The final spurt in the construction of the house and the upcoming move required our joint effort, there was no time for quarrels, and the relationship between Sylvia and me returned to normal.
Somehow, I was relieved. The first tenants were already moving into their new apartments, and I was still busy installing the last balcony railings, but that didn’t seem to bother anyone.
Everyone had reached their long-awaited destination, and the former community of convenience was beginning to dissolve. Finally, we too were preparing to move. There was little of the furniture from the old apartment that could be used, almost everything had to be purchased new and paid for immediately in cash.
Purchases on installment or credit did not exist in the GDR at that time. In order to save costs, Sylvie had sewn the curtains, which we wanted to install next to a few lamps, for all the windows herself according to the measurements I had given her.
Only in the living room, in the otherwise empty apartment, was a new double couch that the furniture dealer had delivered. When attaching the curtains it turned out that their length did not correspond to Sylvie’s ideas, but for the overall impression the mistake was completely insignificant.
I had probably misjudged. Sylvie was beside herself with anger. Before I could calm her down, she jumped at me like a cat. I was not prepared for such a violent attack over this trifle and toppled backwards onto the couch. Snorting with rage, my wife knelt over me and tore a large tuft of hair from my head.
Only the pain awakened my resistance. I shook her off, threw her on her back and angrily took a swing at her face. But I didn’t hit her, I had never hit a woman in my life, and I let go of her. Wordlessly we did our work and didn’t speak a word to each other for days.
The move to the beautiful apartment I had worked so hard for I had imagined differently. I thought a lot about this disgraceful, undignified physical confrontation. The measurement error was certainly only the cause of the quarrel, but not the actual cause.
Possibly it was my lack of a doctorate, with which Sylvie would have liked to manifest her elevated social position. But this remains my unconfirmed assumption. Sylvia had furnished the apartment quickly and tastefully. She had style, you had to give her that, and she also cooked exquisitely.
But somehow the warmth of the nest was missing, and our relationship remained strained. Nevertheless, I didn’t think for a moment about divorce, especially because of my daughter. I also hoped for the day when my sons would be of age and would finally be allowed to confess to their father. I never gave up this hope. 𝓣𝓸 𝓑𝓮 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓾𝓮𝓭…
This is a supporter-funded publication. To receive new contributions and promote my work, become a subscriber: