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- Herausgeber: Next Chapter
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
East Berlin, 1961. Kirstin Beck is determined to escape to the West. She watches from her townhouse window as the border with West Berlin is closed, and a barbed wire fence strung through the cemetery behind her house. With a grandmother in West Berlin that needs her, Kirstin knows she has to go.
Tony Marino is an American writer living in West Berlin. As he watches the nearby construction progress, he sees a beautiful woman looking from her townhouse window. Kirstin holds up a sign for Tony to see.
HELP ME.
The two hatch a plan for Kirstin to get over the border, but the mission is not easy. With the Stasi closing in on them, Kirstin and Tony enter a kaleidoscope of deceit and danger, determined to attain freedom at any cost. But in a country torn between communism and capitalism, can Kirstin escape the world she can't endure?
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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For Those Who Dare
John Anthony Miller
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Epilogue
A Note From the Author
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About the Author
Copyright (C) 2019 John Anthony Miller
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter
Published 2019 by Next Chapter
Cover art by CoverMint
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.
For my family – and all that’s most important
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Donna Eastman at Parkeast Literary and the entire team at Next Chapter.
1
East Berlin
August 13, 1961 at 5:08 a.m.
Kirstin Beck lay awake, tossing and turning, her blond hair spilling across the pillow. It was a difficult decision, months in the making, a path that once taken, would alter more lives than her own. Some would thrive, reaching uncharted destinations, while others faced destruction, caught in a spinning spiral that could never again be straightened. As the clock ticked, marring the eerie serenity that lives in the hours before dawn, the time to act arrived.
She eased her slender frame from the mattress, ensuring the springs didn’t squeak. She paused, sitting on the edge of the bed, and listened to the rhythmic breathing of her husband lying beside her. When satisfied she hadn’t disturbed him, she stood, remained still for a moment, and then tiptoed from the bedroom into the hall.
She glanced at him again, ensuring he still slept, before going into the bathroom, removing her nightgown, and quickly dressing in black slacks and a grey top. She opened the door to the linen closet and reached to the back of the bottom shelf, behind a stack of towels, to retrieve a small satchel. It contained her personal papers: birth certificate, identity cards, important phone numbers, addresses, and money – West German Marks and American dollars – that she had painstakingly saved and hid from her husband. Careful not to make any noise, she quietly closed the door, cringing as the hinges faintly creaked. She stepped back into the hall, moving carefully in the darkness, and stopped at the bedroom door.
Her husband still slept, facing away from her. He snored faintly, his breathing rhythmic, before muttering something in his sleep. She watched as he moved his arm, his hand feeling the empty space she created when she climbed from bed. He stirred, lifted his head from the pillow, and sat up.
She stepped away from the door, barely breathing, as seconds quietly passed. The bed springs squeaked as his weight shifted and then it was quiet, the silence punctuated by the moving hands of the clock. She waited a moment more and peeked around the jamb.
He lay on his side, facing the doorway, but she couldn’t see if his eyes were open or closed. She glanced at her watch, knowing she shouldn’t wait much longer, and walked quickly past the door, hoping the aged floor boards made no noise.
It was quiet. He didn’t speak, so she assumed he was sleeping. She hesitated, just to be sure, and then crept down the hall to the stairs. As she descended the steps, she stayed near the wall where the treads had more support, carefully descending one step after another. When she was halfway down she paused and listened but heard no noise from the bedroom. She went down the remaining stairs to the first floor, crossed the foyer and looked into the parlor. She could see the radio in the darkness, the record player beside it. A stack of records sat in a holder, all American – Patsy Cline, the Shirelles, Roy Orbison, the Platters – her most prized possessions. For a brief moment she thought of taking them, but realized they were only belongings, easily replaced, and there was so much more at stake. She entered the dining room and then the kitchen, where she grabbed her pocketbook from the table.
She took a note from the satchel and laid it on the table. Written days before, it explained why she was leaving, why she had no other choice, and how each would be better for it. She knew it was a cowardly way to end their relationship, but she couldn’t risk telling him – he was too strong, too determined, and he would argue and plead and gradually whittle away at her resistance until it no longer existed. It had to be done this way, in the darkness of night. She eased the door open and paused, taking one last, lingering look at the house that had been her home before stepping outside.
It was chilly for an August evening, barely fifty degrees, and she crossed the small yard behind her end-unit rowhouse. It was more garden than grass; she had crammed every flower she could into the limited space, creating a kaleidoscope of color in an otherwise drab landscape. Now she would miss it. But she knew she could plant more flowers, just as she could start a new life.
