Rose was the first to get annoyed and was all for going over to confront them. ‘How can we sleep with all that going on?’
‘Do they really know what they’re saying?’ asked Fran.
‘I’m pretty sure they know what “I wanna fuck you, baby” means,’ said Maggie. ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean they’re actually going to try it … but …’
‘Depending how drunk they get. Maybe we should just sleep in the van, to be safe,’ suggested Fran.
‘Why the hell should we?’ Rose dug around the back of the van and got out her hatchet. ‘Right, this is what we need.’ She looked at her friends’ alarmed faces. ‘The blunt end, obviously.’
Maggie stared at Rose in disbelief. ‘Isn’t that just going to enrage them? Or kill someone? I think we’re better to have a bucket of water to chuck over them if they try anything.’
‘Water?’ said Rose incredulously. ‘That’s going to cool them off, not put them off.’
Fran looked around at the neighbouring tents. Everyone was inside now. Most of the tents were dark. She felt a shiver of anxiety that no one would come to their aid. If something happened, people would think it was their own fault, three young women travelling alone. Asking for trouble.
Maggie was getting tetchy. ‘What’s your plan? Go over and brandish your axe at them? By the way, why bring an axe?’
‘It’s not an axe. It’s a hatchet. You can’t go camping without one.’
‘In the bush. Not here! We’re going to end up arrested for carrying a lethal weapon. Anyway, it’s too hot to all sleep in the van. And we can’t just leave one person outside. We’re better to stick together.’
Rose picked up the torch and stalked off towards the woods.
Fran got out her toiletries bag and went off to the ablutions block, pursued by whistles and catcalls as she passed the tent opposite. If she’d been braver, she would have told them off, but she didn’t want them to know she spoke German because she’d be stuck in the middle.
She came back to find that Rose had dragged a large dead branch out of the woods.
‘We need a camp fire,’ announced Rose.
‘Won’t we get into trouble?’ asked Fran.
Rose shrugged. ‘Just a small one. It’ll be fine.’
There was no one around now and Fran wasn’t sure how a fire would help but Rose was determined. Maggie held the torch while Rose, legs planted firmly, swinging from the shoulder, wielded the hatchet with great speed and efficiency, lashing into the branch, to the accompaniment of cheers and shouting from the tent opposite. She chopped it through and then split each piece until it was all kindling, which she propped up teepee-style over a pile of twigs. Maggie lit the fire, and Rose, with a practised flick of the wrist, plunged the hatchet into the ground. Something about this deft movement made the boys’ tent fall silent. After a moment, one of them got up and closed the front flap of their tent and they lit a lamp inside.
‘There you go,’ said Rose. ‘I knew a fire would do it. All animals are afraid of fire. It’s instinctual. Now, let’s get some sleep.’
Fran was entranced by the pale green light pouring into the railway-station lobby of Berlin Hauptbahnhof, a spectacular modern structure of metal and glass. She would have liked to stop and take some photos but, after eight hours on the train, it seemed too much to ask, so she climbed into the taxi without a word.
The accommodation Rose had booked was a room in a hostel on Friedrichshain-Kreuzberg with three single beds. Maggie arched a critical eyebrow but said nothing. Fran was quietly delighted. She loved the idea of sharing a room. It was much closer to the original journey with the three of them bunking in together.
Formerly on the East side of the wall, the room was utilitarian with a communal bathroom down the hall. The only view from their first-floor window was a large industrial construction site. While Rose and Fran got themselves settled, Maggie stood at the window and stared out in silence. Rose threw Fran a questioning look and finally said, ‘Missing the world of construction, Mag?’
Maggie turned for a moment with a vague smile, her gaze drawn back to the building site. ‘I was thinking how divorced I’ve become from the daily work of the business. Kristo and I live in quite different worlds now. No wonder we have trouble communicating.’
