phones in the other one, I believed it would be invisible. I have to beware from my own sister.

The hidden radio

Meanwhile, the government station finds the wave on which the pirates broadcast, and they jam the station. Either they use some noise or propaganda about our folks' community and the superior and wise protection that the Party of Justice spreads over men and women of German blood.

Behind the house we live in there is a community garden, a green, and a tot-lot, some trees, and they are my joy. Although the house director has everything cut that grows until it doesn't seem to grow, you can still call this thing a tree. The lower branches were removed to prevent them from being climbed. That's just what we need. The kids have their tot-lot things to climb on. And how do you climb a tree in spite? I found a rope, I found an anchor-shaped hook. The place where my Dad works is very helpful and rich in discarded but useful stuff. I wrap the rope around my waist and hide it under my sweater.

I found the rope on one of my walks. It was among a heap of paper near a house I like, so I go there quite often. I was amazed at the mess behind the house; and before I understood that this was a Homsarec house, I thought their house director must be incompetent, and he would soon get sacked by our town administration. And they would find someone like ours who has his folks under control.

Getting up the tree was no problem with these aids. I pulled the rope up and hid it as well as I could.

I tried to remember the music I heard this afternoon. The tunes. Interwoven tunes, longing voices, deep riffs that trembled through my bones. I looked up into the sky.

And I watched this vision for a few moments before I understood this was really happening.

There was a blue light up in the sky.

It was an image of a young man. He was naked, as I could clearly see. He was drifting across the sky in about 50 yards height. His eyes were closed and he was smiling as if he experienced utmost joy. His hands were crossed behind his neck. What was this? Am I crazy? Having hallucinations? He was moving in a steady speed as if he was crossing the sky in a boat. The night seemed to be floating around him like an ocean. The starry sky was a flood of shining driplets around him. Who was he, what was this? Was it a projection, but for what purpose?

Keep quiet! For Heaven’s sake, not a word. Do you want to be sent to the doctor? Get an unfriendly inquiry that would destroy the magic moment and trample it into the dirt? Not a word to anyone. Exept… Yes, there is one person I can talk to, it is my father. Slowly, I descended from the tree, determined to talk to my Dad tomorrow where he worked, so neither Mom nor my sister would interfere.

But someone else’s voice interrupted my pondering. “What are you doing?”

I froze.

“You know that climbing on trees is forbidden?”
It was hard to deny. Hinschman’s voice never allowed a way out. “It is just to protect you”, he continued in a more amical tone, and then he repeated the tiring thing about our family that was under suspicion anyway, and was I going to cause problems for them all? “And what have you got behind your back?” Because I was trying to disappear, trying to hide my rope.

“Found.”

“Found – where?”

“Near a house… I don’t know who lives there.”

“Where?”

“Tischbein Street.”

“Old white villa? Terrace with a glass roof? Tall red beech in the garden?”

My “no” wasn’t convincing. He rolled up the rope in his hand, becoming very serious. I was sure he would keep it.

“You should not go there again”, he said, “these are enemies of our society, they abuse und torture young people they kidnap, so don’t even get near them. You heard about Peter Lenbach? They have got him. We’ll go there and clear the place sooner or later.”

Funny they hadn’t done this already if such weird things were happening there. But he certainly would not discuss this with me. “We’ve got them under survey, that’s what matters, we don’t have to arrest them all, just as long as we know what they’re doing.”

Oh. Our government has a problem. They are too many. For some odd reason, they were afraid of the Homsarecs. They did not have a problem to raid the tv station where my father worked. To arrest the whole team, keep him in for months and never let him out before he got an observation bracelet showing all the time where he was.

When he came back, he had changed. Where was his funny, joyful side? Just sarcasm and traumatic fear were left.

I was just waiting for the usual advice. “Why don’t you find a nice girlfriend?”

But how? Should I walk up to them and talk to them, just as the others did? I could not do this. It would have ruined my romance. Someone had to come up to me, and she was to just take me, softly but determined, someone I had chosen without words, someone who left me no choice. I don’t know what made me want it this way. I couldn’t just walk up to her and start a chat like “let’s have tea” or in an official way: “shall we go to the political training tonight?”

Go ahead, spoil it all.

I wanted a goddess. They existed. 
Rosa was a goddess. Notorious Rosa. But I never found out why she had such a bad reputation. 
You just don’t start talking to a goddess. You wait until she will notice you. 
But all I could do was to let my hair grow.

I went to bed, but could not sleep. I did not want to disturb my parents; Mina was fast asleep. She was the last person on earth that I could talk to.

The day of the ultimatum was near. The Ministry of Youth, Family and Sexuality – all the things that did not happen in our society – had sent an order to all schools. Teachers and directors were to enforce equal looks. No outer signs or extravagances were to attract Homsarecs. A neat and proper haircut, simple, practical clothing, nothing flamboyant, somber or exotic, no similarities with the decadence, as shown by the enemy, could be tolerated. Tonight, this ultimatum would end at 6 pm, when the hairdressers’ shops would close. This was my last chance to have at least a little bit of influence on my hairstyle. In case I came back with my long hair tonight, I would be given to the “Society for correct life style” and would be taken away to get a haircut by force. And this would mean the standard style. And so, this day started as the worst day in my life, but I had no idea how exiting it would end.

“Potozki!”

“Present.”

“Why is our Society of Justice the final state of collective development?”

“Because humans are not mature enough for anarchy.”

Outch. Wrong answer.

“How — dare — you?” The words came like hammer blows.

‘How dare I see things that I can’t explain?’ I thought. This vision had changed everything. And I was still wondering if I had had a hallucination.

Could I even trust my eyes and all my senses? Could I trust the conclusions I made?

I took a retreat into the bathroom and stared at the wall. It was too white. Just been painted the other day. This requires a graffito.

“More than one person shares your idea? You must be wrong.”

Someone rattled on the door. “Are you doing graffiti or are you wanking?”

It was easy to find out that the latest decoration on the wall was mine.

And I had forgotten my homework. So all I could do during the politics lesson was to play battleships with my mate. And to walk around after school as long as possible.

Time to go home. I held my hair back behind my neck. Better than all short. I’m sure I will hate it.

The figaro stepped out of the door. “Well…”

I shook my head.

“Now I could do it more or less the way you want it”,  he said, “but if they take you here by force, I’ll have to do the standard”, he said.

I looked at him. He withstood my glance. Oh, I noticed that he was on my side.

His eyes twitched. “They will notice you”, he said.

“Who?”

“Homsarecs. They are into such guys as you are. Slender guys. Long hair. Pretty faces. They would make a nice slave out of you.”

“Why a slave?” I asked.

His face became impenetrable. “You better come in and let me do the job or go home. I said enough. Good bye.”

But I was not ready to get my hair cut.

Chapter 1, part 2