Memories

Maren Gottschalk: Stepping into a whole new world

Bayer Group continues its commitment to culture

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Maren Gottschalk<br><br>

Back in 1966, when I first set eyes on the imposing façade of the old Erholungshaus building, I had no idea that one day it would be like a second home to me. I held on tight to my mother’s hand as we walked down the steps into the basement of the large building and entered a whole new world. First we had to cross a dark cellar full of bicycles and motor scooters. Then on through a fire door that always made me think of the inside of a submarine because of the high threshold we had to step over. A few more doors, then a sharp left turn and we were in a long corridor. A strange odour of concrete mixed with paint and wood shavings wafted through the “forbidden door” that led to the building’s workshops, a dangerous world from which we sometimes heard the whine of a saw or the sound of hammering. The ballet school itself was through another door on the right, where Mrs. Kirchem’s heady perfume mingled with the smell of leather ballet shoes and leotards. Sometimes we little ones were called upon to perform on stage. On such occasions – and only then – we were allowed to take the shortcut through the “forbidden door”. The stage hands nodded cheerily to us and stopped their machines to let us through. Our mothers shooed us up the steps to the stage entrance, doing their best to keep us quiet. There Mrs. Kirchem was waiting for us in front of the big iron door leading to the stage.

With time, we felt quite at home in the building, knew the stage hands by name, knew exactly when to be quiet, that it was not a good idea to annoy the stage manager, Mr. Renneis, and that we should not pull any of the ropes backstage because they might bring down a new set. It was always a wonderful feeling to see a new set for the first time. For months we had used chairs to represent a house, cushions for a bed, a satchel for a volcano. And now we were on stage with the real set, often with the paint still wet, but immediately we were entranced by the new world that had been created: Widow Bolte’s house, the Palace of the Snow Queen, a moonscape.

When we were not actually rehearsing on stage we had plenty of time to explore the building. Backstage was an unimaginably big world. There were stairways, corridors, nooks and crannies, dressing rooms and rehearsal rooms – and not all of them were closed. We ran through the building like wild things, playing tag or hide-and-seek. An especially exciting game was slipping quietly out of the backstage area into the lobby and then into the auditorium. We chased one another between the rows of seats, crouched down to keep out of sight – a wonderful game, but one that got us into serious trouble if we were caught. Later, we discovered a whole new aspect of the building: as members of the audience. We met up at the theatre programmes for young people and performances given by the major ballet companies from Hamburg, Stuttgart and naturally The Hague. We discussed them with our school friends and teachers, feeling very grown up, were unsparing in our criticism and – naturally – regarded ourselves as experts. The Erholungshaus taught me how to look and listen. It shaped my basic understanding of the theatre. Theatre in the seventies was often provocative, loud, shrill, disrespectful. But it was never dull, never trivial. Its aim was not merely to entertain, but to move, irritate or even distress. And yet it was always clear that it was about making a point, about ideas and social criticism. The theatre became an increasingly important part of my life. Not just as a place to meet friends and spend evenings away from our parents. Those were evenings in which I got the feeling something had really happened. Perhaps it was part of the process of discovering myself.

And then came the big shock: on the night of January 30, 1975 the Erholungshaus caught fire. Parts of the building survived but the stage and backstage area were destroyed. Where now? That was not just the big question for the Bayer Philharmonic Orchestra, the choirs and the mandolin orchestra; it was also the big question for the ballet corps and drama group that used the building. For two years we rehearsed in temporary quarters. And then on January 9, 1977 the Erholungshaus reopened with a gala performance by the Stuttgart ballet under its choreographer John Cranko.
Curious, the population of Leverkusen streamed into the auditorium. But oh horror! The new building had a design fault: the floor was too low and people in the front rows could not see the dancers' feet. The mistake was rectified and soon we were able to enjoy ballet again. And I endeavoured to love the new theatre as much as the old one. The new building had a lot of advantages: a revolving stage, digitally controlled sound and lighting systems, generously proportioned dressing rooms, a proper stage for rehearsals and an enormous ballet room on the third floor, where I still have dancing lessons. But the labyrinthine corridors and tiny rooms of the old building had gone, robbing it of its flair. I never gave many performances on the new stage. The ballet corps was disbanded on cost grounds and I grew out of the children's theatre group. But even now, when I pass the iron door leading to the stage, I still feel that old thrill of excitement.

Today I am still an avid theatre-goer. The programme has changed but it still enthrals me just as much as in the old days. No-one is satisfied all the time, but after plays like "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf", "The Jews", "Three Lives" or “Hamlet”, I leave the theatre feeling a completely different person. Theatre is an invitation to look life in the face, however strange, chaotic or tragic the events on stage may be. And that also means looking at one's own life. These days I find theatre even more essential than ever. Perhaps because work and daily routine mean that adults, more than young people, are at risk of failing to look critically at the world they live in. Theatre – good theatre – is a language that challenges the audience because it forces them to think and feel with the characters. That is something television and cinema cannot replace. Ballet has its own special language. It speaks directly to our emotions rather than our minds, but that warm glow of happiness after a grandiose evening at the ballet is no less intensive. The fact that we can use the interval to visit an exciting art exhibition is a luxury that I, at any rate, take all too easily for granted. Fortunately, friends from Cologne and Düsseldorf remind us how fortunate we are.

My gratitude is reflected in the fact that I still have season tickets to the theatre and ballet and my children have a subscription to the special theatre programme for young people. And I am perfectly happy to walk through the rain because there is no parking nearby. I still love the old-new Erholungshaus. It is a place from which I have drawn inspiration for more than 40 years. Outwardly, it still has its charming patina, but inside it beats with the pulse of time.

A good theatre never loses its soul.

Maren Gottschalk, born in 1962, is a freelance writer for WDR radio and lives in Leverkusen. She has written biographies of Nelson Mandela and Astrid Lindgren among others, and was awarded the Kurt Lorenz Prize in 2007.