Unlike Rose, who complained about Peter at any opportunity, Maggie kept complaints about Kristo to herself, so Fran was taken aback by the comment. Especially since Kristo seemed like a big communicator. He loved talking and discussing all sorts of things, even emotions. He wasn’t one of those men who sit silently, expecting their wives to do the heavy lifting socially. He was a bit over the top sometimes, but Fran liked him. He was a big personality and besotted with Maggie. It was disheartening to hear that they too were struggling.
The day was fading and they agreed to get a quick meal nearby and an early night, ready for a full day tomorrow. Downstairs, in the hostel bar, a dozen or so young people, mainly men, sat around tables drinking beer, chatting and looking at their phones. They were all dressed similarly in grey and black lightweight outdoor gear. This new breed of backpackers, confident and organised, were the polar opposite of Fran’s generation. Beer was the pervading smell in the hostel – that part hadn’t changed. Fran felt diminished and aged by their presence and was relieved to push out through the revolving doors into the street. The night air was chilly and they paused to fasten their jackets.
There was a bar and burger place a few doors up and they went in. It was already busy and the music was loud: Earth, Wind & Fire, ‘Boogie Wonderland’, the song that just kept coming back. Rose grinned and shrugged along to the music as they headed for the only available table. They ordered beers and burgers. It was difficult to talk above the hubbub, which was relaxing in its own way.
Maggie and Rose made short work of the generous burgers, although Fran, with her smaller appetite, struggled to finish hers. Enjoying cold lagers, they started to relax, singing along to ‘We Are Family’, boogying in their seats, and Fran felt a burst of optimism. They could make this work. They were family. They were sisters. And now they were having fun together.
When the beers were finished and the evening seemed to be coming to a natural end, Maggie went up to the bar and returned with a bottle of red wine and three glasses. Rose refused the offer of wine. Fran agreed to have a glass, only so Maggie wouldn’t drink the whole thing on her own. The room was increasingly hot and airless, and red wine was the last thing she felt like right now. Avoiding Rose’s frown, Maggie sat back with a full glass in hand, still grooving to the music, enjoying herself. Rose made a comment to Maggie that Fran didn’t catch over the music but she could sense where this was going.
Fran leaned over to Rose. ‘It’s only eight o’clock. We’re having a good time. Let’s just go with it.’
Rose sighed. ‘I thought we agreed on an early night.’ But she took the bottle and filled her glass. Maggie smiled. They chinked glasses.
Fran looked around the bar and noticed they were the oldest people there. A group of fresh-faced young women sat at the next table, laughing together and chatting effortlessly over the top of the music. Fran had begun to gaze wistfully at young people. Sometimes, it felt as though she were watching life from the shadows these days.
As the night wore on, attempts at conversation became more exhausting. When the bottle of wine was finished, Maggie bought a single glass of red at the bar. It was as though she would do anything to prolong the evening.
Rose, to her credit, made an effort to keep the mood buoyant, but Fran was relieved when the last drop was gone and they were released out into the street and the fresh night air. They walked back to the hostel in good spirits, Rose humming under her breath, Maggie quiet but seemingly fine. But in the harsh light of the room, Fran noticed Maggie was sluggish, not exactly drunk, but a bit disoriented. She dithered about with her toiletries bag and wandered off to the bathroom in a dazed state.
‘That was too much booze for me. I’v
e got a headache now,’ said Rose crossly.
Fran gave her a sceptical look. ‘Rose, I don’t believe you. You’ve been boasting for years that you’ve never had a headache in your life. Get your story straight.’
‘Well, okay, I can feel one coming on.’ Rose massaged her forehead, obviously torn between making a point and maintaining her unblemished record.
‘I know you feel we should try to stop Maggie drinking. I just don’t know how we can without upsetting her.’
‘I don’t want to argue about it, Frannie – I enjoy a drink myself. I’m just worried that she’s killing herself in plain sight.’
‘You’re being dramatic, Rose. She just drinks a bit too much. She wants the release … that’s all. Lots of people do.’
‘I don’t care about other people drinking themselves to death, I care about her. Especially on all those medications. One or two drinks is fine, but a bottle?’
Fran agreed. ‘I just don’t know what we can really do.’
