Free The Valley of Unknowing by Philip Sington Page A

emblems, May Day carnations and the scarves of the Thälmann Pioneers. Never on party dresses, socks or hats. And certainly not on underwear. There are no red knicker days in the socialist republic. The workers’ flag is deepest red (it shrouded oft our martyred dead), but the workers’ pants are greyest grey. Red hogged the limelight on all occasions, big and small, fluttering from flagpoles and balconies, stamped on to posters and Party exhortations. Pure red, arterial red. Politically, as visually, it triumphed in our urban spaces through sheer absence of competition, an unflinching reminder that we are all one flesh and blood, all brothers and sisters; and that, from the highest to the lowest, we all bleed the same way, chromatically speaking, when we are shot.
    The interview with Herr Andrich and Herr Zoch did not play unduly on my mind that Christmas. If there had been any clear thought behind my mentioning Wolfgang Richter’s name, it was only that publication of his book might be delayed, pending revisions. As an act of vengeance this would have been thoroughly petty had I not also believed that to produce a less politically charged version was in his best interests and, more importantly, Michael Schilling’s. Once a book is published it cannot be un published. Schilling might have succeeded in slipping the novel past unsophisticated officials at the Ministry of Culture, but what if the subversive nature of the work had been revealed subsequently? He would still have shared the blame. And the greater the success of the book, the greater that blame would have been. If the authorities paid Richter more attention than they might otherwise have done, what would that cost him? If he had nothing to hide, he had nothing to fear.
    On the other hand. I had gone behind Schilling’s back. He had given me the manuscript in confidence (although those words were never used) seeking my opinion as to whether the book’s political character would be noticed. I had rendered the question academic, because it was certainly going to be noticed now. The Valley of Unknowing would need more than a new title. Its connections to the history of our republic would have to be rendered invisible, its relevance excised. There could be no agenda, no message, subliminal or otherwise. In its new incarnation, the novel would be a fantasy, an entertainment, nothing more – or rather, nothing else . For who in this modern world really cares for the message anyway? The notion is quaint. Who buys a novel to be lectured?
    Schilling had to be told, but the difficulty was how to go about it. My occasional meetings with Andrich and Zoch, harmless as they might be, were supposed to be secret. I could have asked my old friend to share that secret, but it came to me on one of several solitary walks that complete honesty served no useful purpose. It only exposed me to risk. Besides, how could I ask Michael to share my secret when I had just failed to keep his?
    I decided a fiction was called for (fictions were my business, after all): I would say I had heard something. Better still, I had over heard something – at one of Barbara Jaeger’s soirées. One Party man to another: something about Wolfgang Richter, something about a novel. Enough to know that the authorities were aware of it and that they were on the lookout. The who and the how were not important. The important thing was that Schilling watched his step, avoided sticking his neck out, took evasive action – the result being that he and Richter would stay out of trouble, not just this year and next year, but indefinitely. In the end, what mattered more than that? Certainly not, I decided, the integrity of a sequel, even one so brilliant I wished I had written it myself.
    I did a lot of walking during those weeks. The stomach pains that now regularly plagued me were alleviated, I found, by exercise and fresh air. I walked several times all the way to Schilling’s office, but was finally told that