by Felice Arena
‘Come on! Max taunts. ‘Du traust dich ja nicht! I dare you!’
‘Max!’ Hubert calls. ‘This is stupid.’ He drops his bike and runs up behind Peter. ‘Don’t worry about them,’ he says. ‘Think about it. There are three of them and they’re all bigger than us. Just walk away.’
‘I bet this is killing you,’ Max says, trying to provoke Peter. ‘You want to be with your mama, but you can’t! Boohoo. Not the hero now, are you, rat?’
Peter’s entire body tenses up when he sees Max grinning and glancing back at his friends, who all have the same arrogant look.
‘That’s it!’ Peter growls, and he charges at Max. But all three boys lunge forward and tackle him to the ground. In the scuffle they begin punching him.
Peter curls up in a ball. Hubert tries to help, but is pushed aside by Max. It feels as though Peter is hurting all over. Then he feels Max’s fist connect with his cheek with a flash of pain.
‘Lasst ihn los!’ Someone is yelling from somewhere close by. ‘Get off him now!’
With his eye starting to swell up and his face half pressed into the pavement, Peter catches sight of Oma shuffling really fast towards them. She’s wielding a wooden spoon and looking really fearsome.
She’s the best, Peter thinks. The next second she’s there and she’s smacking Max and his friends with the wooden spoon.
Two men walking by rush to Oma’s side. The three boys stop and stumble backwards and then bolt down the street.
The adults help Peter to his feet. His nose is bloody and his right cheek and eye feel bruised and swollen. His world has been turned upside down.
Why can’t it be like it used to be? he thinks, now feeling embarrassed as Oma pulls him in towards her and hugs him tightly.
Geld
MONEY
‘Sehr lecker, Frau Ackermann! This Sülze is very tasty,’ Peter says.
‘Thank you, Peter,’ says Hubert’s mother. She’s always been proud of her jellied meat loaf with Spree pickles and onions. ‘I was thinking of making Königsberger Klopse, meatballs and boiled potatoes, but this is better for such a warm summer’s evening.’
For the first time since his parents left, Peter feels comforted and safe, even though the right side of his face is black and blue. It’s nice to be sitting around a full table. Hubert is the middle child in his family. He has two brothers. Ralf is eighteen and Paul is five, the same age as Margrit.
Reaching for another piece of meat loaf and hearing Hubert tease his little brother, Peter feels as if life has almost returned to normal. But then Hubert’s father reminds him that it hasn’t.
‘Still no word from your parents?’ Herr Ackermann asks. ‘I’m sure they must be beside themselves.’
Peter shakes his head.
Ralf has obviously been waiting the whole time for the subject to come up. ‘So many families have been separated,’ he says. ‘Why hasn’t the Bundesrepublik or America stepped in to help us? Don’t they care?’
Hubert’s mother shifts awkwardly in her chair and looks apologetically at Peter.
‘We’ll miss out on so many things because of this stupid wall,’ Ralf continues. ‘People who speak their mind are being arrested or disappearing. A couple of my old friends have already given up. They’re spouting communist propaganda and joining the FDJ, the Free German Youth. There’s nothing “free” about it! We can’t just sit around and do nothing – that’s never been my way. We have to take a stand!’
‘Please, Ralf, enough,’ Hubert’s mother says. ‘Let Peter enjoy his meal. He’s had lot to deal with and this is unfair on him.’
‘Yes, sorry, Peter,’ says Ralf. ‘I’m sorry that you and thousands of others like you find yourselves in this despicable situation. I know you must be angry, if not angrier than me. So we can’t sit back and –’
‘Ralf!’ Herr Ackermann says, raising his voice. ‘Stop. Enough politics for now.’
‘Mutti,’ says Hubert. ‘Can Peter and I be excused? I want to show him my new books for school.’
Hubert’s mother nods. Peter pulls a face. School books? he thinks. The new school year will be starting soon, in another couple of weeks. Without his parents, he hasn’t organised anything.
Peter follows Hubert into his bedroom.
‘So … school books, really?’ he says.
