by Felice Arena
How hard can it be? He raises the bow, fumbling as he tries to hook the back of the arrow, the nock, into the string. Peter has never done this before. He raises the bow and points in the direction of the target and pulls back on the string. His arm wobbles a little as he tries to keep the shaft of the arrow steady. He grits his teeth and counts under his breath.
‘Eins … zwei … drei –’
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ A voice echoes across the courtyard just as he releases the arrow.
It’s Elke.
The arrow whooshes way over the target board – and flies through one of the broken windows of the abandoned building.
‘No!’ Elke cries, racing over to Peter. ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to touch things that don’t belong to you?’ She sighs, looking frustrated. ‘Come on!’
‘Where?’ Peter asks, following her.
‘Arrows are hard to come by. And very expensive. You have to help me get it back.’
Peter follows her to the main entrance of the building on the opposite side of the courtyard. The doors are locked and many of the windows are covered with boards.
Elke climbs up a pile of rubble.
‘Have you been in here before?’ asks Peter.
‘No. I just use the courtyard,’ says Elke. She grabs a rock and drags an empty bottle crate over to another window. Climbing on to it, she breaks what seems like the only uncracked windowpane. ‘By the way, how did you find it? Are you spying on me?’
‘No! Um, yes, um, sort of … sorry,’ Peter stutters. ‘You’re not actually going in there, are you?’
‘You’re right. I should make you go in alone and retrieve it.’
Peter shakes his head.
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ she says. She begins to climb through the window, carefully avoiding the broken glass around the edges.
‘What are you doing with a bow and arrow anyway?’ Peter asks, scrambling up behind her.
Elke doesn’t answer Peter as she slides down a pile of rubbish inside. Peter follows, loses his footing, and bumps into her.
‘Hey! Pass auf! Watch it!’ snaps Elke.
‘Whew! It stinks in here. Like old shoes and mouse poo.’ It takes Peter a couple of minutes for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, but when he looks up he’s amazed.
They’re surrounded by ornate wooden panelling, high ceilings and a rusty wrought-iron curved staircase with elaborate curls and swirl patterns on the railing. He’s never seen anything like this room. ‘Wow, what was this place?’
‘Who knows?’ Elke says, trampling through the rubbish and advancing farther into the cavernous room. ‘It’s a shame all these beautiful buildings have been left to rot since the war.’
Peter reaches up to open the heavy drapes from one of the windows. But with a crack and then a loud whooshing and crashing sound, they detach from the wall and fall to the ground.
Peter is left standing by the window, covered in dust and coughing.
‘What are you doing?’ Elke cries, bounding over to Peter. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ Peter splutters, brushing the dust and grime off himself. ‘I just wanted to get some light in here – so we can see what we’re doing.’
Elke gasps. ‘Look!’
Peter turns to see that the high walls are lined with mirrors from floor to ceiling. On the other side of the room is a stage framed with murals of party-goers in old-fashioned clothes, drinking and dancing.
‘Was this some kind of theatre?’ Peter asks, still coughing.
‘It must have been an old music hall, a cabaret theatre,’ Elke says excitedly. She climbs up a set of steps that lead onto the stage. ‘Look at me! I’m an actress!’
Peter grins. He joins her on stage.
‘This is incredible,’ Elke adds. ‘This must be from the Golden Twenties!’
‘The what?’ asks Peter.
‘Come on, you don’t even know your own city’s history? It was before the war, when this city was famous for art, music, fashion, film, books and dancing. Everyone in the world wanted to come here.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Peter asks.
‘When my oma was alive she used to tell me stories about when she was young.’
Peter wonders if his oma and opa ever visited this theatre, ever laughed and danced here together. But then something catches his eye. He walks over to the stage to take a closer look at the stage curtains, which hang from the very high ceiling and drape all the way down to the floor.
‘Are you planning to pull those curtains down too?’ Elke jokes. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What’s this material?’ Peter asks, rubbing the bright yellow lining of the heavy curtain.