Her narrow yard ended at a wrought iron fence, old and rusty, that marked the edge of a cemetery. The fence was bordered by overgrown shrubs and a lane that led to tombstones, graves and mausoleums. She walked along the fence and crossed a strip of grass between her residence and the neighboring Church of Reconciliation. Staying in the shadows, close to the overwhelming brick building that was dominated by spires and arched windows, she edged toward the rear. There was little light, only a quarter moon, and she realized the nearby street was dark. She hesitated, wondering why the streetlights weren’t lit, especially when her clocks ticked and her refrigerator hummed as she exited the kitchen door.
She sensed something wasn’t right but didn’t know what it was. She left the shadows cast by the church and crept quietly into the cemetery that stretched behind it. The graves were surrounded by neglected shrubs and trees, reminders of a once beautiful location that had since fallen into disrepair, just like the rest of East Berlin. Many of the graves were old, the tombstones worn, separated by dirt walking paths spaced evenly between them. Kirstin stepped cautiously, moving from one tombstone to the next, and was halfway across the cemetery before she saw them, silhouettes at first, and then more distinct as she got closer.
Several East German soldiers, spaced four or five yards apart, stood at the edge of the cemetery. Others were huddled in pairs, whispering, and she saw the faint flicker of a cigarette held in a soldier’s hand before he moved it to his mouth. Their grey uniforms were barely visible, blending with the darkness. She studied the string of soldiers, stretching like a ribbon in both directions, and knew something was drastically wrong.
In the distance, thirty feet from where the soldiers stood, was a simple stone wall, barely three feet high, that marked the edge of the graveyard. The old wall, and twenty or thirty feet of graves adjacent to it, was located in West Berlin. She only had to get to it, scale it and she was free, fading into the West like thousands of others had done before her. But tonight, it was different. Tonight, a line of soldiers stood on the border, waiting in the darkness. But waiting for what?
Germany had been divided since the end of the Second World War – communist East Germany and free West Germany. The city of Berlin was also divided, the communist East, administered by the Russians, and the free West, governed by the French, British and Americans. Kirstin lived in East Berlin, in the Russian half, but her grandmother lived in West Berlin, in the French section. Residents had always moved freely between the sectors, even though many went to the West and never returned. It never seemed to matter before, but she realized with a sinking feeling, that maybe it mattered now.
She heard the hum of machinery, distant at first but growing louder. She peeked from behind a mausoleum, wondering what was happening. The noise came closer, an engine, a truck or some sort of vehicle. She paused, eyeing the short stone wall only sixty feet away, but guarded by soldiers standing before it. Should she risk escaping, running through the cemetery, past the soldiers, and leaping over the wall, hoping they couldn’t catch her?
Before she could act, the noise came closer and the border was bathed in light. A searchlight sat in the rear of a truck parked along the edge of the graveyard. It cast a bright light along the wall, directly in Kirstin’s path. She crouched, hidden, as men in worker’s clothes and more soldiers exited the vehicle. Disillusioned and frightened, she retreated, hiding behind shrubs and tombstones, slipping through the shadows on her way back home.
2
Steiner Beck woke when he heard vehicles in front of his townhouse. He rolled over, thinking a neighbor arrived home late and that the noise would stop. When it didn’t, he sat up in bed, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and reached to his nightstand to turn on a lamp. He felt the empty space in the bed beside him, finding the sheets cold.
“Kirstin,” he said softly, thinking she might be in the bathroom.
He could see his reflection in the mirror above the bureau, his hair mussed, his gray eyes dull. His face was marked with creases from the pillow, just above his neatly trimmed beard. Barely fifty, he was twenty years older than his wife, an age difference he was acutely aware of as he got older. A handsome man who women found attractive, he noticed his hair was starting to thin, more gray than black, and his face showed wrinkles dug deeper than the marks made by his pillow.
He yawned and listened for his wife downstairs. “Kirstin,” he called again, just a bit louder, wondering if she had fallen asleep on the couch.
There was no reply. He waited a moment more and went to look at the street from his bedroom window. He saw military vehicles parked near the church, two trucks and a jeep, with another truck farther down the road. He crossed the hall and went into the second bedroom, a shared office for him and his wife, and glanced out the window at the cemetery. There was a troop truck by the back lane of the graveyard, near the wall. A searchlight in the back streamed a path of pale light along the border, growing dimmer the farther it travelled, showing a string of soldiers fanned across the border.
“Kirstin!” he yelled, now worried.
He hurried to his bedroom and grabbed a pair of trousers from a straight-backed chair beside the bureau and put them on. He went to the closet, took a shirt off a hanger, and found his shoes and a pair of socks. Once dressed, he went out in the hall and down the steps.
“Kirstin,” he called again.