‘No, of course not!’ snorts Hubert. ‘I wanted to show you these.’
Hubert pulls a pair of jeans out of the bottom drawer of his small cupboard. He’s grinning.
‘Remember Rainer, the kid who always wanted to come swimming with us, but his mother wouldn’t let him?’
Peter nods.
‘Well, his cousins in America gave him these. Rainer and his family moved to the West a week ago and he said I could have them. He can get more over there. Toll, nicht wahr? Great, right? Real American jeans.’
Peter’s impressed. Most adults he knows don’t like jeans. He knows of kids at his school who were sent home for wearing them. And some places have even banned any young people who wear them.
‘I think these could be worth something, don’t you? Especially now that the barrier has gone up,’ Hubert adds excitedly. ‘I think I could make some good money selling them.’
Peter had always felt annoyed that they couldn’t have the same things as people in the West. You couldn’t buy things like bananas, but you could get them over the border. But now he doesn’t care about not having all the latest toys and clothes, or sweets and fruit. What did any of that matter when you don’t have your family?
Hubert stops talking about jeans. ‘Sorry,’ he says, tossing them onto his bed. ‘Mutti says things are probably tough for you and your grandparents, so I want you to have this.’ Hubert opens the top drawer and takes out some money. He holds it out.
‘Here. That’s nine Marks,’ he says. ‘I’ve been collecting bottles, paper and metal scraps and taking them to the recycling centres.’
Recycling collection centres are everywhere in Peter’s neighbourhood. All the kids make money collecting aerosol cans, books and even used camera film, but nine Marks is pretty impressive.
‘Why are you giving me this?’ he asks.
‘Because who’s going to make money now that your parents are gone?’ he replies. ‘Your opa can’t work. And your oma may be great at wielding wooden spoons, but she doesn’t have a job. My father says that the government provides a pension for old people, which I suppose is good, but it won’t be much … I thought this could help you right now.’
Peter is taken aback. Partly because he hates feeling like his family needs charity, but mostly because he hadn’t really thought about what was going to happen next, about how he and Oma and Opa were going to live. His mother and father had both worked, and he’s never had to think about money before.
‘We don’t need help,’ he says defensively. ‘I can collect bottles too. Lots, if I have to!’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean …’ Hubert stammers.
‘Forget about it,’ says Peter, realising how ungrateful he must sound. Hubert is a good friend and Peter knows he would do the same thing if their situations were reversed. ‘I’ll be fine.’
But he wonders if they will be.
Federn
FEATHERS
Early the following morning Peter is back on the rooftop. Every morning for a week, while Otto is at work, Peter has agreed to feed Wolfgang, Ludwig and Felix and release them from the coop to let them fly for a bit. In the afternoons the boys would meet to work on the plan.
Peter takes a bag of seeds out of his pocket and scatters them on the floor of the coop. The pigeons peck at the feed, their heads frantically bobbing up and down. Once they’re done eating, Peter opens the coop and shoos them out. They flap, flutter and take to the sky. First Wolfgang, then Ludwig and finally little Felix.
Peter smiles as he watches them come together and circle above, flying side by side, twisting and turning as if they are putting on an aerial show just for him.
As the pigeons soar among the low-hanging clouds Peter begins to imagine what his homemade wings will look like. He pictures them with feathers, but knows Otto thinks that’s a crazy idea. He’s right, he thinks. Everyone could fly if it were as simple as sticking a bunch of feathers together. What was I thinking?
He wonders what Otto has in mind.
Peter hears the door to the rooftop creak. He turns to see the red-headed girl looking at him.
‘Hey!’ he calls out to her. She must live in one of these apartments, Peter thinks.
‘What are you doing?’ the girl asks.
‘Were you trying to sneak up on me?’ Peter says. ‘Why did you follow me home the other day? Who are you?’
‘I was going to ask you the same thing,’ says the girl, crossing her arms. ‘What are you doing in my building? Why are you feeding Herr Weber’s pigeons? Who are you working for?’
‘I’m not working for anyone,’ Peter exclaims. ‘You ask plenty of questions, but you still haven’t answered mine. Who are you? Why have you been following me?’
