The Reunion

by Geoff Pridmore

  Ducking under the doorframe of the workshop, Herr Humboldt reappeared, this time looking rather more serious. His news was not good. ‘I’m afraid, comrade, your little car is not capable of reaching the border. The head gasket is blown and I can fix that, but there are numerous other little problems that will conspire to let you down. If it fails in Czechoslovakia, I assume there will be a language problem and they may just be awkward for any number of reasons.’

  ‘We set our hearts on Hungary. A recommendation from someone we met,’ Heike appealed to him.

  ‘If your man – and your boy – would care to assist me, I can replace the head gasket and it won’t cost you a fortune – I can assure you of that. But I strongly advise that if you wish to continue your motoring holiday you turn around and head southwest for Gera. From there, head south again for Rudolphstein. There is a crossing there for all traffic. You might have to wait there a day or two, but from what I hear things are looking – how shall I say? – promising.’

  It took little more than an hour to replace the head gasket, an hour in which Heike paced around the premises trying to get her head around what they should do next.

  It was good to have a walk again if only around the small garage after so long cramped in the car. She thought about the future and how they could never try this again as they’d be too old and then the border would be more of a barrier than ever. In her heart of hearts, she really wanted to turn around and go home right this minute. She’d had enough; but Roland was absolutely correct in his summing up of their particular situation: they were prisoners in their own home and they would never be sure of their liberty. A day might come when they would both be arrested and imprisoned, and Bruno would be carted off to some correctional facility. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing another child.

  ‘If you take my advice, you’ll head south for Rudolphstein. But whatever you do on your motoring holiday, take care and, particularly, don’t push that little motor too hard. For the south, turn left out of here.’

  Beaming smiles of gratitude as they drove away, Heike couldn’t help but like the couple immensely. ‘What nice people!’ she said, but Roland didn’t reply. There was a caution in both of them that had been forged over many years of living in East Germany. Trust no one.

  *

  Heike switched on the ignition for the car clock. She would give her cousin five more minutes to return. If not, then head back home and forget it; it wasn’t meant to be.

  *

  ‘He’s right, of course,’ sighed Roland, ‘this little car’s not up to going the distance. We’ll be lucky to get to Rudolphstein.’

  ‘I can’t find Rudolphstein on the map,’ said Heike, infuriated. ‘Do you think he was telling us the truth?’

  Roland didn’t answer, fearing that they just might have been set up and that it was all a trap. Perhaps this was always going to be a country they could never leave.

  With every passing kilometre, the Trabant seemed to be getting progressively more fragile: more rattles, more squeaks, as every bump in the road seemed destined to break its suspension or chassis in two. It would have been a joke in other less serious circumstances. In the event it should die, their unofficial plan was to abandon the car to its fate and find a bus or train station, taking with them only what they could carry.

  Later that morning, the brave little “donkey” died with a last gasp on a lonely road in the middle of a vast forest that had probably begun in Poland and undoubtedly stretched deep into Czechoslovakia and culminated in the Alps. So much for a train station or bus stop, there wasn’t even another car to be seen.

  It was silly to think of shoes in the enormity of it all, but Heike could only think of how impractical her shoes were for walking anywhere. Perhaps it was because she hadn’t planned beyond the possibility of them travelling beyond Leipzig.

  ‘Have you got nothing else?’ Roland asked, incredulity getting the better of him.

  ‘No, nothing – I’m sorry.’ She had, of course, packed for Roland and packed for Bruno, but given scant thought to her own needs.

  ‘I thought we’d be staying longer in Leipzig. I could have got something there. How was I to know that we’d be traipsing across Germany in a stupid little car that was barely capable of leaving Berlin?!’

  The Trabant was kaput in every sense of the word. In tribute, Bruno picked some leaves from the verge, placing the flora reverently on its bonnet in recognition of what he described as the machine’s efforts which were nothing less than: “brave” and “valiant” and “… not the fault of the car.”

  No amount of fiddling under the bonnet or cajoling or swearing would make any difference. There was no longer a spark of life from any of its two meagre cylinders; the “donkey” would have to be abandoned.

  Preparing for a third consecutive night in the lifeless Trabant, joking that only East Germans could take the cold and the confinement, sleeping in the seated position, thirsty and hungry. Their assumption was that far from being in a dense forest they were actually very close now to Rudolphstein – probably close enough to walk the estimated 10 or 20K, depending on the route. Without the car it would be better to walk through the woods because the authorities were sure to pick them up ambling with cases in hand along the road.

  Before leaving the car, Bruno insisted on peeling off the cartoon stickers that Heike had put on the dashboard many years ago when it had first been acquired. Bruno was small then and she’d stuck them on in an effort to make it look more of a family car and so much less austere.

