Go West : Sophie Hardach's Confession with Blue Horses

Go West  

Confession with Blue Horses by Sophie Hardach 

A book review

This year marks the thirtieth anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall. I was still a child in 1989 and could hardly grasp the implications of what was happening.  Yet, even as a little boy watching events on television thousands of miles away, I could feel that something momentous was taking place.  Of course, the fall of the Wall was symbolic not just of a new era for Germany, but also of a more widespread collapse of communist regimes in Europe, and a thawing of relations between East and West. 

It was, perhaps, inevitable that, given the weight of expectations created by this occasion, a sense of disappointment and frustration would soon set in. After all, new-found liberty and democracy, however strongly desired, would not and could not solve all political problems.  New realities also presented tough challenges to many people, who had lived for decades – possibly tolerably well – under different rules and now had to adapt to what seemed an alien lifestyle.  This might explain the appetite for books and movies such as Good Bye, Lenin! which seem to feed on a sense of yearning for life under the GDR, or at least, for some of its less unsavoury aspects.  This feeling was widespread enough to justify the coining of a word for it – Ostalgie.  Now, many would surely agree that “nostalgia for the East” is misplaced and uncalled for – an apology for en evil regime.  One could also argue that Ostalgie is not directed at the GDR, but that it is a longing for a “construct”, a fantasy world which never really existed. 

In any case, however, it is hardly surprising that even some ex-citizens of the GDR subscribe to a romanticised view of East Germany.  After all, despite the suffering occasioned by the GDR’s dictatorial leaders, the suffocating political atmosphere and the privations, many people still managed to go on their daily life: people went to work, fell in love, got married, built families.  As the past recedes, it becomes more of a foreign country and its increasing exoticism smudges and rubs off its darker corners.              

Memory, memories and the way they articulate the past are an important theme in Sophie Hardach’s Confession with Blue Horses.   The novel follows two intertwining timelines.  One is set in the final years of the GDR, and introduces us to the Valentin family: art historians Regine and Jochen, and their children Ella, Tobi and Heiko.  The Valentins live in East Berlin, in an apartment block very close to the Wall.  Both Regine and Valentin have managed to carve out a respectable academic career under the regime, publishing books which have been granted state approval.  But they both are becoming restless, and with the help and influence dissident artist friends, they attempt to defect to the West.  Their plan goes horribly wrong.  This brings us to the novel’s present – the year 2010.  Ella who is now in her early thirties and, like her brother Tobi, is settled in London, comes across some documents belonging to her mother.  They rekindle her curiosity as to what really happened to her family – particularly her mother and her brother Heiko – after the abortive defection attempt. Ella returns to a changed East Berlin and, with the help of an intern at the Stasi archives, conducts her own investigation, with some startling and unexpected results.

East Germany, 1980s (photo by Harf Zimmermann, flashbak.com)

Confession with Blue Horses is a brilliant book.  First of all, Hardach has a good story, and she knows how to tell it well.  The changes from first-person (when Ella is speaking in the “present”), to third-person narrative, highlight Ella’s central role in the novel, but also bring an element of stylistic variety which keeps the reader interested, as does the alternation of timelines.  There are several nail-biting key scenes (such as the night-time escape to the West) which convey very graphically the sense of danger engendered by the regime and its Stasi watchdogs.  Hardach never tries to turn her novel into a thriller or spy story – she is more interested in her characters and their motivations than in exciting plot twists.  Yet, she does give attention to plot, and the way she gradually reveals salient elements of her story turn this novel into an unlikely page-turner.    

More importantly, however, the novel addresses potentially controversial themes with a great sense of balance. Hardach does not flinch from portraying the cruelty of the regime, the harsh punishments meted out to its prisoners and the daily privations of the GDR citizens (queueing for ages for basic goods).  And yet, we are also given the points of view of people such as Regine’s mother, a Nazi concentration camp survivor who genuinely believes in the Communist ideal and views the West with suspicion, even as her daughter lies in jail. We even get to hear the point of view of two ex-Stasi guards, who see themselves as having been upright citizens defending the state and the law – they are despicable characters but they are still afforded the chance to defend themselves. 

The book also raises related thorny issues.  For instance, does knowing the full truth about the dark times of the GDR really lead to healing, or does it just reopen old wounds?  Is “remembering” always the best way of honouring the past and its victims, or is it, sometimes, too large a price to pay?

Amongst critically-trumpeted new novels, it might be easy to miss Sophie Hardach’s Confession with Blue Horses.  That would be a shame.  Look out for it.

Kindle Edition, 352 pages

Published June 13th 2019 by Head of Zeus

East Germany, 1980s (photo by Harf Zimmerman flashbak.com) 

As art historians and lecturers, Jochen and Regine Valentin have an ambivalent relationship with the state.  On the one hand, they are valued members of the Intelligenz, tasked with showing the world that the GDR is an artistically fecund country, able to create things of beauty.  On the other hand, they are viewed with suspicion, their state-funded journeys to the West kept under close supervision and control. 

Their story represents what many artists, writers and musicians went through under totalitarian regimes in general and communist governments in particular.  The story of Russian composer Dmitri Shostakovich is a famous example.  His relationship to the state blew hot and cold.  Within a matter of months, he would be lauded as a dutiful Soviet artist and condemned for “formalism”, namely his failure to abide by the artistic diktat imposed by the regime.  Julian Barnes’s novel The Noise of Time brilliantly evokes the tormented soul of this composer.

Strangely, however, classical composers under the GDR seem to have been given greater freedom in expressing themselves.  Whereas popular musicians were often targeted by the secret police for following Western trends, using English lyrics or expressing dissident sentiments, the regime had a generally more benevolent approach towards classical composers.  It is true that the cultural atmosphere hardly encouraged an avant-garde approach, and that many of the compositions of the era follow a generally expressionist style.  However, the GDR era still produced some interesting classical works which are ripe for rediscovery.

The GDR made much of the fact that J.S. Bach was born in East German territory.  Initiatives to commemorate this great figure included the conversion of Bach’s house in Eisenach into a museum and the compilation of an archive of his work in Leipzig.  An East German composer who turned to Bach for inspiration was Ruth Zechlin (1926 – 2007), who, as an organist and lecturer in music history, knew her J.S. well.  Here is her orchestral Bach Epitaph. 

Keeping to the same theme, here is another Bach-inspired work by Paul Dessau (1894-1978) – except that this time round, the source of musical material is not Johann Sebastian, but his son C.P.E. Bach.  A Brecht collaborator, Dessau had emigrated to France, and from there to the US, with the rise of the Nazis.  He returned to East Berlin in 1948 and became a leading musical figure in the life of the GDR. 

 

Dessau’s life story touches upon one of the points brought out in Hardach’s novel, namely that there were citizens who genuinely believed in the socialist ideals of the GDR and wanted this project to succeed.  The career of Ernst Hermann Meyer (1905-1988) followed a similar trajectory. Meyer was a Jew and, like Dessau, he left Germany in the early thirties, eventually settling in the UK.  A composer and musicologist, he published research on Early English music and was offered a professorship at Cambridge in 1945.  He could have had a bright musical future in the UK.  Yet, just three years later, he returned to East Germany, pursuing his profession, whilst also becoming a politically committed Communist.   

Meyer could also be more playful, as in these piano pieces written for his daughter.  Because, to paraphrase Sting, East Germans loved their children too.