‘I’m just making sure you’re not going to be any trouble,’ says the girl. ‘And clearly you’re not.’
‘Trouble? What do you mean?’ asks Peter.
‘Trouble, as in somebody who works for the government or the police,’ the girl exclaims. ‘Spying on people. Ready to rat them out.’
‘Why? Are you planning to escape?’ Peter asks.
‘You mean, like you?’ she says. ‘Am I right?’
‘No!’ says Peter. ‘But … what makes you think that I want to?’
The girl shrugs. ‘I heard what that frecher Junge, that mean boy, said to you the other day. He called you a traitor before he beat you up.’
‘You were there?’ Peter asks. ‘I thought you were gone when I came out on the street.’
‘I’m just good at hiding and making myself invisible.’ She grins. ‘Even with this wild hair of mine. So … your family are in the West, and I bet you’ll do anything to join them, right?’
Fernsprecher
TELEPHONE
The girl’s name is Elke. ‘So what’s your plan then?’ she asks. ‘And what’s your name?’
‘It’s Peter. And even if I had a plan, I wouldn’t tell you,’ Peter says. ‘And I don’t think that if you were planning an escape to the West you would tell me either, right?’
Elke doesn’t answer.
‘Thought so,’ Peter says. But he’s beginning to wonder whether Elke is in the same situation as he is. ‘So you’ve been separated from your family too, then?’
‘My father is over there. My mother and I were planning to join him the day the barbed wire went up.’
Peter replays what Oma said to him: ‘Keep your mouth shut and don’t trust anyone!’ He has probably said too much to Elke already.
While they are talking the pigeons return to the rooftop. Peter picks them up gently and places them back in their coop. Then tells Elke that he has to leave.
‘Tschüss,’ he says, hoping that she won’t be there in the afternoon when he meets up with Otto. ‘Bye!’
‘Where have you been?’ Oma asks. ‘Your mother telephoned!’
‘What? When?’ Peter says, feeling as if he has been punched again by one of Max’s thugs.
‘Half an hour ago. She’s going to call again in ten minutes. I wasn’t sure if you were going to get back in time. Beeil dich! Hurry! Let’s go over to Frau Roeder’s.’
They walk quickly down the hall to the apartment.
‘Oh, Peter, you made it,’ Frau Roeder says as she leads them to the telephone table in the hallway. ‘Here … sit down.’
Peter takes a seat. As he waits for his mother’s call, he hears the two women talking quietly in the kitchen.
‘Sabine hasn’t called, but I have news of Manfred,’ Frau Roeder says, her voice sounding fragile. ‘His father told me that he could be imprisoned for up to two years for the crime of Republikflucht – attempting to escape from the republic. No one is allowed to see him. Oh, Frieda – I’m sure they are watching my every movement now. Did you notice two men seated in a car parked right outside our building? They’re not from this neighbourhood, that’s for sure. I don’t know what to do.’ She sounds close to tears. ‘I’m going to stay with my sister in Leipzig for a while. Here’s a key. Bitte, if I don’t come back take whatever you need of mine. I’d rather you have my things, dear friend.’
‘But, Herta, what do you mean if you don’t come back? What about your work?’ says Oma.
The telephone rings loudly, startling the three of them. Peter takes a deep breath and picks up the hand-set.
‘Hello?’ he says. At first all he can hear is a series of clicks.
‘Please hold,’ says the operator. ‘We’re connecting you now.’
Peter waits several seconds, but it feels like an eternity. Finally he hears a faint voice through the crackling connection.
‘Hello? Peter?’ says his mother.
Die Mauer
THE WALL
Peter and Oma return to their apartment. Peter’s stomach is churning as he sits down at the table next to Opa.
He replays the short, fragmented conversation. His mother unable to control her tears. Telling him she loves him. ‘Don’t you worry … we’ll work something out. Let’s try to wave to each other again later today around five. This won’t last long, it can’t …’
And then his father telling him that he’s the man of the house. Telling him to be strong for Opa and Oma. ‘We’ll work something out,’ he said. ‘These heartless bureaucrats –’
And then the line just went dead. As if someone had intentionally broken the connection.
