One of You (eBook)

Blow the whistle already, blow the whistle, he thought.

His new white shoes were stained green; they’d already played a half.

The wet ball glistened and waited impatiently to be played.

It wasn’t raining, the air was just damp. It sat like morning dew on the shaggy, blond hair of the littlest and youngest player. He stood in the center circle and saw nothing but white shoes and the impatient ball.

Blow the whistle already. Blow the whistle.

At the whistle he had left the center circle behind him and dribbled around a first opponent, faked out a second, left a third in the dust, and charged toward the goal as if in a tunnel.

Nobody tried to stop him. No one cheered him on from the sideline. It was silent. Like in a dream.

Max, the keeper, stood in the middle of the goal as if rooted in place, hands on his hips.

Only when the boy had nearly reached him did he raise his right hand, in an oversized goalie glove, and tap his pointer finger on his forehead.

The boy casually slipped the ball over the goal line with the outside of his right foot. Then he turned around and threw up his arms.

The referee blew the whistle to signal the goal.

The players stood on the pitch, baffled. A few embarrassed, a few shaking their heads, a few smirking.

From the sideline he heard his father shout, »Ya lost your mind?«

Suddenly the boy understood. Second half: you switch sides. The opponents’ goal was now at the other end.

For a few seconds, he was stunned into silence.

Then he laughed. And laughed and laughed.

Until everyone on the pitch was laughing.

Oberaudorf is a small town in the district of Rosenheim, a few stone’s throws from the Austrian border. The houses on the main street are painted, their windows and doors decorated baroque ornamentation against yellow, brown, or turquoise backgrounds. The center of town is dominated by the church of Our Lady, the Kaiser Mountains are visible in the distance – the Wilder Kaiser and the Zahmer Kaiser. And it’s near Sudelfeld mountain and the Tatzelwurm waterfall.

There were four Schweinsteigers: Monika or »Moni,« Alfred, known as »Fred,« Tobias, aka »Tobi,« and Bastian, called »Basti.« Fred ran a little sporting goods business on Rosenheimerstrasse and operated a ski lift called the Trissl lift. He’d been a professional skier and had played in the Austrian football league. After a football injury he’d decided to quit his job in Rosenheim and return to his hometown.

Mama, or »Mum,« took care of the household, garden, and bringing up the kids. »Dad« was responsible for their athletic education. The boys could barely walk before he put a ball at their feet or strapped skis onto their feet.

Tobi was two and a half years older than Basti, and his role model in everything.

About six years before his spectacular own-goal, Basti took the Trissl lift by himself for the first time. His family waited at the valley station until it was his turn. The boards of the little wooden hut were sun-bleached and weather-beaten. Inside it smelled of wood and the grease that was supposed to keep the giant wheel with the steel cable from squeaking.

It was only November 6, but it had already snowed so much that Fred Schweinsteiger had to tune up the snowcat and prepare the slope the night before and officially open the Trissl lift. His mother was selling crepes and germknödel at her little stand for the first time of the season.

Mum had come along for once. She wanted to be there when Basti, age three, took the lift alone for the first time. Less to celebrate the moment than out of worry that something might go wrong.

Basti stood between his dad’s skis. He wore a light-blue ski suit and a white knit cap and watched as his brother grabbed the button and glided up the mountain. Dad shoved him closer to the embarkation point and spoke to him reassuringly.

Calming him down wasn’t necessary. Basti was looking forward to the ride on the lift. All alone, like his big brother.

Now he was at the front with dad. The empty button came swinging toward him, dad grabbed it and shoved it under his bottom. »Hold on tight.«

Basti yelped and was pulled away.

»See, he’s too little, he screamed,« Moni said to him.

»He cheered,« answered Fred. But he wasn’t entirely sure of that. He grabbed the next button and rode after his youngster.

It had gotten warmer overnight, and the snow sounded slushy under his skis. Above the swishing and hissing of his ski he heard a high, bright sound. It was coming from little Basti, twenty meters ahead of him.

Basti was singing.

