by Lee Jackson
The old couple trudged more and more slowly on their canes, each footstep more painful. Rafael pulled his group together. “We have to step up the pace.”
“How much farther?” Juan asked.
“About five blocks. Here’s what we’re going to do.” He gave terse instructions. When he had finished speaking, Juan loaded the grandfather over a shoulder. Fernando picked up the grandmother, who wrapped her arms around his neck. The older child climbed onto Pepe’s back. Rafael took the screaming toddler and did his best to quiet her.
“Go out ahead,” he told Ivan. “Scout the front of the embassy. Do whatever you have to do to get us in there.”
After what seemed an interminable time, Rafael saw the embassy. Streaming sweat, the group paused before it came into full view. Juan, Fernando, and Pepe set down their charges. Rafael returned the toddler to her father. Then they proceeded.
Rafael surveyed the area around the main entrance. US Marines had formed a defensive half circle in front of it. The crowd overflowed the street. Police and Stasi officers formed a line to keep people away from the entrance.
Ivan stood at the rear of a Stasi Wartburg. He conversed with an officer, their voices raised. Suddenly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his identification card. He showed it to the Stasi officer and the man snapped to attention.
Ivan spotted Rafael and motioned the group forward. A policeman stepped ahead of them. Ivan called to him angrily and started his way. The policeman looked to the Stasi officer, his eyes questioning. The officer hesitated, and then nodded.
Ivan reached Rafael. “Keep walking,” he said, his voice low. “This Stasi guy doesn’t know what to do. He might not stay that way for long.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That this family is to be allowed entry on philanthropic grounds by order of the Kremlin. I threatened to expose him for crimes against humanity and suggested he should join those headed across the border.”
Rafael looked around. “He might have taken your advice. He’s disappeared.”
The group continued their slow way to the entrance. The Marines formed a line and showed them the way. When they were safely inside, Rafael called Burly on a secure telephone line. “We’re in.”
“Put Ivan on.”
Ivan took the receiver. “Get to Checkpoint Charlie,” Burly said. “Fast. Look for Sofia and Collins.” He told Ivan where to look. “Call when you get there. If you arrive before them, keep an eye out. FYI, Sofia is wounded. It’s bad.”
Ivan inhaled sharply. Checkpoint Charlie was not far, but the hordes would slow progress. He looked out the entrance. The Stasi Wartburg was still parked there.
He strode to the Stasi officer nearest the vehicle. “Where’s the driver of that car?” The officer shrugged and turned away.
Ivan whirled him around by the shoulder and jammed the KGB ID in his face. “You just became my driver,” he snarled. “Get me to Checkpoint Charlie. Do it now.”
Twenty minutes later, with sirens blaring, the Wartburg arrived at the east side of Checkpoint Charlie. People already pressed the border guards to let them through.
The sentries milled about, unsure what to do. They held their automatic rifles ready and continued to block the remaining few yards to freedom.
Ivan radioed Burly. “I’m here. No sign of the others. What now?”
“Wait.”
Veniamin had seen no way out. From the time Klaus had confiscated his passport at Marienborn, he had felt like an animal led to slaughter, smelling blood. The feeling had intensified in Baumann’s office when he came face-to-face with Cousin Yermolov.
It had grown yet again when he had shown the inner workings of the bombs to the two nuclear engineers who were then “permanently retired.” And finally, he had felt abject terror when Yermolov admonished him about the “carnage everyone will see.”
He had watched with fascination as Yermolov fixed his attention on Wolfgang Sacher’s speech. Veniamin’s knowledge of German was insufficient to follow what was said, but he recognized that something momentous was occurring.
Then Baumann had become engrossed, and Ranulf had moved closer. When Klaus entered to announce that he had placed the bomb, and Yermolov had waved him away, Veniamin thought he might have found his moment.
All attention except his had fixed on the television. The other men had clustered around it, their backs to Veniamin. He had moved closer to the door. They were oblivious to him. He had opened it and stepped through. They had still paid him no heed.