He opened the front door and looked out. The trucks were still parked along the curb, their engines running, a driver seated in each. A row of nineteenth-century townhouses lined the opposite side of the street, some still showing damage from the war, even though it had ended sixteen years before. Neighbors parted drapes and peeked from windows, while others stepped out of half-closed doorways in pajamas and robes, curious but careful, as if knowing they witnessed something tragic, but didn’t know what it was. With the West Berlin border so close, some may have suspected what little freedom they had could be slipping away, vanishing like a morning mist melted by the rising sun.
He closed the front door and went into the kitchen. “Kirstin,” he said loudly, but still got no response. He opened the kitchen door but paused, noticing a note on the table.
Kirstin then walked through the opened door. “Steiner, I think they’re closing the border,” she hissed.
She seemed winded, but he didn’t know why. “Darling, what are you doing?” he asked. “I’ve been calling you.”
“I woke with all the noise,” she explained. “I went outside to see what was happening.”
He studied her closely, wondering what she was doing, but then his eyes strayed to the paper laying on the table. He started to reach for it.
“Steiner, come look,” she said, tugging his arm. “There are troops in the cemetery.”
He hesitated. “I saw them from the window,” he told her. “What are they doing?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, edging closer. “There are workman there, too.”
He studied her for a moment, pensive, but didn’t reply. The edge of the cemetery marked the border with West Berlin. Perhaps she was right. Maybe they were closing the border. For a moment he wondered why he hadn’t been notified. But then he realized he couldn’t be; few probably were. It had to be kept secret. Or all of East Berlin would have crossed to the West.
“What am I going to do with my grandmother?” Kirstin asked anxiously.
“I’m not sure,” he replied. “We’ll have to see what happens.” He wondered what prompted the border closure. Was there an international incident? Or some sort of friction between East and West? He again looked at the paper and reached across the table for it.
She moved in front of him and snatched the note away. “My list of shortages,” she said hastily. “Coffee, potatoes, cosmetics, toothpaste, bananas… can you think of anything else?”
A loud noise attracted his attention, like a truck tailgate dropped in the down position. “What is going on out there?” he asked, losing interest in her shopping list.
“It’s probably the soldiers,” she said. “They extend as far as I could see, past the clothing company next to the church and all the way to Strelitzer Strasse.”
He was confused. “But why close the border now?” he asked. “Could we be at war?”
She hesitated, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her. “I don’t know,” she said. “Wouldn’t we know if we were?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied. “But they wouldn’t close the border in the middle of the night unless they had a valid reason.”
“Maybe they don’t want us to leave,” she said simply.
“They’ve closed the border before,” he said, deciding it was nothing serious or he would have known about it. “And it was only temporary. Just as this is.”
“But what if it isn’t?” she asked.
He wrapped his arm around her. “Then we’ll accept it,” he told her. “With everyone else in East Berlin.”
3
Tony Marino had spent almost two months in Germany gathering information for his next book. Commissioned by Green Mansion Publishing for their History of Nations series, he had already written The History of France and The History of Belgium. Now he was writing The History of Germany. He had planned to leave Berlin a week earlier to visit his home in the States but decided not to because he was behind schedule.
Almost thirty-five, he bore a striking resemblance to Elvis Presley, although his eyes and complexion were a bit darker. He was raised in Philadelphia, home to many Italian immigrants during the first half of the twentieth century, by a single mother who still spoke broken English. Fluent in Italian, French and German, he did a stint in the U.S. Army as a translator and then went to college on the G.I Bill. A natural talent for writing and an interest in history led to the publication of several magazine articles before he landed his current assignment with Green Mansion.
He stood in front of his coffee pot, yawning as he waited for it to brew. Having just crawled out of bed, he turned on the radio to catch the baseball scores from the American military news network. From the time he first played stick ball in the streets of South Philly, he had been addicted to baseball, almost obsessed. And the Philadelphia Phillies were his team. But it was tough to be a loyal fan; the Phillies were horrible, the worst team in baseball. The evening before they had lost to the Pittsburgh Pirates, 4-0, managing only five hits, and they had lost the day before that and the day before that. Actually, they had lost fourteen games in a row. But the announcer barely mentioned the Phillies. The entire country was focused on the Yankees. Roger Maris hit his 43rd home run, still on track to beat the Babe’s record for most home runs in a season. Fans were mixed, some pulling for Maris, hoping a modern star could take the record, others were loyal to the Babe.
Marino was distracted by noises outside his third-floor apartment, located in the French section of West Berlin, and he looked outside to find an army of workman and soldiers destroying the tranquility of a Sunday morning. His apartment building bordered a cemetery defined by a three-foot stone wall, and soldiers were strung across the edge of the graveyard, standing a few feet apart. Workers were pounding wooden poles into the ground, while others strung barbed wire between the posts. He could see their faces as they built the barrier, the soldiers directing them, some smoking cigarettes. It seemed surreal.
