Roland drifted back into his own body. Stuck before his inquisitor, he could not see a happy outcome for his marriage. The Stasi could do what they wanted with him – send him to a Gulag if need be, but without Heike he was lost.
She might have forgiven him a mistress or some fleeting affair, but betrayal of the state and its doctrine would be unforgivable in her eyes.
Now I have my story for Bruno, thought Roland back in his grey-painted claustrophobic cell with its single bed of wooden boards, cold steel lavatory pan and basin. Did I tell you about the time I was incarcerated in a Stasi prison? No? Then I’ll tell you…
Heike didn’t know how to make contact with Uncle Frederick. She never did have his address or phone number; he always initiated contact. That was his prerogative. He was too high in rank to be reached through conventional channels because he had the “ear” of Honecker and he played a significant role in the workings of the Presidium of the German Democratic Republic.
If it were possible, Heike would have appealed to him for Roland’s freedom: for his sanity, for her sanity. But that last meeting at the apartment was to be their last; she never saw or heard from him again.
For the next month, she spent her days close to a window in the belief that at any moment his familiar figure would appear as always. If she was sitting down, she’d leap to her feet on hearing an unfamiliar noise; stop what she was doing, put down whatever she was holding, turn down the radio. Cars were of particular interest if they stopped outside.
‘Mama! It’s not Papa. You’re wasting your time!’ Bruno would call out every time she reacted to a car outside. And he was right – quite right – but she couldn’t help herself.
If she wasn’t looking out of windows, she was looking at clocks or the calendar. Windows, clocks, calendars; that’s what living in East Berlin was doing to her.
For one month, two people were in prison in the very same city: one was incarcerated in a tiny, bare cell, which at least was warm – too warm; the other in an apartment that was too cold because she couldn’t pay the heating bill.
One wanted to read and write but had no materials; the other had all the materials but no inclination to read or write anything. Both prisoners suffered appalling mental deprivation, yet neither sustained any physical scars that they would ever be able to point to. It would be as if it had never happened, because they could never prove it to anyone. But happen it most certainly did.
Roland was released following a month in detention. He was free to leave, but the proviso was that he was not to be employed as a journalist, nor could he leave Berlin without authorisation. Instead, the authorities made arrangements for him to work as a road sweeper. There were no jobless in East Germany. He would also have to obey a curfew.
‘But how are we going to pay the rent on a road sweeper’s wages?’ asked Heike. ‘We’ll manage. Between us we’ll manage.’
Events, however, were speeding up.
*
By the time Heike arrived in Aalenburg it was dark, and without a working satnav she was going to have to find the Roundhouse the old-fashioned way. Hanne didn’t own a “handy”, so there was no way of calling or texting: “I’m here! Come and meet me!” Why can’t you come into the twenty-first century, Hanne?!
She asked the duty manager in the little supermarket.
‘Ah, yes, I know it. It’s a holiday rental cottage now. Not sure who owns it these days, we never see them here. They travel down from Frankfurt. There is a keyholder, but I’m not sure where they live. Shame, as it takes the heart out of the old town when strangers own properties as holiday lets. Well, why not leave the car here? It’s a convoluted route if you try and drive from this point, and very narrow. It’s only a short walk…’
*
The night that it happened Heike had been to a similar shop just before tea. Its stock was meagre in comparison to its equivalent in the West, but it had the essentials, from cakes to hardware. It was convenient and the shopkeeper was always affable.
That evening was unremarkable – warm and still. Dogs and children filled the pre-holiday air and some form of normality had at least returned to family life.
Roland was still at work just ahead of his curfew and would be home soon. Tea was slightly earlier now than it used to be due to his shift rota as a street cleaner, but Heike would not eat before her husband was home. Family mealtimes were traditional and would remain undisturbed regardless of work patterns.
The intention was always to settle down to eat around 7.30 pm; mostly it was achieved, but there were very occasional exceptions and lapses, especially as the nights were drawing out; Bruno was somewhere and the fact that he was a restless teenager and growing quickly made him unpredictable.
There was some other factor that Heike could not quite pinpoint.
His personality had changed since his father’s arrest and he seemed to be having difficulty coming to terms with just what had taken place. To Bruno, his father had been emasculated by the state. For a father to be robbed of his profession was unforgivable and he blamed both his father and the state government in equal measure. So the only thing for him now was to make a stand and yell like a rebel just like the Billy Idol song.
The sound of someone yelling somewhere outside just as Heike was taking plates out of the glass cabinet for warming in the oven unnerved her. She glanced at the clock; it was just after 7 pm.
Then two distinct shots rang out their snap and crack so close by that she dropped a plate. There was no mistaking the sound; it was automatic rifle fire – someone had been shot and they could only be metres away.
Maybe it was a panic reaction to Roland’s recent incarceration and run-in with the Stasi, but some inner fear sparked deep within Heike. At her feet were a hundred pieces of broken china, the remnants of a much-loved plate. On any other day she would have cursed her clumsiness and swept up the debris with barely a second thought, but instead she saw the wreckage as a metaphor. Something she held so dear had just shattered, but it wasn’t the loss of a stupid old plate. A feeling was surging through her system, boiling from within, forewarning that the shots were to do with either Roland or Bruno – maybe even both of them.