Elke joins him and strokes the smooth shiny fabric. ‘It’s silk,’ she says.
Tanzen
DANCING
Peter can’t believe his luck.
‘Silk? Are you sure?’ he asks. Silk was exactly the thing Otto was looking for – the perfect material for making a durable wing for the glider.
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ Elke says. ‘What’s going on? Why are you so excited about this? Do you and your oma make dresses for extra money?’
‘No!’ Peter snorts, sizing up the curtain.
He calculates that the silk lining is about seven metres by twelve metres – more than enough to form the glider’s wing.
‘Has this got something to do with you trying to get to the West?’ Elke asks.
‘Of course not,’ Peter says, a little too quickly. ‘What about your bow and arrow? Has that got something to do with you trying to get to the West?’
‘Of course not,’ Elke says, also a little too quickly.
They exchange looks and then laugh in unison.
‘You’re not going to tell me, are you?’ Elke says, smirking.
‘Well, you’re not going to tell me, are you?’ Peter says.
Elke sighs. ‘I can’t.’
‘I can’t either.’
‘Then we’ll just go about doing our own thing, I guess. But right now I’m going to look for my arrow.’ Elke steps back to the middle of the stage. She does a twirl, as if a spotlight is shining on her and sings, ‘La-la-la!’
Peter smiles at her and then looks up at the curtains. They’ll be harder to pull down than the window curtains, he thinks. He wonders what his next move should be.
I’ll have to come back with a knife and cut out a large enough panel of the lining, or perhaps I’ll just take the whole thing, he thinks. Fold it up, maybe. But how am I going to carry such a large piece of bright yellow material to Otto’s rooftop without drawing attention?
‘Peter! Come over here!’ Elke calls.
Peter joins Elke at the centre of the stage. She reaches out her hands towards him.
‘What?’ Peter asks, stepping back. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Dance with me!’
‘Huh?’
‘Just do it. Don’t be a baby,’ Elke orders, grabbing Peter’s right hand and putting it on her hip, and clasping his left hand with her right hand. ‘Now move with me from side to side.’
‘But there’s no music and what about your arrow and –’
‘Relax.’ Elke smiles as she waltzes around the stage with Peter. ‘That’s it. Just step and glide … it’s easy.’
Peter has never danced like this with a girl before. Actually, he can’t even remember the last time he danced. Maybe when he was little. It feels strange, but nice strange. He begins to mirror Elke’s smile and relaxes a bit.
‘Now you’re getting it,’ she says. ‘Imagine dancing back here when this place was built. Imagine feeling light and happy and never worrying about what was going to happen next.’
Peter looks out at the big room and imagines it filled with people dancing to a band playing on the stage. He’s surprised by how nice it feels to be holding Elke’s hand.
‘Do you think you’ll ever see your mother and father again?’ she asks.
‘Yes
,’ Peter says, determined to believe that he will, even though there’s a part of him that is deeply afraid that he won’t. ‘Do you think you’ll see your father again?’
‘Yes,’ says Elke, sounding just as determined. ‘I have to see him. I miss him. My mother says we’re the same, like peas in a pod.’
‘Did he teach you how to use the bow and arrow?’ Peter asks.
Elke pauses and looks Peter in the eye before she answers. Her stare is intense but honest. Peter smiles nervously. She smiles back.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘He taught me. He was a champion archer. So … what about you? Are you closer to your mother or to your father?’
‘Um, probably my mother. Although I know I annoy her when I don’t do as I’m told – which is probably most of the time. My father is away for work a lot. He works long hours at a cinema on the Kurfürstendamm and he’s always tired, so we never really talk that much. And I’m close to my little sister – I really miss her. And then there’s Opa and Oma, and well –’
Before Peter can finish his sentence Elke leans in and kisses him on the cheek. It catches him off guard, and he can feel his face heating up like the coals in Oma’s stove.
He gulps. ‘Wha … wha … what was that for?’
‘Just because,’ she says.
Peter looks away, hoping that she can’t see how red his face is. He spots Elke’s arrow on the floor below the stage. ‘Hey, there it is!’ he cries, breaking apart from her.
