Tunnel 29

by Helena Merriman

  Ellen

  She sits on a bench in a playground. It’s sparse, just a couple of swings and a slide. Holding a newspaper in front of her, the East Berlin tabloid B.Z., Ellen pretends to read, darting her eyes now and then to that fifth-floor window over the wall, willing the white sheet to appear.

  She’d crossed the border faster than she’d expected, just half an hour, then taken a taxi to a street near Schönholzer Strasse. It felt strange to be here, in East Berlin, for the first time. She’d never seen anywhere so bleak: derelict buildings, run-down shops and hardly anyone around. She watches two elderly women cross the road leaning on walking sticks, she glances up at some kids at a window, who peer blankly down at her, and then, for the first time that day, she remembers it’s her birthday. She thinks of her mother, remembering a prayer she used to whisper over her when she was a little girl, and Ellen murmurs it softly now, the swing next to her creaking in the breeze.

  Evi, Peter and Annet

  An hour later, Ellen still hasn’t arrived at the pub. Nursing their drinks, Evi and Peter look down, desperate not to attract attention. It’s likely there are Stasi informants here at the pub and they know there are VoPos just outside. The door opens and Evi feels a pulse of adrenaline, as she has every time someone walks in, but it’s not Ellen. It’s a woman in a Dior dress and heels, with a man and a child. They must be escapees too. It makes Evi more nervous; they all look conspicuous and out of place.

  The afternoon darkens, a cool September night setting in. Evi watches the steady stream of men arriving at the pub, then, with a shudder, notices a strange warmth spreading on her thighs and realises that Annet’s nappy is so full it’s leaking onto her dress. If anyone sees the wet patch, they’ll know something’s up, so she presses Annet closer to hide the stain and eyes the door.

  Watching. Waiting.

  The tunnel

  Hasso and Joachim (and another digger – Joachim Neumann) grab their duffel bags, heavy with drills, screwdrivers, hammers and guns. Ducking down into the tunnel, they start crawling. The wet clay squelches under the weight of their hands and knees as they scrabble under Bernauer Strasse, the death strip and the Wall, the sounds from the street receding as they crawl further into the East. At the end of the tunnel, they unfold, standing tall in the shaft they’ve dug out over the past few days, looking up at the ceiling that slopes into the cellar. Banging on it with hammers, the sounds returns to them, hard and flat. Brick, they guess.

  Hasso climbs on top of Joachim’s shoulders and drills into the ceiling, pink pieces of brick flaking down until a tiny hole appears and they hear a whistle of wind. Heartened, Hasso drills harder, shattering the brick, widening the hole, realising too late that the whistle wasn’t wind, but water, which is now spurting onto his face. Joachim and Hasso recoil, remembering the stories – how the Stasi flood the cellars of basements along the border to stop escapes – and they know that if the water carries on like this, they could drown. But it calms to a dribble and Hasso steadies his hand, tightening his grip on the drill as he smashes the brick. Eventually, the hole is big enough to climb through, and they squeeze through into the cellar.

  It’s large. Dark. There’s an unidentifiable smell and in front of them, a door. Standing there, they size it up, but they know they don’t have much time, the water in the tunnel is rising, and so Hasso runs forward, throwing the full weight of his body against the door, and it bursts open.

  Then: another door. Stronger locks. Joachim pulls out two sets of skeleton keys – borrowed from a friend – and he kneels, trying each key until he finds one that fits the lock and turns. So far, so good. Just one final thing to do before they can give Ellen the signal: check the building number. They must be sure they’ve broken into the right apartment. One misread of the theodolite and they could be under number eight or six, then when the escapees arrive at number seven, the operation would unravel.

  Rustling in his duffel bag, Joachim pulls out a blue coat and throws it on, hoping he looks like a workman. That will be his story if the VoPos catch him. If they don’t believe him, there’s the gun in his pocket.

  At the door he pauses, listening through the keyhole, for it’s now late afternoon. People are returning from work and he must wait until the hallway is clear.

  Eventually, silence.

