The Ticcket
The place:
A train station in a small town in what had just become “the Russian Zone of Germany”.
The actors:
The little officious man who sells the tickets, my uncle, who wants to buy a ticket, a whole queue of people who also want to buy tickets and I, twelve years old and observant.
My uncle:
Return ticket to Chemnitz please.
The little man:
You can’t go to Chemnitz.
My uncle:
Why ever not?
The little man:
‘cause it doesn’t exist.
My uncle:
Come again?
The little man:
(almost giggling)
Chemnitz is no longer.
My uncle:
(still not annoyed, just baffled)
What do you mean, Chemnitz is no longer? It hasn’t been bombed out of existence, it’s still there, I was there last week...
The little man:
(with great satisfaction)
You can go to Karl-Marx-Stadt, same thing.
My uncle:
(getting angry)
What on earth is Karl-Marx-Stadt? Whatever ... Keep it. Stop pissing about and give me my ticket to Chemnitz!
The little man:
Can’t...
My uncle:
(ready to ring the little man’s neck)
Cut it out you little ...
The little man:
Please, not in front of the child (looking at me). I can only give you a ticket to Karl-Marx-Stadt. Chemnitz has been re-named, didn’t you know?
I have a look at the rest of the travellers who are queuing up behind us. I needn’t have worried. Nobody is impatient. They giggle behind their hands, nudge each other and generally have a wonderful time.
My uncle:
That’s the last straw! First we had our Adolf, now we have the Bolsheviks and what’s the result of the latest World War? Chemnitz has been re-named. What a heroic achievement!
The little man:
(looking smug)
Just take your ticket and stop making everyone wait.
My uncle:
I don’t want a ticket to Karl-Marx-Stadt. I want a ticket to Chemnitz!
The crowd:
(beginning to enjoy this more and more)
Snicker, snicker, snicker ... wink, wink ...
The little man:
Take it or leave it. That’s what there is.
My uncle:
Oh, all right then. Who are we to argue. Should have argued at least ten years ago. Give me the ticket to Karl-Marx-Stadt then.
The little man:
(handing over a ticket)
Here you are, Sir.
My uncle:
But that says Chemnitz ...?
The little man:
(actually blushing)
They didn’t have time yet to print new tickets.
My uncle:
On second thought, I don’t want to go to Chemnitz. I want a ticket to Karl-Marx-Stadt. I insist!
The crowd
now laughing openly
The little man:
(becoming less superior by the minute)
Sir, as you can see, we don’t have the new tickets yet.
My uncle:
Then write me one by hand. In the name of the glorious Revolution I demand a ticket to Karl-Marx-Stadt!
The little man is sweating and mumbles something behind the thick glass divide. He takes the ticket back, crosses out Chemnitz, writes Karl-Marx-Stadt by hand across the ticket and passes it to my uncle via the mini turn table.
The little man:
(quietly)
When the cat leaves, the mice are dancing on the tables.
***end***
A train station in a small town in what had just become “the Russian Zone of Germany”.
The actors:
The little officious man who sells the tickets, my uncle, who wants to buy a ticket, a whole queue of people who also want to buy tickets and I, twelve years old and observant.
My uncle:
Return ticket to Chemnitz please.
The little man:
You can’t go to Chemnitz.
My uncle:
Why ever not?
The little man:
‘cause it doesn’t exist.
My uncle:
Come again?
The little man:
(almost giggling)
Chemnitz is no longer.
My uncle:
(still not annoyed, just baffled)
What do you mean, Chemnitz is no longer? It hasn’t been bombed out of existence, it’s still there, I was there last week...
The little man:
(with great satisfaction)
You can go to Karl-Marx-Stadt, same thing.
My uncle:
(getting angry)
What on earth is Karl-Marx-Stadt? Whatever ... Keep it. Stop pissing about and give me my ticket to Chemnitz!
The little man:
Can’t...
My uncle:
(ready to ring the little man’s neck)
Cut it out you little ...
The little man:
Please, not in front of the child (looking at me). I can only give you a ticket to Karl-Marx-Stadt. Chemnitz has been re-named, didn’t you know?
I have a look at the rest of the travellers who are queuing up behind us. I needn’t have worried. Nobody is impatient. They giggle behind their hands, nudge each other and generally have a wonderful time.
My uncle:
That’s the last straw! First we had our Adolf, now we have the Bolsheviks and what’s the result of the latest World War? Chemnitz has been re-named. What a heroic achievement!
The little man:
(looking smug)
Just take your ticket and stop making everyone wait.
My uncle:
I don’t want a ticket to Karl-Marx-Stadt. I want a ticket to Chemnitz!
The crowd:
(beginning to enjoy this more and more)
Snicker, snicker, snicker ... wink, wink ...
The little man:
Take it or leave it. That’s what there is.
My uncle:
Oh, all right then. Who are we to argue. Should have argued at least ten years ago. Give me the ticket to Karl-Marx-Stadt then.
The little man:
(handing over a ticket)
Here you are, Sir.
My uncle:
But that says Chemnitz ...?
The little man:
(actually blushing)
They didn’t have time yet to print new tickets.
My uncle:
On second thought, I don’t want to go to Chemnitz. I want a ticket to Karl-Marx-Stadt. I insist!
The crowd
now laughing openly
The little man:
(becoming less superior by the minute)
Sir, as you can see, we don’t have the new tickets yet.
My uncle:
Then write me one by hand. In the name of the glorious Revolution I demand a ticket to Karl-Marx-Stadt!
The little man is sweating and mumbles something behind the thick glass divide. He takes the ticket back, crosses out Chemnitz, writes Karl-Marx-Stadt by hand across the ticket and passes it to my uncle via the mini turn table.
The little man:
(quietly)
When the cat leaves, the mice are dancing on the tables.
***end***
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