He jumps off the stage, scoops it up and hands it back up to Elke.
‘Well, I better get going,’ he says, feeling awkward.
‘Okay, I’m going to practise some more,’ says Elke, inspecting the arrow for damage. ‘See you around.’
‘Yeah, um, bis bald, Elke!’ says Peter as he runs for the window.
The following morning, Peter is wearing his best clothes – woollen slacks, an ironed shirt and tie. The collar of his shirt is stiffer and tighter around his neck than the usual shirts he wears and his pants are made of an itchy material that clings to the back of his calves.
He’s not looking forward to the day. He’s never been to a funeral before. It’s going to be horribly sad and he doesn’t know what he’ll say to Hubert. He still can’t believe that Ralf is gone. Hubert hasn’t come out of his room since hearing the news.
‘You could at least have combed your hair,’ says Oma, wetting her hand at the tap and patting his hair down ‘It’s sticking up all over the place.’
‘Bye, Opa,’ Peter says. Opa is sitting at the table reading a newspaper. The paper shakes as he turns the page. Oma kisses him on the forehead.
‘We’ll only be gone for a couple of hours, mein Schatz,’ she says. ‘I have some food here for you, and water – all very easy to reach.’
Opa nods. ‘Macht jetzt end … lich los!’ he slurs. ‘Get going.’
When they reach the church, Peter is surprised to see such a large crowd milling outside. So many people have come to pay their respects to Ralf.
There are even reporters hovering about, taking photos of Hubert and his family as they enter the church. Most people seem wary of having their picture taken, probably because they’re attending the funeral of someone who has tried to escape. Many of the mourners turn the other way when a camera is pointed towards them.
Peter finally spots Hubert. Hubert doesn’t see him, though. His mother is holding him close and his head is buried deep in her embrace. Seeing this makes Peter miss his own mother even more.
Oma and Peter join the stream of people entering the church. Oma makes her way up to the front pews. Peter wishes they could sit at the back.
The service begins and the minister starts by making some remarks about Ralf’s young life and how it was cut so short.
Peter eyes are fixed on the coffin. He’s never even thought about death before. Dying is for old people, he thinks. Not for young people. Not for people like Ralf.
He looks at Oma and sees a tear running down her cheek. He glances across the aisle and sees Hubert looking back at him. Peter nods at him. He nods back, his eyes red and teary.
Peter’s mouth is dry. He feels a lump in his throat. Taking Oma’s hand, he squeezes it tightly. She seems surprised and leans in to kiss him on the top of his head. Peter’s mind flashes back to when he was a little boy and Oma would hold him tightly in her arms whenever he was tired or upset and quietly sing old folk songs to him.
He realises how much he’ll miss her when he escapes to the West.
After the service Oma and Peter make their way over to Hubert’s family. Oma manages to push her way past the relatives and friends around them. She offers her condolences to Hubert’s mother and father.
‘Thank you,’ Frau Ackermann says softly, looking down at Peter and gently touching his cheek where it is still swollen from the fight. ‘Your grandson is such a good friend to Hubert.’
Hubert steps up to Peter and hugs him. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Peter,’ he says, adjusting his spectacles. ‘You’re a true friend. You know what it’s like to be trapped here. From now on I’m not going to be afraid to speak the truth. From now on I’ll be more like my brother.’
Peter notices people are looking in their direction. They can hear what Hubert is saying and they look a little nervous.
‘Are you all right?’ Peter asks.
‘No, not really. None of us are – we’re all trapped on this side of the Wall.’
‘Hubert!’ his mother snaps. ‘Please, this is not the time.’
‘I’m speaking up for Ralf, Mutti! I’m his voice now!’
Hubert’s mother hurries to his side, tugs at his sleeve and shushes him. ‘You could get us all in trouble,’ she whispers. ‘There are eyes watching us.’