  Joachim opens the door, slips out into the apartment and checks the hall for the Stiller Träger – the ‘Silent Porter’ – the board listing the names of the people living there, and, he hopes, the address. He finds the board, sees the names, but no building number. Only one thing for it. Joachim creeps towards the door, the door that opens onto a street full of VoPos. For a brief moment, he hesitates. Of everything he’s done so far, this is the most dangerous. He has no idea what is waiting behind this door. For all he knows, a VoPo could be standing there, but he can’t let himself think about that, he needs to carry on. Just another problem to solve.

  He pushes the door. There’s a sudden rush of street noise. Kids playing. Two women pushing prams. Then, the VoPos. They’re distracted, talking to people in their hut, and so Joachim snatches his chance, runs across the street, looks back at the apartment, and there it is: a big number seven above the door. He almost laughs with relief.

  Back in the tunnel, he picks up one end of the telephone and rings back to the cellar, telling the other diggers they’re in the right place. And so the message bounces from phone, to walkie-talkie, to phone, eventually reaching Harry Thoess, the NBC cameraman in the building high above the Wall, who reaches for the white sheet, and flings it out of the window, hoping that Ellen is somewhere below and that she’ll see it and remember what it means.

  Ellen

  She sees it. A flash of white tumbling out of the window, the outline of a figure behind it. The sheet kick-starts Ellen’s memory and the map flashes up in her mind, her fear lifting, replaced by the strong sense that she knows exactly what to do. Walk straight ahead. Turn right. Cross the road. Right again. Following the lines in her head, Ellen steers herself through the streets effortlessly, confident at each turning that she’s remembered it right.

  Fifteen minutes later, Ellen is at the first pub. She swallows. Dry tongue, heart pounding, she pushes the door open. A wave of noise hits her. She’s never been into a pub, let alone one like this, and she feels the eyes of a hundred men as she walks between them, scanning the room for the escapees. She wonders how she’ll spot them, but then, to the right of the bar, she sees them: children, two couples, eyes fixed on her, and she knows she’s in the right place.

  Matches, she remembers, that’s the signal in pub number one, and she strides up to the counter and in a loud voice asks for some from the barman. He frowns, puzzled by someone in a pub not asking for a drink, but he turns to get some and Ellen risks another glance at the families behind her. She sees Peter and Evi, notices the stain on Evi’s skirt. To her relief they’re watching, eyes fixed, breath held. The barman returns with her matches, she pays him, slowly, purposefully, wishes him a good evening and leaves.

  All Ellen can do now is hope they’ve seen the signal, and she walks back to her bench at the playground to check the sheet is still there. It is. She lights a cigarette, and perhaps it’s the nicotine buzzing through her blood, or perhaps it’s the high from having given the first signal, but she finds herself standing up and walking towards Schönholzer Strasse. She’s curious to see what the street looks like. Closing her eyes for a second, she pulls up the image of the map and follows the lines again, this time heading towards the Wall, then turning left into the street with the tunnel underneath.

  There she sees it: number seven. Ellen has now gone completely off script, deviating from the instructions given to her by Mimmo, and as the adrenaline from today’s mission flows through her, she forgets to be afraid, forgets about the VoPos, and all she can think about is wanting to see inside the building. Like a blinkered horse, Ellen strides down the street towards the apartment, oblivious to what’s either side of her. The wom
en with their prams. The children playing. The VoPos.

  On the other side of the Wall, Harry Thoess, the NBC cameraman is watching Ellen through his lens, baffled and terrified she’s about to get caught, and he radios to Mimmo in the tunnel and tells him that Ellen is standing in front of the door. Mimmo is shocked, can’t understand what she’s doing, but all he can do is listen, helplessly, as Harry tells him, in a terrified whisper, that he’s just seen Ellen push the door open and disappear inside.

  The cellar in East Berlin

  Joachim, Hasso and some of the other diggers are hovering by the cellar door, listening to the sounds in the hall. It’s six in the evening and the escape is meant to have started. Each time the door to the building opens, their stomachs lurch, hoping it’s people on their list, but they can tell from the whistling, the loud footsteps, that it’s just residents returning home. They can’t understand what’s happening. Why aren’t people here yet? Has Ellen passed on the signals? Have the escapees got lost? Joachim and Hasso pull out their guns, fingers on triggers as they stand there. Listening.