It was a large cemetery, the section along the border shaped like the bottom of the letter L, the Church of Reconciliation and a row of old townhouses at the edge of the street beyond. The rest of the cemetery, the side of the letter L, extended several blocks back into East Berlin. Strelitzer Strasse was the closest street intersecting East and West, and Marino saw concrete barriers blocking the road, soldiers spaced evenly around them. The border had been open the day before, easy to travel in either direction. But now, for some reason, that luxury no longer existed. He wondered if the entire border with East Berlin was being walled in.
Even though the barrier was hastily constructed, by early morning it ran in both directions for much of the urban landscape. The barbed wire was almost four feet high, crossing the western edge of the cemetery and leaving a few rows of crooked tombstones, eroded by time, as curious residents of West Berlin. The remainder of the graveyard, in the Mitte section of East Berlin, lay quiet, tranquil, shaded by trees, as if observing the travesty but unable to protest. The Church of Reconciliation was across from Marino’s apartment building, a Gothic revival design dominated by a lofty spire that seemed to touch the clouds. The balance of the brick building was supported by a series of graceful arches, and it still stood proud and defiant in a nation that trampled the religious freedom the building represented. Fifty feet from the church, still bordering the road, was a row of nineteenth century townhouses, the cemetery sprawling behind them and then stretching several blocks south and east.
The city of East Berlin bordered half of West Berlin, but East German suburbs and countryside sprawled around the remainder, forming an island in an enemy sea. Marino wondered if the wall was being built on all borders, closing in West Berlin, trying to choke it, or force some sort of submission from the Allied nations in the West. It seemed the Communists always used West Berlin as a pawn in a global chess match. And then, after realizing how vulnerable the city was, a million thoughts raced through his mind. Could he get out? And if he could, would he be able to get back in? How would residents of West Berlin get food and clothes and other supplies? They had electricity – his clocks and lights were working – but for how long?
He looked across the way, to the church, and saw parishioners flocking to the sanctuary from the East, while small crowds of protestors were starting to form along intersecting streets in the West, all looking curiously at the barbed wire. He wondered what the rest of the world saw: West Berlin being walled in – or East Berliners kept out, denied the freedom the West enjoyed.
4
Kirstin Beck watched the workmen from the second-floor window of her townhouse. Tall and willowy, her blue eyes wide and bright, she was intelligent and attractive, with high cheekbones and long eyelashes. Although she had been married for eight years, many weren’t sure why. Her husband Steiner was much older, a college professor and loyal Socialist, a stern, serious man who didn’t seem suited to his younger wife.
The noise had started early, just after dawn. She had been fortunate, avoiding the soldiers after she tried to escape. She barely made it home in time, stuffing her pocketbook and satchel into a rubbish can and barging into the kitchen just as Steiner reached for the note she had left on the kitchen table. He seemed interested in it, unable to see what it was. She snatched it away before he got it.
If only she left one day earlier. She would have vanished, unseen by all, like thousands of others who crossed the border, merging into West Berlin, free to come and go as they pleased. Now she faced a serious dilemma. Her grandmother was alone. And she depended on Kirstin not only for essential needs, but for companionship. Although a neighbor or two would ensure she was cared for, Kirstin still worried. She had to send her grandmother a message, to tell her she was delayed – even if she didn’t know for how long. And she had to get to West Berlin, not just because of what she was fleeing from, but because of what she was running to.
Kirstin watched with dread while more trucks arrived, praying it was temporary, that she could go to the West in a matter of minutes, or in the worst case, a matter of days. But as more troops and workers appeared, surveyors made lines where barriers would go and carpenters started driving posts into the ground. The barbed wire followed, strung along the ground, nailed to the posts, and then layered higher until it reached over six feet. The intent was clear – to make West Berlin a free island in a Communist sea, preventing those in East Berlin from escaping. But Kirstin Beck had to get to West Berlin. She just had to – for more reasons than her grandmother.
Somewhere near nine a.m., Steiner went to morning service at the Church of Reconciliation. The attendance was much less than normal, since many parishioners came from the French sector of West Berlin. Faithful and loyal to their church, the barbed wire on Strelitzer Strasse now blocked their way. Some stood at the barrier, where crowds were forming, and watched the soldiers curiously, shouting in protest. They seemed anxious and afraid – most had friends and relatives in the East they might never see again. And, even though the border had been temporarily closed several times before, it had never been blocked with concrete barriers and barbed wire.
An hour later, when the service ended and those attending filed from church, some went into the cemetery, getting as close to the workers as the soldiers allowed. Kirstin watched them, fearful of a confrontation. As the crowd continued to gather, she left her second-floor study, hurrying down the stairs and out her kitchen door. She crossed the cemetery grounds to join them, passing tombstones and graves, markers and mausoleums.