Leaving the door ajar, he had crept to the staircase. Slowly, he had descended. He reached the next level and had increased his speed.
He had hurried down another flight. A door had burst open and a man had rushed toward him. Frantic, Veniamin had looked for a direction to run, but there was none. He had lifted his hand reflexively toward the man, although he had no idea what to say. The man had hurried past without looking at him and climbed the stairs.
Veniamin had leaned against the wall and wiped sweat from his forehead. He had glanced up the stairwell. No sign of pursuit.
He had almost run down the remaining flights, amazed by how few people seemed to be in the building. To see the dreaded Stasi headquarters almost deserted had itself been unnerving.
He reached the last set of stairs. An orderly lounged at the reception desk watching the crowds go by. Veniamin heard a huge cheer erupt.
Now he ran past the orderly and out the door and raced the few remaining yards to the crowd. He slowed to match its pace, allowing it to engulf him. He had never been to Berlin and did not know where these people would go. As he walked, he cast furtive glances over his shoulder. The policemen lining the streets worried him, but they looked befuddled, seemingly uncertain of what to do.
As he struggled through the crowd, he found a few people who spoke broken French and English, and he came to understand the reason for the cheering. “Has the border opened yet?”
“We don’t know,” came the reply. “We’re going to Checkpoint Charlie to find out.”
Veniamin now faced a dilemma: he had never been given back his passport after it had been taken at the border. He had no way to prove his French citizenship. If the crossing points were open and he got through, he could make his way to the French Consulate and report a lost passport. If, on the other hand, the checkpoints remained closed, he would face difficulty beyond what he cared to imagine. Especially if my cousin detonates… He killed the thought.
After he had trudged some distance, he became less concerned that someone might recognize him. He moved closer to the edge of the crowd, where he was able to make faster progress by moving around slower people. He began to feel the effects of travel, lack of sleep, extreme stress, and walking for miles without food or water. For the last few days, he had been spurred by adrenaline. Now, he felt dangerously close to exhaustion.
Finally, he turned onto Friedrichstrasse. There in front of him stood the iconic US guard shack at Checkpoint Charlie.
The contrast in lights between East and West Berlin at the crossing was stark. They shone brighter by magnitudes on the western side. The effect was heightened by spotlights aimed into East Berlin. As Veniamin drew closer, he saw that they belonged to camera crews videotaping every detail. Behind them in West Berlin, huge numbers of people waited, calling their deafening welcome to long-lost families and friends.
As Veniamin drew closer, he saw the Wall and its floodlit kill zones stretching away in either direction, interrupted only by Checkpoint Charlie. The border guards still stood on the east side, their weapons poised. Strangely, even as they held their fingers over the triggers, their interactions with the crowd seemed almost friendly.
Veniamin took up a position as close to the checkpoint as he dared. Mindful that Cousin Yermolov might be looking for him, he remained in shadows.
As soon as Ranulf hung up from speaking with Oily, he made his way the short distance to the main building at Stasi headquarters. He felt u
nsettled that there were so few officers around. Then again, he reasoned, the crowds required as many men as could be spared. The demonstration five days ago had been estimated at over a million people. This one was even larger.
He went to the rear of the building, where he started up a back stairwell. This was a private entry and exit for the director and senior staff. He did not expect to see anyone there, particularly not at this time of night or under the current circumstances. He climbed to the seventh floor to a small vestibule outside a door that was hidden inside the office. He stood listening to voices that came from inside. They were muted by the thick walls. Yermolov and Klaus. Good thing they don’t know about this private entrance. He stood still, hoping to catch their conversation. Finally, he heard Yermolov ask, “Are you sure you’ve checked every component?”
“Yes. They’re armed for remote triggering. The frequencies are set, and the fail-safe systems are on.”