*
She tried to recall whether she’d ever been to Aalenburg before. There was something familiar about it. The main street was familiar for sure, as was the church tower and the river. Must have been a long, long time ago.
She tried to neutralise her thoughts. Concentrate on something else. Pretty little town – very pretty.
Stupid girl for not moving here back in the ’70s instead of defecting to the East! There would have been a man here for her, though perhaps not a “Roland”, but someone. It would have been a quiet life with a local job in a little company – maybe the brewery? They sell internationally. This is where they’re based; such a tiny place for such a world-famous beer; a small museum, too, of course. She’d always fancied the idea of being a curator.
Here, she wouldn’t have lost a baby. Roland wouldn’t have been arrested… He wouldn’t have lost his job.
Stupid mini market! Fancy calling in there for directions. For Heaven’s sake, Hanne! Where are you?
*
She ran out into the street toward the Wall, calling out their names as she ran, tears streaming around her face. This was not going to turn out okay and she knew it.
Ahead of her: the dead-end – the Wall. Now she could stop running; a small crowd of onlookers, a parked car. Perhaps he’d been run over. Perhaps they weren’t shots – it was the impact she’d heard.
Her angel grasped her hand softly but firmly; she could feel its celestial grip tighten around her palm and fingers. There would be no turning back because if it was to be her man or her boy she would pick them up and take them home to tend to their wounds – the state would not have them.
With every step, certainty in her own fate grew
. If they were dead at this godforsaken spot, she would die too. She would run at the Wall whereupon they would open fire and kill her for sure; and if one bullet failed to do the trick, she’d try again, but there would be no returning home without her beloved family.
Above her, the neon streetlights were beginning to flicker into life. Ahead of her in the near distance she could see the tops of the taller, finer, more modern edifices of the Western sector, tempting in their close proximity yet also taunting the misfit who had turned her back and disparaged their security all those years ago.
She recognised some of the faces that had gathered to gawp. The man on the bicycle now heading home nonchalant and unconcerned glared at her in passing as if to say, ‘What did you expect?’; unsympathetic neighbours and cowards, all who dared not show solidarity for fear of association that would drag them into the whole bloody mess.
Below the crowd of gawping heads, it was, as she had feared, Bruno, lying face-up on the dirt-covered tarmac, deathly still, blood draining from his face, draining from his head into a deep, wide pool at his side.
She knelt to lift his head, oh-so-gently cradling it lovingly in her hands, his eyes desperately searching to focus. Someone at least had placed a white shirt by way of a pillow and to catch the river that oozed from the open wound. A voice in the crowd called out: ‘I can take him to the hospital. I have a van. He won’t last if we wait for an ambulance.’
And so four remaining bystanders carefully lifted the lifeless boy into a VW van, its dusty cargo space quickly emptied of building tools.
*
‘Do you know where the Roundhouse is?’ she asked a boy.
‘I do! Would you like me to show you?’
‘Yes please! Is it far?’
‘Not far, but it’s a steep climb up the hill. Mama says it’s too steep, but I don’t think so. Mama is old.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, she’ll be thirty-seven next month.’
‘Oh! That is nothing! I am much older.’
‘Will you be alright climbing the hill?’
‘I’m sure. Lead on, young man.’
*
Bruno would be one of the very last casualties of the Wall, though not the very last. The teenager was lucky in that thanks to the skill of a remarkable surgeon well practised in bullet wound surgery, together with a dedicated nursing team, his life was saved.
In the months that followed, he made a recovery that rendered him a little lame in mind and body. He would never be quite the man he’d dreamed of becoming, but his recovery was swift and that was a godsend for which he always counted his blessings, as did his parents.
It wasn’t until summer’s end that the truth emerged.
Not daring to take Roland with her for support, Heike returned to Stasi HQ once more, this time demanding answers of Comrade Inspector Froi.
On this occasion she knew the place, knew the procedure. He courteously made more time and actually invited her into the inner sanctum where he even offered her a seat in his office in order that she might take in the enormity of the seriousness of the issue. But again, and not surprisingly, there was nothing apologetic in his demeanour.
‘Your son was reckless, Frau…?’
‘Frau Bermann.’
‘Frau Bermann. He was shot because it appeared to the guards that he was trying to cross the Wall. That was foolhardy. Our enquiries show that your son was out of control when there was no school.’
Froi removed his spectacles, stared into the middle distance and concentrated on cleaning the square lenses.
‘Have you heard of Radio Glasnost?’ he asked.
‘No… no, I haven’t.’
‘It’s a subversive radio station and quite illegal. Your son was running tapes for them.’
‘Tapes?’
‘Cassette tapes. Recordings of subversive content for use by those who seek to bring down the GDR. He was under surveillance and being followed. One of my officers tried to apprehend him. Your son ran and attempted to climb the Wall. That’s when a border guard opened fire.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘You should, Frau Bermann. Where were you? You’re his mother! By rights, on his release from hospital we should have arrested him as well as you and your husband. He should have been taken into care – for his own well-being.’