Peter sits in the kitchen wondering if his mother is still crying over there in the West. Why didn’t I say more? he thinks. I should’ve said more!
Peter glances up at Opa, who always knows what he’s thinking. Opa extends his trembling hand, the one not paralysed by the stroke, and places something on Peter’s forearm. It’s a rubber spider.
Opa winks and rolls his eyes towards Oma. She has her back to them and is taking cups out of the cupboard. Peter knows what his opa is up to. He’s trying to cheer him up. They’ve played this trick on Oma before – she’s terrified of spiders.
Peter places the fake spider on Oma’s chair. Oma brings the cups to the table, pours the tea, sits the kettle back on the stove, and returns to her seat – then squeals at the top of her lungs.
Peter and Opa burst out laughing.
‘Oh! You silly boys!’ she cries. ‘Really? Jokes? At a time like this?’ But in the end she laughs too.
Peter places his hand on Opa’s hand and whispers, ‘Danke schön, Opa! Thank you!’
Opa winks back.
‘Right, if you two have finished playing, we have some things to talk about,’ Oma says, brushing the rubber spider away. ‘I’m going to apply for a job. And I think you should look for one too, Peter. School starts soon, but maybe you could do some part-time work. Or you could start collecting for the recycling centres again with your friend Hubert. He dropped by earlier and said this was yours … Thank you, Peter. Every little bit helps.’
Oma is holding Hubert’s money.
‘Wie geht’s?’ Peter greets Otto as he steps out onto the rooftop. ‘How’s it going?’
Otto looks up. ‘What happened to you?’ he asks, pointing at Peter’s face.
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ says Peter, touching his bruised face and wincing. ‘Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.’
Otto is on his knees in front of a collection of building materials. The pigeons are circling above.
‘Wow! Where did you get all that?’ Peter asks.
‘Let’s just say I have my connections,’ says Otto, sharply focused on what he’s doing.
Spread out around Otto are various lengths of sticks neatly lined up. There’s a ball of wire, pliers, wire cutters, string, nails, screws, bolts, ropes and a collection of leather belts.
&n
bsp; But what really grabs Peter’s attention are a couple of books opened to illustrations and photographs of flying machines. Otto also has a notebook with scribbles and sketches of things that look like giant kites. Did he draw those? Peter wonders, impressed.
‘Obviously I don’t have everything at this stage. The most important thing we still need to get is the material to make the wings, or, in this case, one giant wing.’ Otto flicks a page in his book. ‘Between the two of us we should be able to find some sort of fabric that will be big enough to spread over the frame I’m going to build. Something that is light but strong enough to catch the wind without tearing.’
Peter’s a little baffled by Otto’s sudden enthusiasm, but he’s also getting very excited.
‘What sort of sticks are they?’ he asks. ‘And what’s with the books?’
‘They’re bamboo. And the books I’ve had since I was your age – they’re all about the history of flying. Like this one. It’s about Otto Lilienthal, one of the great pioneers of aviation – and he was German. He was the first person to make a successful flight with a glider, about eighty years ago, actually not too far from here.’
‘Wow!’ Peter says. ‘And he was called Otto too?’
‘All the great people are.’ Otto grins. ‘And this other book is all about Leonardo da Vinci.’
‘The famous Italian artist?’ Peter asks. He remembers learning about him at school.
‘He was more than just an artist,’ Otto adds. ‘He was a scientist, an inventor, a mathematician, a genius! And he was fascinated by flying. Here, look at these. They’re drawings of how he thought people could fly. This crazy contraption is called an ornithopter.’
On the page is a drawing of what looks like the skeleton of a bird with material stretched over the bones of the wings. It looks as though it’s designed to be attached to a person’s body.
‘Amazing,’ Peter says. ‘So my idea about flying is starting to look good now, huh?’
‘Your plan was to collect feathers, glue them together and fall to your death,’ Otto snorts. ‘Not good. My plan is to make a glider that has real aviation science behind it and that actually might work for us.’