Yermolov clapped his hands together. “Well then, let’s be on our way. You take one. I’ll take the other. I have all three remotes.”
Ranulf heard them leave the office through its main entrance at the far end of the hall. They waited there for an elevator. When the doors closed, Ranulf slipped through the hidden door into the office.
He could hardly believe his luck. The two duffle bags of money were still on the floor by the desk. He threw them over his shoulders and headed back into the vestibule, carefully closing the door behind him.
As he started down the stairs, the elevator arrived on the landing. He heard Klaus exclaim, “I can’t believe we almost forgot five million dollars.”
His heart thumping, Ranulf hurried down the stairs, careful to make no sound. As he reached the ground floor, gunfire exploded somewhere on the floors above him. He stopped to listen. He heard more shots and took off again at a faster pace. On the ground floor, he headed out the back exit and wound his way through darkness to his office.
Klaus rushed into Baumann’s office. Seconds later, he burst back out to the elevator landing. “They’re gone,” he cried furiously. “The duffle bags. All the money. Gone.”
Yermolov regarded him with amused calm. “How could they be gone? Only you and I were in the office.”
“They’re gone. Who was there when I moved the bags behind the desk?”
“You, me, Baumann, and Ranulf. But they haven’t been back since they left.” He watched the fury on Klaus’ face. “Too late to do anything now. The plane should be ready for departure. Don’t worry. As the Americans say, that’s chump change. When we succeed, we’ll have plenty of money. Let’s go.”
Klaus scowled but said no more. They got back on the elevator and headed down.
Johann Baumann sat in his overstuffed chair in the living room of his home. He had never referred to it as “his” house, understanding that he lived there at the will of the East German state and that it could be taken away any time that political winds changed. And they’re a cyclone now, he thought ruefully.
The house was comfortable, even sumptuous, by Eastern Bloc standards. He had visited the West often enough to know what luxury looked like, although it was not an element he craved in his life. He approached eighty-two years of age. In his lifetime, he had participated in what some considered the worst of times for East Germany. For him, they had been the best of times.
Who does that fool Yermolov think he is, ordering me around? He smirked reflectively and took a sip of cognac from a crystal glass. I helped organize Stalin’s purges and transform this country into a Marxist-Leninist state. Yermolov never would have survived under Papa Joe. I flourished.
He swirled his drink and chuckled, thinking about a conversation he had just had with KGB Chairman Nestor Murin a few minutes ago. Then, he laughed out loud, imagining Yermolov’s surprise when Murin met his plane in Moscow. We’ll see who delivers a bullet personally to whom. He laughed again. With any luck, he’ll press those remotes and blow that part of the world into oblivion.
He mused that Yermolov’s mistake lay in misperceiving the calamity taking place in East Germany, and in misjudging Baumann himself. The West grew faster than we did. We had fewer and fewer options. He thought I was weak, that I hadn’t recognized the change in history’s course.
He sneered. I’m old, but that doesn’t mean I’m dead. He felt again the fury that had first come over him when Yermolov had usurped his authority. And what the hell happened in that press conference tonight? No one saw that coming.
He took his cognac and headed to a set of stairs hidden behind a wooden panel. At the bottom, he flipped on some lights and turned to a massive steel door. It was the entrance to his underground bomb shelter, hardened against a nuclear attack. He entered and then pushed a button, activating electric motors that clanked and pulled the door closed behind him with only a slight thump.
He looked around at the interior. It was comfortable and fully stocked with plenty of the provisions needed to survive for an extended time. “Take your best shot, Yermolov,” he chuckled. “Who cares if the bombs go off or the Wall comes down.” He looked around his bunker again. “It’s time for me to disappear to my ranch in Argentina and live off my Swiss bank account. But tonight, I sleep.”
Sofia watched through bleary eyes and a haze of pain as Collins worked the crowds. She felt increasing respect for him: he treated each person politely and interviewed them while walking alongside them. When he had finished with one person or group, he thanked them and then moved on to interview the next set of excited East Berliners. In this way, he kept progressing toward Checkpoint Charlie at a pace that eventually would put him, the team, and Wolfgang’s family at the front of the crowd.