Peter looks up and understands what Frau Ackermann means. He notices two men in the crowd who he’s never seen before. They are wearing almost identical suits and look sort of official. Peter wonders if these might be the two men Frau Roeder was talking about.
‘I don’t care who’s listening,’ Hubert says loudly. ‘My brother is a hero!’
Everyone turns. Frau Ackermann cups her hand over Hubert’s mouth. She’s very upset.
‘Bitte, Hubert! Don’t do this. Not now,’ she pleads, pulling Hubert into her and hugging him tightly. ‘You go with Peter now,’ she says. ‘While I talk to the others, but, bitte … no more of that talk.’
Hubert and Peter step away from the adults.
‘He is, you know – a hero.’ Hubert sniffs, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand.
Peter nods and flops his arm over Hubert’s shoulder. He has an idea that might help him and cheer Hubert up too.
‘I’m sorry this has happened,’ Peter says, ‘But I’ve got a brilliant plan. Ralf would have liked it. Do you want to help?’
Hubert stops sniffing, and looks directly at Peter.
‘A plan?’ he says. ‘Has it got something to do with escaping?’
Peter looks over his shoulder to make sure no one is listening. He nods. ‘Yes. And I’m going to need your recycling cart.’
Die Schubkarre
THE CART
‘What is this place?’ Hubert asks Peter, as they wheel the large recycling cart into the courtyard of the abandoned building.
The cart is a wagon-like trolley – a large wooden box secured on a flat base and four wheels, with a long metal handle attached at the front to pull it along. It’s stacked with piles of newspapers.
‘You’ll see,’ says Peter, pulling the cart towards the window through which he and Elke had entered the theatre. ‘Right, follow me.’
‘In there?’ says Hubert, following Peter, who is already climbing into the building. ‘Is it safe?’
Hubert is not as impressed by the grand room and the giant mirrored wall as Peter and Elke were.
‘It’s creepy!’ he says, keeping close to Peter. ‘I bet it’s haunted. Definitely feels like it’s haunted.’
They step onto the stage. ‘I need
to pull these curtains down somehow,’ Peter says grabbing on to them.
‘Huh? Are you going to tell me why?’
‘Not just yet,’ Peter says. ‘But it’s good. Trust me.’
Peter pulls on the curtains as hard as he can, hoping they will collapse to the stage floor. They don’t.
Hubert lets out a sharp whistle from behind him. Peter turns to see him at the back of the stage, winding a winch in an anti-clockwise motion. He gestures to Peter to look up. The curtains are attached to a long bar at the top, and as Hubert winds the winch, both the bar and the curtains effortlessly lower to the floor and gather at Peter’s feet.
‘Now what?’ Hubert smirks, swaggering back over to Peter.
Peter laughs. ‘Nice one! Can you help me cut out the lining?’ Peter hands him a pair of scissors. ‘You start at that end and I’ll start at this end. We have to make sure we cut it out in one whole piece.’
Once the boys are finished cutting, Peter begins to fold the silk.
‘Now all we have to do is make sure we’re able to hide this under the newspapers on your recycling cart …’ Peter says. He’s so excited that he can hardly keep the feeling in.
‘And then you’re going to take it where? And what are you going to do with it? Come on, Peter, tell me!’ Hubert presses.
Peter wants to tell him, but he doesn’t know how much he should reveal. ‘I haven’t stopped thinking about this since I woke up this morning – I’m worried that if I tell you my plan I’ll get you into trouble. That’s the last thing your family needs right now – they’re already a target. At least if we get caught you can say you didn’t know what I was doing.’
‘I don’t care,’ Hubert says. ‘I don’t care anymore what they do to me. Not the Stasi and not the NPA.’
‘But I care!’ Peter retorts. ‘And it could put me in danger too …’
Hubert looks hurt. He begins walking away from Peter.
‘Hey! Where are you going?’ Peter calls after him. ‘Hubert, come back.’
But Hubert doesn’t. ‘If you don’t trust me, then I’m leaving,’ he says.
‘Well, can I still borrow the cart?’ Peter adds, feeling like a terrible friend as he says it.