‘I can’t let her do it,’ said Rose fiercely. ‘I love her too much.’
‘I love her too, but —’ argued Fran as the door swung open and Maggie reappeared in her cotton robe, having changed in the bathroom.
‘Who do you love?’ asked Maggie with a smile.
Fran and Rose glanced at each other guiltily.
‘You. We were both saying how much we love you,’ said Fran, feeling a little silly.
For a moment it seemed as though Maggie’s face swelled slightly, then she blinked and said, ‘I’ll have to go to the bathroom more often.’ She didn’t look quite herself, her face shiny and naked and her eyes glassy. She took off her earrings, put them on the shelf by the bed. She took various pills out of her handbag and washed them down with a glass of water and got into bed.
They had barely been asleep an hour when Maggie sat up with a shout. Fran got up to see if she was all right. They had left the window blind up and the eerie white light from the building site was reflected in Maggie’s eyes. She mumbled something indistinct and slowly lay down again. An hour later, she jerked upright again and struggled to get out of bed. She seemed to be trapped between sleep and waking, murmuring unintelligibly. Fran was about to get up when Maggie collapsed back onto the bed again and began to snore.
‘Je-sus,’ muttered Rose.
‘What was she saying?’ asked Fran. ‘Could you understand her?’
‘Speaking in tongues, I think. It’s the bloody alcohol and meds.’
‘Did you hear that sort of crunching noise?’ asked Fran quietly.
‘Yeah, what was that? She seems to have gone back to sleep now,’ whispered Rose. Within minutes the crunching sound was back, as if Maggie was chewing on a hard-boiled sweet. Rose dragged herself out of bed, swearing under her breath.
‘What are you doing? Don’t wake her,’ said Fran.
Rose bent over Maggie’s sleeping form in the dark. She poked around for a minute, picked something up and examined it in the palm of her hand. She got her phone and came to sit on Fran’s bed. By the light of the phone, they stared at Rose’s palm containing Maggie’s mangled silver earring.
Ironically, next morning, Maggie appeared to be the more rested of the three. Fran and Rose had agreed not to mention the turmoil of the night and returned the earring to the bedside shelf. They watched Maggie pick up the earring and inspect it, but she said nothing.
They had breakfast in the hotel dining room and took the U-Bahn to Friedrichstraße to revisit Checkpoint Charlie. None of them had been back to Berlin in the intervening years and the old border entry between West and East was unrecognisable. Once the border had opened and the wall came down, Friedrichstraße, previously the focus of international attention, became just another street in the united city, and Fran found it hard to get her bearings now that the infrastructure of the border crossing had gone. All that remained of that time was the small shed that had been the allied checkpoint. They stood there awkwardly with a few other tourists, looking at this unprepossessing piece of history.
‘It’s just like a garden shed,’ said Rose. ‘Actually, I’m pretty sure that one is a fake. It’s shabby chic, like a seaside bathing pavilion.’
‘I remember it being a bit more utilitarian, and there was another longer shed you walked through and had your ID and bag checked,’ remembered Maggie.
‘That would have been on the East side,’ said Fran. ‘There was no need for the Americans to check anything.’
‘But, if you recall, they weren’t searching for weapons,’ said Maggie. ‘They were looking for anti-communist material.’
Rose nodded. ‘The weapon of the West. I was a card-carrying commie when we came here. I thought I was going to see utopia in action but this Soviet bullshit put me off the whole thing. The way they hunted people and that Death Strip between the two walls where people were shot. What a massive waste of money and human endeavour.’
‘I remember we were shocked by East Berlin,’ said Fran. ‘It looked like the war had finished yesterday, bombed-out buildings and nothing in the shops. Remember we tried to spend some of our East German marks and went into a fruit shop …’
‘Everything was rotting,’ said Rose. ‘Disgusting. I keep thinking if they had put the funds they wasted on building and guarding the border wall into making East Germany a decent place to live, things could have been different.’
‘Still a hippie at heart, Rose.’ Maggie smiled.