Nina kept a periodic check on Sofia’s arm. The bleeding had stopped, but she dared not remove the tourniquet. Sofia’s complexion had turned pallid and she was dangerously lightheaded. Her gait became staggered, one foot dragging after the other. Team members rotated to support her weight and prevent her being jostled by people in the crowd. Wolfgang positioned himself on her right. His family hardly spoke among themselves, their eyes fearful. They stayed close together within the moving perimeter.
Jeff and the remaining team kept wary eyes on the throng. So far, no hostile activity had been spotted. He hoped that Wolfgang’s security chief had given up the pursuit. Of concern, however, was that the cameraman’s bright lights marked their position within the crowd.
Careful to be friendly, in keeping with the surrounding mood, the team jostled people when needed to keep up with Collins. All around them, people ambled along good-naturedly, smiling, laughing, clapping each other on the shoulders, and reacting with goodwill to inadvertent jarring from others around them. Occasionally, those who were less patient groused, but they seemed to be few and far between.
Despite her weakened state, Sofia worried about Atcho. He had the most critical part in this overall mission. Failure would be horrific. She shuddered at visions of flaming mushroom clouds consuming this crowd of over a million souls.
Collins forged ahead as best he could, keeping his cameraman and Sofia’s team in tow while taking care not to annoy those he interviewed. Fortunately, most people spoke with him eagerly. His main question, broadcast live, went along the lines of, “What do you think of tonight’s events?”
The responses were as varied as the people walking with him. The common theme was incredulity.
“It’s hard to believe it’s really happening.”
“We have family on the other side waiting for us. We haven’t seen them in twenty-eight years. I was a small child then.”
“I’m in my mid-twenties. The Wall has been there my entire life. I want to see it crumble.”
“Can you believe we can cross into West Berlin or any place in Germany, and no soldiers will point machine guns at us, or shoot us, or send hungry dogs after us? I’m speechless.”
At last, Collins saw Checkpoint Charlie ahead in the distance. His pulse raced. He turned toward Sofia, and his heart dropped. She looke
d as though she might pass out. Her teammates continued their diligent care. There was nothing he could do to help her; he walked gamely on.
Finally, two hours after setting out from Alexanderplatz, the entire group approached within a hundred feet of the last obstacles separating them from West Berlin. There in front of the barriers stood the line of border guards and Stasi officers with automatic weapons pointed toward the crowd. People had ceased forward movement. Instead they milled about in front of the checkpoint. Jeff paused the team.
Collins continued forward and stopped short of the line of border guards. Behind him, the jubilant tone of the crowd changed to one of frustration, then anger as they encountered the sentries blocking further advance.
“You can’t stop us,” a woman shouted. “We have the right to unimpeded travel.”
Others joined in with epithets, demanding passage. An unearthly quiet settled in. It rolled back along the streets to the crowd’s furthest extremities, more than a million people waiting in breathless silence to know their common destiny.
The soldiers felt the tension. In response, they set their jaws, gripped their weapons tighter, and kept them trained on the crowd.
Collins directed his cameraman to focus on the line of guards, then at the people waiting to cross the border. “Get lots of close-ups.”
When the camera was set, Collins broadcast his report. “I’m live at Checkpoint Charlie,” he narrated, “where history is being written as I speak. Behind me,” he signaled for the cameraman to zero in on the American guard shack, “is the iconic Checkpoint Charlie, scene of so many breathtaking escapes from East Germany. This is where Soviet and US Army tanks faced off in 1961 when the city was partitioned. Fear of nuclear war then was palpable.” The camera swung to another angle. “There you see the East German border guards with their machine guns pointing at the people. Their mission since 1961 has been to make sure that citizens stay on this side of the border.