The workers continued installing posts and wrapping barbed wire around them, the fence rolling like a ribbon into the horizon, cutting the city in two. Some in the crowd merely observed, as if trying to determine the impact on their daily lives. Others were more agitated, sensing that something precious was about to be lost. Kirstin warily watched them, knowing at least one, or maybe more, were Stasi, the East German secret police. The Stasi were everywhere.
She heard some from the congregation whispering as she approached, and she wormed past them to the front of the crowd, standing beside an elderly gentleman, thin and balding with a white moustache. He was a frequent churchgoer.
“Good morning, Dr. Werner,” she said.
“Kirstin, what’s happening?” he asked, agitated.
“I think they’re closing the border.”
“But why?” he asked. “Only yesterday we could cross. What makes today different?”
“They don’t want us fleeing to the West,” she replied. She paused, watching the workmen, and added, “Or even visiting, it seems.”
“But barbed wire?” he asked. “I just heard someone say it’s to keep the Fascists out of East Berlin. That makes no sense at all. It’s to keep us in, not to keep them out.”
Kirstin knew her life was about to change forever – but only if she let it. She had to get to West Berlin. And somehow, she would. It would just be harder.
“We all have family and friends in West Berlin,” Dr. Werner continued. “Will they just become memories?”
“We can’t even contact them,” Kirstin told him. “I tried the telephone, but it’s disconnected.”
“Then we can only communicate though letters.”
“The Stasi will censor them,” she said, making sure no one could hear her. “Or discard them.”
“I have family in the West that I need to see,” he said, as if wondering how he would accomplish that.
“And I have to help my grandmother. She’s only six blocks away, but now it seems halfway around the world.”
“What are they doing?” a familiar voice cried from behind them.
Kirstin turned to see Dieter Katz, a student and churchgoer. Small and slight with round spectacles and shaggy hair, he was sometimes too vocal in his opposition to the Socialist regime. But then, most of the young were. They hadn’t lived through the war. They were brave and brash, somehow thinking they were invincible.
“They’re building a fence to keep us from leaving,” Werner told him.
“They can’t,” Katz cried, moving past them. “My girlfriend is in West Berlin. And so is my university.”
“Be careful, Dieter,” Dr. Werner whispered. “Don’t let them hear you.”
“I don’t care if they hear me,” Katz responded. He edged closer to the guards.
“Don’t let them make an example of you,” Dr. Werner advised. “They’ll use any excuse to throw you in jail. They would like nothing better.”
“I have no intention of going to jail,” Katz informed them. He seemed to be studying the guards, their positions, the height of the barbed wire, what the workers were doing, as if accessing strengths and weaknesses.
“Dieter, I have a grandmother in the West,” Kirstin said, trying to calm him. “She’s old and frail and depends on me for everything. I’m sure there are many others in the same situation. The authorities will make provisions. They have to.”
“And my daughters are in the West,” Werner added. “So are many sons and daughters, fathers and mothers. A solution will present itself. If it doesn’t we’ll find one.”
“I’m not waiting,” Katz murmured.
Kirstin realized he was about to do something he shouldn’t, acting on emotion rather than logic. “Dieter, don’t do anything you’re going to regret,” she warned.
“I can’t let them do it,” Dieter muttered angrily, eyeing the barbed wire.
“Dieter,” Dr. Werner said harshly, moving closer to him,
Before anyone could restrain him, Dieter darted towards the newly built fence.
“Halt!” a guard commanded, leveling his rifle.
5
Dieter eluded the first guard, twisting around him, and dashed for the barbed wire. The second soldier aimed his rifle, prepared to fire, but risked hitting guards or workers if he did. As Dieter sprinted for the fence, a guard watching the workmen saw him coming. He raised his rifle over his head and flung it forward, the butt smacking Dieter on the side of the head. Dieter collapsed in a crumpled heap, sprawled on the ground. Conscious but dazed, he tried to rise, stumbling forward, when the guard hit him again, knocking him back to the ground.
“Stop,” Kirstin pleaded as she ran toward him. “Leave him alone.”
Another soldier stepped in front of her. When she tried to push past him, he blocked her path with his rifle. “Stay away!” he commanded.
She ignored him, trying to reach Dieter. The guard shoved her roughly and she stumbled sideways, struggling to maintain her balance but fell, banging her head against a tombstone. She attempted to rise, but winced trying to stand, and plopped back on the ground.
“Leave her alone,” Steiner Beck said as he filtered through the crowd. “My wife was only trying to help. She means no harm.”
Another soldier came towards them, a sergeant, his face stern, older than the other guards. He seemed to have a sense of responsibility, perhaps in command of the small group. Or maybe it was compassion. They were all German. Maybe they shouldn’t be fighting. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“This man ran for the border,” a guard explained.