  Ellen

  She’s in the hallway. Excited. Curious. She sees the cellar door, tiptoes past, and sneaks upstairs. First floor. Second floor. Third floor. It’s only when Ellen reaches the fourth floor that she stops, realises what she’s doing, this insane risk that she’s taking, and she darts downstairs, hurries through the hall and crashes out onto the street.

  Idiot! She thinks. What was I thinking? Head down, Ellen walks past the VoPos, brings up her mental map and scurries towards the second pub.

  There, Ellen orders a glass of water: the second secret signal. She drinks it and as she leaves, she sees them: a group of people sitting in a corner, hands gripping the table, looking stiff and pale.

  Now, just one final pub. One final signal.

  The last pub is more crowded than all the others; after all, it’s now 6.30 and Friday night is in full swing. Ellen sits at a table, motions for a waiter and asks for coffee. He shakes his head, ‘We don’t have any’, and her brain freezes. Ellen hadn’t discussed this with Mimmo – what to do if the pub didn’t have what she wanted – and suddenly the room feels very loud and the pain in her ears returns, the blood pumping loudly through them as she tries to think.

  Think!

  ‘Coffee!’ she says to the barman again, very loudly, almost shouting, hoping the escapees in the pub will hear and get the message. ‘Really, you don’t have any coffee? Any at all?’

  The waiter shakes his head again; her mind rattles and Ellen comes up with another idea.

  ‘If you don’t have coffee,’ she says, ‘then bring me a cognac.’ At least they both begin with the same sound, she thinks. The barman leaves, returns with the cognac and she downs it, the first time she’s tried it, the taste of vinegar lingering in her mouth. After a cigarette, Ellen walks to the toilet, takes out her notebook and shreds the paper with the addresses on, flushing them away. She’s beginning to panic now, the nicotine and alcohol giving her the shakes, and she knows this is the moment she needs to leave, race to the checkpoint before the escape begins, because if anything goes wrong, they’ll close the border. Ellen runs out of the pub, waves down a taxi and asks for Friedrichstrasse station.

  Sitting in the taxi, she looks out of the window at the Trabis on the road – the tiny pastel cars that fill East Berlin’s streets; she watches women on bikes weaving in and out of puddles, gangs of kids whooping and playing; and as she loses herself in it all, she forgets about the big wadge of money in her bag, the money she was meant to get rid of before arriving at the checkpoint, for if anyone finds it, they’ll know she’s up to something and so it will unravel.

  Evi, Peter and Annet

  They turn onto Schönholzer Strasse and see it: number seven. Just the VoPos to get past now. Squeezing Annet’s hand, Peter, Evi and Peter’s mother walk down the street, trying to look relaxed, keeping their eyes down – away from the men in uniforms, their Kalashnikovs tight against their chests. Finally, they arrive at the door. Peter pushes it open and they walk inside.

  The cellar in East Berlin

  Joachim can tell straight away, these footsteps are different. Tentative. No whistling or chatting. He hears whispering. A scuffle. The door handle wobbles and Joachim reaches forward, unlocks the door and pushes it open, sees them all standing there.

  Relief flows through him as Peter gives the code: ‘You busy handymen!’ And they all fall into the cellar, Gigi pulling his friend Peter in to a bear hug. It’s happening, but there’s no time to be relieved or excited, as they know that at any time the VoPos could get suspicious about all the people wandering into the apartment. They have to move fast. It’s dark, just one lamp by the entrance to the tunnel but there’s no time for Evi’s eyes to adjust.

  Evi crouches, holding Annet in her arms. A digger motions for her to give Annet to him; she’ll be too heavy for Evi to carry through the tunnel. Evi hesitates. Suddenly the weight of what they’re about to do crashes down on her; images of Annet in the arms of a VoPo flash through her mind, and for a moment none of this feels worth that unthinkable risk.