That same day, November 6, 1987, nearly 900 kilometers southeast of Trissl lift, a line of demonstrators passed the front of Narodni Clinic. Banners billowed in the wind, which had blown through the streets of Belgrade as a storm the night before, and rallying cries over megaphones echoed up to the delivery room, where the lawyer Dragana Ivanović was giving birth to a baby girl.

Ana.

It was snowing. The noises at the Christmas market were muted, as if everything were packed in cotton. People spoke more quietly, too, as if they didn’t want to disturb the solemn atmosphere. And everything smelled of glühwein – mulled wine – candied almonds, bratwurst, and crepes.

Basti was holding Mum’s hand. You never knew when a Krampus might pop out.

Tobi walked along without the security of a hand, but he stuck close to his family.

»You guys want crepes?« asked Dad. It was a rhetorical question, because of course they wanted crepes. It was the main reason for coming.

»Ja!« they said in unison. It was a rhetorical answer.

The Schweinsteiger family got in line.

Basti watched the man in the chef’s hat as he poured a ladle full of white liquid onto a gleaming metal plate. A short hiss, a bit of smoke, then the mass turned yellowish and solidified. The man waited. Not long, then he ran the narrow spatula under the crepe and flipped it over.

»You going to get it with Nutella or jam or chocolate sauce?« asked Tobi.

»What are you going to have?« asked Basti.

»Nutella,« Tobi answered.

»Me, too.«

At that moment a shrill bell pierced the quiet of the winter evening. Basti jumped. »Krampus!«

He grabbed Mum’s hand. »Come on!«

»He’s not going to do anything to you,« said Dad.

»Come on.« Basti was on the verge of tears.

»Didn’t you want a crepe?« asked Mum.

»Yours taste better,« answered Basti.

He had ragged fur, a grotesque face, and long, pointed horns. Sometimes Basti heard his chains rattling or his shrill bell jingling menacingly. Sometimes he saw his shadow. And sometimes he saw him in his entirety. He was gigantic. And he was standing in the foyer.

Dad had told Nikolaus that Krampus wasn’t allowed to come in. But what if he didn’t listen? Like Basti?

Nikolaus was friendly. But Basti found him a little scary, too. He didn’t do anything, but he cursed. He knew everything that Basti and Tobi had done wrong throughout the year.

Nikolaus also brought gifts – cookies and chocolates and nuts, and sometimes even a new action figure. But Basti would have forgone the gifts if it meant Nikolaus wouldn’t come. And, above all, if Krampus wouldn’t come.

Krampus wasn’t just evil. He was also dangerous. Tobi had told him that he sometimes beat people to death. But that only happened in Austria, Tobi said. Still Austria was just down the street, across the river.

Better just to cry, Basti thought, and started howling.

Tobi and Basti wore white shirts, dark gray pants, and suit jackets. Mum and Dad were also dressed elegantly. She had on a gray suit with a silk top. He had on a dark-blue suit and even a tie. They’d arrived early to church to make sure to get good seats. They were sitting in the first four seats of the third row. Very good seats. Basti got the aisle seat so he could see everything if he leaned out. The altar boys in their red and white garments and their censers and brass bells. And the priest with his beautiful voice. Behind him countless candles burned, throwing their light onto the golden altar with the Virgin and Child.

Everything was so tranquil. The organ played solemnly. The entire church smelled of incense. Basti would have stayed forever if he didn’t know Santa Claus was at his house.

As the congregation streamed out of the church doors, the streetlights were ringed with yellow halos of snowflakes. Dad opened his umbrella, Tobi and Basti pulled up the hoods of their ski jackets. They had the same jacket, in the same colors – blue, red, and white. Basti’s was just one size smaller.

They barely talked on the way home. Basti hummed »Silent Night.« Very few cars went past on the snowy autobahn. But when they did, the headlights lit up the swirling snow in an illuminated veil.

Back home, the boys went directly to Tobi’s room. Basti remembered this from last year.

»How much time now?« asked Basti, who still couldn’t read a clock.

»Not much,« Tobi answered impatiently.

It seemed like forever, though, before the bell rang.

They ran down the stairs. The door to the backyard stood open, and cold air wafted into the warm living room.

»Over there! Look! Santa’s flying off! There!«

They rushed to the door, craned their necks, and stared into the drifting snow.

No sign of Santa.

But...