“And I hit him with my rifle to stop him,” said the second soldier.
“What happened to her?” the sergeant asked, pointing to Kirstin.
“She tried to help the injured man,” Steiner Beck interjected, speaking for her. “And this soldier shoved her to the ground.”
The sergeant studied them for a moment, his eyes passing from Dieter Katz to Kirstin Beck and back again. Finally, after several moments had passed, he seemed to reach a decision. “Arrest them both,” he ordered.
A soldier yanked Dieter Katz up and pinned his arms behind his back. He opened a set of handcuffs and placed them over Katz’s wrists, clamping them shut. He then shoved him toward a nearby jeep.
The second soldier grabbed Kirstin’s wrist, pulling her up. She cringed as she stood, favoring her left ankle.
“Be careful” Dr. Werner protested, moving to Kirstin’s side. “She’s hurt. Can you have some compassion?”
“I’ll take her home and the doctor can care for her,” Beck said, pointing to his townhouse. “We live right there. Arrest her later if you absolutely have to.”
“I have no choice but to arrest her now,” the sergeant said. “I don’t care if she’s hurt.”
“Please, have some mercy,” Beck pleaded. “It’s a trying day for everyone. Let her go in peace.”
The sergeant shrugged. “I don’t have the authority to do that.”
Beck studied him for a moment, a man young enough to be his son. “I agree the escapee committed a serious offense. And you should turn him over to authorities. But my wife did nothing.”
“Steiner, stop,” Kirstin said, glaring at the sergeant. “I’ll go if I must.”
The guard averted his gaze and looked beyond them, to a man approaching. Dressed in a gray suit with matching hat, he was handsome, his face finely formed, his hair black. Around thirty-five years of age, he filtered through the small crowd as the onlookers stepped aside.
He stopped in front of them and looked to Dieter Katz, sitting in the jeep, his head bruised and bleeding. He then turned to Kirstin Beck, standing awkwardly, a soldier holding her roughly by the elbow. “I’m Karl Hofer,” he said, “from the Ministry of State Security.” He removed his credentials from his pocket and showed them to the sergeant, “What’s going on here?”
“That man tried to cross the border,” the sergeant said, pointing to Katz. “But we stopped him, sir.”
Hofer’s gaze hadn’t left Kirstin Beck, and it seemed as if he didn’t want it to. “And what happened to this woman?”
“She tried to assist the fugitive -”
“After he was injured,” Steiner interrupted. “But the guard pushed her and she fell and hurt her ankle.”
“We plan to arrest her, too,” the sergeant continued.
“And you are?” Hofer asked.
“Kirstin Beck,” she said, trembling, knowing this man was someone she should fear.
“Mrs. Beck,” Hofer continued, “surely you know it’s wrong to aid a fugitive.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I do know it’s wrong.” She lowered her eyes to the ground. “I acted on instinct, to care for someone who was hurt.”
“I’ll ensure nothing like this ever happens again,” Steiner Beck said sternly.
“That may not be enough, Professor,” Hofer said.
Kirstin cast a guarded glance toward Dr. Werner. The Stasi knew her husband. She wondered if they were only casual acquaintances, or more. Maybe much more.
Hofer studied her for a few moments, the silence awkward and frightening. “Well, Mrs. Beck,” he said finally. “See that you never make this mistake again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied humbly. “I understand.”
“Do you need medical assistance?” Hofer asked.
“I can help her,” Dr. Werner offered. “I’m a doctor.”
Hofer turned to the sergeant, as if Kirstin Beck was already forgotten.
“I’ll go to Rusche Strasse with the prisoner,” Hofer said. “Carry on here, sergeant.”
As Hofer walked away, the soldier released his grasp on Kirstin. Werner and Steiner moved beside her, helping her stand.
“Take her,” the sergeant said. “But let this be a warning.”
“Thank you, sergeant,” Steiner Beck said. “I assure you, she won’t cause any more trouble.”
As they started back to the house, Kirstin looked at the barbed wire fence, and then the apartment building behind it, nestled in West Berlin. She noticed a man on the third floor watching her as she watched him. It was a man she had seen several times when crossing the border to visit her grandmother, a man she often spoke to. She wondered how much he had seen. For a moment their eyes met, each understanding.
6
Tony Marino saw the crowd gather in the cemetery as parishioners watched the wall’s construction after church services ended. At first, they only observed, probably as confused as he was by what was happening. But then a young man dart toward the barbed wire in a futile attempt to escape. A soldier slammed the butt of his rifle into the side of his head, and the young man fell to the ground. A woman with blond hair tried to help him but was shoved away, apparently hurting her ankle. Marino knew she had seen him watching. Their eyes met and she studied him as he studied her, wondering why fate had placed them on opposite sides of the wire, one enjoying the freedom the other was denied.