‘I’m still a socialist. I still believe the government should put the needs of the people ahead of business. That’s everything that’s wrong with the world right now.’
‘Not everything …’ began Maggie.
Fran quickly interrupted. ‘Let’s not get into this discussion right now.’
As they wandered away from the checkpoint, Rose said, ‘You know, I’ve just realised something. Coming here and seeing what was really going on was what got me interested in political science and that led to me ending up going to university and —’
Maggie sighed. ‘Is this leading back to everything being Peter’s fault? Where’s that list of banned topics? I need to add something.’
‘Sorry. I don’t normally go on about it so much. It’s not his fault. I just think I could have done something more with my life. Maybe I could have done Peter’s job, instead of being tucked away in the engine room doing all the hack work while he got the accolades.’
Fran said nothing. She didn’t agree that Rose could have done Peter’s job. For a start, he had the staying power that Rose lacked and, despite his difficulties with everyday tasks, he had earned his place in the academic world. Some years ago, Fran had attended one of his public lectures – he was brilliant. All his talents were condensed in this one area and he deserved those accolades, even if he couldn’t have achieved them without Rose’s support. He didn’t appreciate her, or acknowledge her contribution, but that was another matter altogether.
‘All I’m saying,’ said Rose defensively, ‘is I’ve just realised that that part of my life started here.’
Maggie stopped and looked at her. ‘Yes, fine, but what good does it do you? What difference can it possibly make now?’
Fran genuinely felt a headache pushing at her temples and suggested they go across the road to the museum, in the hope of distracting them.
Being among German-speaking people, Fran found her thoughts constantly going back to Oma, remembering her grandmother’s dark view of the world, the inhumanity of politics and religions. It was probably just as well that Oma had gone – the re-emergence of right-wing politics would have struck terror into her. It was everything she had feared.
In 1938, Oma had fled Austria for England with her two daughters: Marie was ten and Lena, twelve. By the time the war ended, there was nothing left for them in Austria, and Oma was afraid to go back. She was never convinced that what had happened couldn’t happen again. When Lena and her husband, Tom, Fran’s father, migrated to Australia in the early fifties, Oma went with them. Fran
had no memory of her father, who had returned to England soon after her birth, and she had no real curiosity about him either. Growing up, her mother and Oma were her whole world.
When she was older, Fran began to wonder if the stories that Oma had told her as a child – of servants and balls and visits from royalty – were exaggerated. But when Fran got to know Aunt Marie better, she discovered just how affluent and privileged their lives had been before the war. It was only then that Fran began to fully understand the depth of Oma’s losses, and why she had such a yearning for that golden past.
Lena was the more practical one; she had made it clear that romanticising the past was pointless, and painful. She dismissed Oma’s stories as sehnsucht, an untranslatable word describing a disconsolate pining for the past and a home that no longer exists. Perhaps the word was just as relevant to this trip; a search for something that never really existed. Fran truly hoped that wasn’t the case.
On that earlier trip, Fran had gone to the shop in the Tuchlauben district where her family had been jewellers for four generations. The jewellery shop had become a chocolate shop and she felt no real connection with the family’s history there, it was so far removed from her experience. Perhaps her attitude had been limited by her own immaturity, because these days she had a different perspective. She had more sense of the layering of memory and time, and realised that Europe was the place where she felt most at home.
As Fran wandered around the Checkpoint Charlie museum, she felt that, in a different frame of mind, it could have been a heartening experience, the resilience of the human spirit and all that. But today, she felt a sense of despair at the desperate measures that East Germans had gone to, attempting to escape by tunnelling, ballooning, jumping – sometimes to their death – or concealed in shopping trolleys and cars. The famous image of the young guard, Conrad Schumann, leaping the barbed-wire fence brought tears to her eyes. The evidence of tens of thousands of Stasi informants spying on their friends and neighbours. Guards shooting their countrymen attempting escape, wanting nothing more than freedom. How were people convinced to betray friends and family in such a vile way in the name of a government?
Sixty Summers Page 15