  But Evi’s body moves and she finds herself handing Annet over and begins crawling. The tunnel is smaller than she’d imagined; her shoulders bash against the sides as she clambers through in the dark, and she gasps as the skin on her knees shreds against the gritty floor. She crawls for minute after minute, willing the tunnel to end, but it keeps going on and on. She breathes fast. ‘Stay calm,’ she hears from the digger behind, the one holding Annet, ‘nothing’s going to happen; keep going.’

  Joachim watches them go, listens to the sound of their feet scudding against the clay. He can’t follow. His job is to stay here, in the East, until everyone crawls through. As Evi and Annet disappear, all he remembers thinking is, how strange – the baby didn’t cry once.

  At the other end, in West Berlin, Peter and Klaus Dehmel are standing at the top of the shaft that leads down into the tunnel, camera pointing at the hole. It’s dark. Nothing moves. Then—

  A white handbag appears. Then a hand. An arm. Then a woman in a dark dress crawls out of the tunnel. Covered in mud, Evi’s feet are bare; she’s lost her shoes somewhere in the tunnel. It’s taken her twelve minutes to crawl through the dirt and water. She looks up towards the camera, shrinking from the light, then starts climbing the ladder, dress laden with water, hands shaking with exhaustion. She’s almost at the top when she hears a loud ringing and she wonders if something’s happened in the tunnel, if it’s a warning, an alarm, but just as she realises it’s coming from her ears, she faints, Klaus, the NBC lighting guy running forward to catch her. He lowers Evi onto a bench and she sits there, eyes fixed on the tunnel as Mimmo appears, holding Annet. Evi bundles her child into her arms, rocking her back and forth, nuzzling the nape of her neck.

  Ellen

  Opening her purse to pay the driver, the glass walls of Friedrichstrasse station looming over the taxi, Ellen sees the wadge of money and her stomach falls. So much of it, and she knows she has to get rid of it before she goes into the station in case border guards search her. She gives the driver his fare, then thrusts a bundle of notes into his hand. He’s speechless, his mouth open but silent as Ellen leaves the car and runs to the station. Too much still, she has too much money, and she scans the ground, eyes lighting on a drain. She kneels down, wraps the money in a handkerchief and stuffs it in.

  Walking up the stairs to the station, Ellen calms herself – there is nothing suspicious on me; you’ve done everything you need to do – and she joins the queue of people, waiting to cross to the platform where trains will take them to West Berlin. As Ellen stands there, thinking back to that taxi driver, her breath catches as she realises what a stupid mistake it was to give him all that money. What if he’s working for the Stasi? And he tells someone all about a strange woman giving him money at the border? But there’s little time to dwell on it as a policewoman has stopped in front of her.

  ‘Folgen Sie m
ir,’ she says. ‘Follow me.’

  The cellar in West Berlin

  The cellar of the factory is crammed. People sit, huddled together, catching their breath after the long, wet crawl, warming their sodden knees in front of electric heaters. Some are already leaving the cellar, Wolf Schroedter walking them out of the factory and into his VW van, driving them to friend’s houses where they can spend their first night in West Berlin – before registering at Marienfelde Refugee Camp.

  Since Evi, Peter and Annet crawled through, there’s been a steady stream of escapees, including Hasso’s sister, Anita, who’d arrived in a short black Dior dress and white high heels, clambering through the tunnel with her husband and toddler. Up in the cellar, Anita sits next to Evi on a bench, the camera filming the mothers as they wash their muddy legs in a bucket, then gently clean their toddlers with rags, changing them into clean white cloth nappies. Anita’s toddler’s clothes are so wet that she dresses her in one of Joachim’s jumpers, her daughter’s legs sticking through the arm sleeves.

  Peter and Klaus film everyone who crawls through: eight-year-olds, eighteen-year-olds, eighty-year-olds. Each is wetter than the last; the water is now halfway up the tunnel.

  On the other side, in East Berlin, Joachim waits by the door. He can’t leave till everyone is here and he’s jumpy. They’ve been lucky to get this far, to get so many people through, and each hour he waits, the greater the chance of being discovered. Buggies are now piling up conspicuously in the apartment outside the cellar – one of those problems no one foresaw. Outside, on Schönholzer Strasse, with darkness setting in, the VoPos have turned on their searchlights, the street now washed in pools of white.