He wondered who they were, the cast of characters on the other side of the rapidly rising fence. He had seen the woman many times, passing from East to West, and had often spoke to her – just peasantries and casual conversation. They had never formally met, and he didn’t know her name or anything about her, even though they were acquainted. But she was the only one he recognized; no one else in the crowd seemed familiar. He had never been to their church and he didn’t even know the denomination, even though he lived nearby and had spent two months in West Berlin. But he only went to the East for research, usually at the State Library on Unter den Linden.
Marino turned on the radio, hoping for news. The announcer described the border closing, noncommittal on whether it was temporary or permanent. There seemed to be much confusion – even among authorities – about the free city’s future. West Berlin had radio and electricity, and Marino had turned on the spigot – water flowed freely and disappeared down the drain. But what about food and basic necessities – clothes, soap, utensils – the items used daily that are taken for granted until we no longer have them?
He considered going to the American embassy, to see if they had the answers, if they could guarantee his safety in a free city surrounded by barbed wire, even though, and strangely enough, it wasn’t to keep him in but to keep others out. He had no reason to stay in West Berlin; he could leave at any time. He was a historian, a writer of non-fiction and documentaries, commissioned to compile a history of Germany. But after two months, using Berlin as his base, his research still wasn’t finished. He needed another month, with the ability to move freely about Berlin. He wasn’t sure if his current credentials would let him do that.
He turned the radio off and tried the television, the image only a foot square, the cabinet three feet high with a speaker on the bottom. It was more like a piece of furniture, with a lace doily and a vase on top of it. The image was sketchy and the sound a bit garbled, but the station was still broadcasting. Berlin had three channels, two showing Sunday church services while the third offered news. He turned to the news channel and saw a reporter at Potsdamer Platz, a camera trained on the closed border. Marino watched for thirty minutes but learned little more than he already knew or could see from his apartment window. Workers were stringing barbed wire around the entire perimeter of West Berlin, creating a democratic island in a socialist sea. He looked at the clock and noted the time difference with New York. He called his editor anyway, knowing he would wake him up.
Ned Simpson, Senior Editor at Green Mansion Publishing, groggily answered the phone on the fifth ring. “Hello.”
“Ned, it’s Tony.”
“What’s the matter?” he asked, as if knowing there was little reason to call in the middle of the night. Actually, there was little reason to call at all.
“The East Germans closed the border.”
Simpson sighed. “It isn’t the first time,” he said, “and it won’t be the last.”
“It’s different this time,” Marino told him. “There are guards everywhere and they’re building barbed wire fences. All intersecting streets are closed and so are the subway stations along the border. Turn on your radio.”
“Hold on,” Simpson said.
Marino heard hear him rustling around the room, followed by voices, presumably the radio. Then the voices were different, as if the channels changed.
“There’s a brief mention on the news about the border being closed, but nothing about barbed wire fences.”
“I’m telling you, Ned, it seems serious. No one will be able to cross.”
“Do you still have water, sewer and electricity?”
“Yes.”
“That’s because the East needs western currency,” Simpson told him. “They’ll still provide services. How about the phone lines to the East?”
“I haven’t tried.”
“I’ll bet they don’t work.”
“I’m not sure if I can get out, at least not now.”
“Why would you want to get out?” Simpson asked in apparent disbelief. “This changes everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Put your research on hold,” Simpson instructed. “You’re watching history being made, and you’re right in the middle of it. That’s your new book – a first-hand account.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Marino replied. He wondered how an editor could see commercial aspects in the misery of East Berlin, or the fear in West Berlin. But maybe that’s why he wasn’t an editor. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” Simpson said. “Call your mother.”
Marino heard the click of the receiver and then dial tone. He put the phone down and drank his coffee, listening to the radio and changing television channels. He wasn’t getting much information. He waited a few more hours and then called the operator, gave her a Philadelphia phone number, and waited for the connection. He got it a moment later, a bit sketchy.
“Tony, I’ve been so worried,” his mother said, the Italian accent thick even after a lifetime in the States.
“Why?” Tony asked. “Have you seen the news?”
“What news?” she asked. “I don’t care about the news. I haven’t heard from you? How am I supposed to know if you’re all right?”
He rolled his eyes. Italian mothers were all the same. They loved their sons above all else – except making them feel guilty. “I just called you last Sunday,” he reminded her.
“You can’t call through the week?” she asked. “What do I have to do, wait until Sunday to talk to you. What if you call while I’m at church?”
“Listen, mom, there’s a lot going on in Berlin. You’ll see it on the television.”
“What do you mean there’s a lot going on?” she asked.