  ‘I never did like these silly stickers!’ he said, before peeling them off with his thumbnail and placing them carefully into his jacket pocket.

  ‘Then why are you keeping them?’ asked his mother.

  ‘So as not to litter the forest.’

  ‘If you hang on to them, one day someone in the West might pay a lot of money for them,’ said Roland.

  ‘That’s what I’m banking on!’ replied Bruno, grinning.

  Heike had not walked through a wood since she was a girl. As a child she would spend long hours in the countryside picking flowers and letting her imagination run wild. And when Hanne visited that summer of ’63 she’d shown her English cousin all the secret little places she’d loved.

  As a child, she’d return home with squelching cloth bumper boots soaked by the long, wet meadow grass. The squelching made her laugh, the water having warmed up inside each boot. She would take them off and wring them out like dishcloths.

  She recalled her “bumper-boot” expeditions now with Bruno to keep his mind off the distance, exclaiming that ‘bumper boots were the most comfortable boots ever, ever made by man; and there was nothing nicer for the feet than a new pair.’ If only she had them now.

  ‘Were they American?’ asked Bruno. Heike didn’t answer.

  The wood, like all dense woods, offered no horizon – no hope. There were occasional signs warning not to leave the footpaths because of unexploded ordnance. Every incline, every clearing, seemed to offer new hope, but their hopes were dashed each time as they reached what they believed would be the end only to see ahead of them more and more trees.

  Bruno’s gammy leg and awkward gait slowed them to a snail’s pace, though he convinced himself that he was by far the fittest and fastest of the family who was taking it slow in order to wait for his infirm parents.

  Any excuse to stop and rest was a good excuse. It was at these times that Roland recounted the epic trip that his parents had taken as kids at the end of the war and how they’d run and walked for days and weeks until eventually finding the Allies in the form of US soldiers. ‘So we mustn’t give up,’ he urged; ‘my parents would consider this a walk in the park.’ This remark did not endear him to either Heike or Bruno.

  By late afternoon, the thick, dull November light was falling rapidly towards total darkness. Still there was no end to the interminabl
e forest, until, that is, they came across a clearing that looked hopeful in offering a way out.

  The vista that met them, however, offered false hope. Below in the steeply banked valley was the broad expanse of the heavily mined border fence.

  This fence was like nothing Heike had ever seen as a girl. This part of the border was not just a wire-link fence but a veritable obstacle course of wire fences, coiled barbed wire, steel vehicle traps and mines in the sand.

  They discussed their limited options: ‘The inner wire is probably electric or booby-trapped. There’s no way we could cross it.’

  Heike burst into tears. ‘All this way, and for what? Four hours we’ve been walking! Four bloody hours! And all because you wanted to bring down the state!’

  For the first time, she hated Roland; and Roland knew it.

  ‘I’m going back to the car.’

  ‘We’ll never find the car in darkness. We’ll have to find shelter here and continue as soon as it’s light. This path we’re on is parallel with the border. We can’t turn around now.’

  Without a further word, without warning, Heike spun around so quickly, so passionately, swinging her right arm with a momentum that could have brought down a prize fighter; the back of her clenched fist impacted Roland’s cheek with such ferocity that it knocked him off his feet.

  Stunned, he remained on the ground. It wasn’t the blow, but the intention that had felled him. His beloved wife of sixteen years had snapped because she blamed him for everything that had befallen them in the past twelve months.

  ‘Are you still going to find the car?’ he asked, rubbing his jaw.

  ‘No. I’m going to stay here and get this family out of this bloody mess!’

  They walked on for a further half hour until there was not a glimmer of light to see their way. As the dim early evening light of the forest gave way to darkness, the strobing light of a watchtower some distance away startled them. Unsettling as it was to begin with, it did provide a flash of illumination to see their way forward.

  There, ahead of them and barely visible amongst the decaying stalks of bracken, was the irregular shape of a moss-covered bunker, probably dating from the last war. It wasn’t perfect, but at least it offered a concrete floor on which to lie, with some overhead shelter. For the first time, they would be able to sleep stretched out, if they could sleep at all. Not that there was any comfort to be had.

  Bruno had seen TV programmes about the wilderness of the forests and the noises of the countryside. How thrilling was this to be actually a part of it! The sounds were real and the whole sky was truly, truly black. He’d never seen such a black sky before; he’d never heard the calls of anything bigger than a pigeon in a park. Now he was surrounded by blackness and the calls of the wild. Sandwiched between his parents, it was the greatest night ever.