‘Then why didn’t you?’
Froi didn’t answer.
‘Have I friends in the right places?’ she asked.
Grim-faced, Froi was not about to acknowledge her question, but rather stood, donned his spectacles, straightened his shiny red tie and tugged at the hem of his grey jacket, before beckoning her to leave, with these parting words: ‘You’re a very fortunate woman, Frau Bermann. Very fortunate indeed.’
Their one aim now was to get out of East Berlin as quickly as possible. Like secret agents meeting on a park bench in a spy novel, they discussed over a sandwich lunch their escape.
‘I have it on good authority that if we can get to Leipzig, the Lutherans will help us. We’ll make a bid for Hungary. They’re already protesting – openly, you know. They’re confident – we’re confident – that the Wall will be opened up by September and later demolished.’
‘We can’t be sure, Roland. And what about Bruno? He’s not fit to travel.’
‘He is fit to travel.’
‘And if the Wall is going to come down as you predict, why risk fleeing the country? We’ll be followed as soon as we leave here! There’s a curfew on you, or have you forgotten?’
‘Not if we’re careful. There are no guarantees that Honecker will cave in, but we have to try. To stay here is to accept everything that’s happened to us. It shows them that they’ve won – we’re cowed into submission; and we mustn’t let them win!’
‘It’s not that we’re letting them win – you’re trying to be the hero your father was, and you’re taking me with you like he took your mother. But the difference is we have a son who may not understand what’s going on. He drags his right foot now, or haven’t you noticed?’
‘And the corner of his mouth droops. I know, but he’ll be fine. He’s stronger than you think, Heike. What else do we do? Sit here in East Berlin waiting for the knock on the door? Waiting for them to come back and put him into care? They’ll bide their time, but they will come back, you can be sure of it. They’ll come back the day your “uncle” dies. He’s the one who’s spared Bruno, and possibly me, too. But “spared” isn’t the right word. They haven’t let us go – we’re like mice before a cat and the cat has got us right where he wants us.’
‘So how do we get to Leipzig without them stopping us?’
‘There’s a notable Lutheran doctor called Luft who has shown an interest in Bruno’s recovery. He’s well connected, but he’s no admirer of Honecker. He’s going to send a letter to our family doctor who’ll make arrangements for us to travel with papers. Armed with documents, they daren’t stop us.’
*
The Roundhouse was quite easy to find after all – near the top of the hill. It wasn’t round nor was it detached, but it had a quaint round tower abutting its only gable end. There was a marked place to park outside so she could have driven up the cobbled street and parked, which would have been preferable as she was now breathing heavily having climbed the hill with a twelve-year-old boy egging her on and wondering why she was so slow.
She put a couple of euros into his jacket pocket, knocked on the door, but no sign of life seemed to stir from within; no lights on, no car outside, and Hanne would have been stuck without a hire car. Perhaps this isn’t the right place? I must be mistaken, but that cannot be.
She knocked again – harder this time.
A neighbour emerged from a door across the narrow street. Heike turned. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting my cousin here – an English woman?’
‘English? I thought her accent rather strange. Yes, I spoke to her yesterday. Tall woman? Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘I really don’t know; I can’t help you. Maybe she has popped out for something?’
‘Maybe. I was hoping to see her before she left. Perhaps she had to go home early. Thank you!’
‘She was expecting you?’
‘Yes – yes, she was.’
It was not like Hanne. She would not forget their arrangement; Heike was sure of that.
*
On arrival in Leipzig, there was no one to meet them. Roland had been assured there would be a representative from the Lutheran Church, but no one showed, so they waited patiently.
*
Heike was eager to tell Hanne the story, so that she could say: You see, this trip to Leipzig was a bad idea. We should never have left Berlin. I should have said this to Roland the moment we arrived but I didn’t; I remained patient and receptive to a new direction.
Hanne, maybe in the West you didn’t understand, but we had everything we needed in Berlin. Roland had a job – nothing special, but it was work. It was only when the shooting happened and the dissenters approached him to write their bulletins – that’s what swayed his mind. Our rent was minimal. Bruno’s school was good; he was happy. Maybe there could have been more choice in the shops, but we knew how to get the things we wanted.
She would know where to begin when Hanne returned – if she returned.
*
In Leipzig, Roland had no such qualms. They had arrived at the culmination of an exciting period in which the city was leading all of East Germany in peaceful protest. All through October, ever larger numbers of people were gathering each Monday at the Nicolaikirche, openly using the traditional day of prayer – the Montagsgebet – to draw support from far and near.
‘Roland! The church is wonderful! Let’s go in and have a look – come on!’
‘We’re not tourists, Heike.’
Roland was reluctant to leave the security of the car.
‘What harm can it do? It’s beautiful. Come on, Bruno, you need some exercise after being cooped up in the car all this time.’
The Reunion Page 34