“The East Germans are building a fence around West Berlin. It doesn’t impact me, I’m fine. But a lot of people in the East can’t get to family in the West.”
“That’s horrible,” she said. “How can they separate families like that? Not that we’re together, with you being so far away. What are you going to do? Are you coming home?”
“No, not just yet,” he said. “I have a little more to do here. Is everything all right with you?”
“As well as it can be with my son halfway around the world.”
“Are you getting the money I send?”
“Yes, I get the money,” she replied. “But I would rather have my son.”
“It won’t be much longer, mom. Take care and I’ll call you next Sunday.”
“You be careful,” she said. “Don’t let anything happen. And I’ll try not to worry myself sick.”
He smiled, imagining the tiny woman on the other end of the phone. “I’ll be fine,” he said, “so don’t worry. And I’ll talk to you next week.”
“Wait,” she said abruptly, catching him before he hung up the phone.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Are you getting enough to eat?”
“Yes, Mom,” he said, missing her more than he would admit. “I’m getting plenty to eat.”
He hung up the phone, smiling faintly. His mother was different, totally devoted to her son, as if nothing else in life mattered. Someday he would have to tell her how much he appreciated it, how fortunate he was to have a mother like her. But at the same time, he wondered why her happiness depended on him. It was a tremendous burden for him to bear. He was not only responsible for his own happiness, but hers as well.
He again turned his attention to the television. There was more coverage now, the morning gradually yielding to afternoon. And his suspicions were correct. The border was closed; the fence was being constructed around the entire city of West Berlin. Essential services would continue, routes in and out of West Berlin from West Germany would remain available. West Berlin would survive. At least for now.
But what would happen to East Berlin?
7
Kirstin walked back to the house, hobbling on her injured ankle. She leaned against Dr. Werner while Steiner walked beside her, providing additional support.
“Are you in pain?” Steiner asked.
“No, it’s just tender,” Kirstin replied. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
“I don’t think it’s broken,” Dr. Werner said, “but I’ll take a closer look when we get back to the house.”
As they neared the edge of the graveyard, Steiner dropped a few steps behind them and looked back at the barbed wire fence. “I had best stay near the border,” he told them. “Just in case someone else tries to escape.”
Kirstin turned, wondering why he suddenly found his fellow parishioners so interesting. It was as if he was watching them, just as he seemed to be watching her. “Be careful,” she advised. “And don’t let anyone do anything foolish.”
Dr. Werner helped her to the house and led her into the parlor. He eased her onto the chair while he sat on an ottoman and lifted her left leg into his lap. He then tenderly flexed her toes and foot. “There’s some swelling,” he said, “but it’s not broken. We’ll put some ice on it.”
“How long will it take to heal?”
“Three or four days at most. Aspirin will help with the pain.”
“Thank you so much,” she said. “I appreciate your help.”
“I just wish I had my medical bag,” he replied. “I could wrap your ankle with gauze for more support.” He paused and thought for a moment. “Suppose I go home and get it. I’m only a few blocks away.”
“I don’t want to be a burden,” she said.
“No burden at all,” he said as he rose from the ottoman.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, it’s no problem,” he said “I’ll only be a few minutes.” He started for the door, but paused after taking a few steps, turning to face her.
“Is something wrong?”
“Why do you think Dieter tried to escape?” he asked. “He never would have made it. He must have known that.”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Anger or frustration, I suppose.”
“He’s fortunate they didn’t shoot him. I don’t understand why he’d take that chance, with such little hope of success.”
“Especially since the closing could be temporary,” she said.
“It doesn’t look like temporary,” Werner observed tentatively, as if gauging her reaction.
“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed, hesitating. She knew no one could be trusted. The Stasi mingled among the population. They could be anyone – your butcher or postman, even your doctor or minister.
“I may never see my daughters again,” he said ruefully.
She studied him closely, wondering if he was ally or enemy. “If I only knew yesterday what I know today,” she said evasively. “I have to get to the West.”
“For your grandmother.”
“Yes,” she said, then added evasively, “But for so much more.”
He looked at her, guarded. “It seems the West has something we all want,” he said delicately. “Maybe we should have gone when we had the chance.”
Her gaze met his, not flinching. “It can still be done,” she said cryptically. “It’ll just be harder.”
His eyes widened, the cause not apparent. He was either suspicious, or thankful he found someone with similar views. “Perhaps,” he said, and then after a moment added, “I had best get that bag.”
Kirstin hobbled to the refrigerator. She opened the freezer door to get ice but found most of the cubes in the tray weren’t frozen. She banged on the thermostat with her fist and heard a motor start to hum, hopefully lowering the temperature. After sorting through the trays, she collected what ice she could and wrapped it in a towel. Then she returned to the couch and propped her ankle on the ottoman, wrapping the ice around it.