  There was only one big downside: he was soon shivering with cold. The noises of the forest were “brilliant” in his words, but creepy, too. Who could rest amongst owls, foxes and goodness knows what else? ‘Are there any wolves here?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Heike reassured him.

  ‘Bears?’

  ‘Perhaps in Poland, not here.’

  ‘Would the bears know that they’re not in Poland?’

  ‘Why? … I don’t know. They probably prefer Poland.’

  ‘Boars. There must be boars here… Do you think we’ll see one?’

  ‘Not if we go to sleep we won’t. Goodnight, Bruno!’

  ‘You want me to be quiet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Roland desperately wanted to reach out to clasp Heike’s hand, to wrap his long arm around both her and Bruno. The very night they needed their warmth there would be no embrace. He could have lifted their spirits with yet another story about the time his parents fled Berlin, and how they too must have spent similar nights in the open; but instead of good-humoured put-downs he might otherwise have anticipated, he feared a serious rebuttal from Heike. Best to keep his silence and his distance.

  When light eventually returned to relieve them of what had been undoubtedly the longest, hardest, coldest, most uncomfortable night of their lives, the world that revealed itself was one that was offering hope. ‘Did you sleep, Mama?’ asked Bruno.

  ‘Did I sleep? I don’t think I slept for one second!’

  ‘What about you, Papa? Did you sleep?’

  ‘No, I didn’t sleep, Bruno. What about you?’

  ‘Yes, I slept. A bit uncomfortable, and a bit cold, but I slept. Oh, it’s raining!’

  Stiffly stepping out into a theatrical array of sunbeams piercing the dripping canopy of mature pines, Roland reached for his spectacles. In the distance he could see smoke wafting through the morning mist; in fact, he could even smell smoke. Somewhere a fire was burning and they desperately needed to warm themselves.

  They set off now with renewed vigour, but Bruno’s gammy leg was stiffer than ever. He could barely walk, and so with an arm around the shoulders of each parent they set off in silence toward the beckoning smoke that was coming from the chimney of a house on the edge of the forest – two houses in fact.

  Resident Ute Kempelmann spotted the hapless trio from her garden just before 9 am and, fearing there’d been an accident, ran out to meet them.

  ‘Oh, you poor things! What happened?’

  ‘Our car broke down. We got lost.’

  ‘Welcome! Come in! Come in! I’ll get you something to eat.’

  ‘Where are we?’ asked Roland.

  ‘This is Burgstein. We are just a couple of houses. There used to be a village here a hundred years ago, but the inhabitants all emigrated to Canada and America. This is all that remains.’

  ‘And Rudolphstein?’

  ‘Rudolphstein?’ exclaimed Frau Kempelmann, unsure as to why that was their destination. ‘It’s not far – 15K – but you have to go around the river. I’ll do you some breakfast and then my neighbour Hubert will take you. My husband is at work, you see.’

  ‘That’s very kind – thank you!’

  ‘You see,’ whispered Roland to Heike, ‘I knew this would be a happy ending.’ Still grimacing, Heike didn’t answer.

  ‘You’ll never believe it, but I dreamt this would happen!’ Frau Kempelmann was as excited as a child at Christmas. ‘You see, I have premonitions – I have always had them. For weeks now I have been waking up and telling my man about this recurring dream where a family comes out of the forest and I’m here to help them. Isn’t it extraordinary!’

  There was no exaggeration in the tale except that Herr Forrester Martin Kempelmann had made it quite clear to his wife some months ago that he didn’t want to hear another mention of a recurring dream or any talk of silly premonitions. That very morning, however, whilst on his rounds, he discovered the abandoned Trabant and made a full report by radio.

  ‘My man finds all sorts of unexploded bombs in those woods,’ said Frau Kempelmann. ‘It’s his job to clear the area for forestry. During the war the Nazis stored ammunition here that wouldn’t be seen by Allied aircraft. You were lucky not to have been blown up.’

  ‘Wow! Bombs!’ exclaimed Bruno. ‘Have you got any here? We could blow up the border fence and walk across!’

  ‘My son has an active imagination.’ Heike squeezed Bruno’s hand in an attempt to instil a little discretion.

  ‘My imagination is active because I was shot – trying to cross the Wall. I can show you—’

  ‘That’s enough, Bruno! Our son has the most vivid… You know what they’re like at this age. Have you got any children may I ask, Frau…?’

  ‘Frau Kempelmann. Forgive me, I should have introduced myself earlier.’ She shook hands with them before pointing to photographs on the mantel and on sideboards of children of various ages. ‘None of them mine, I’m afraid – nieces, nephews and two children from my man’s first marriag
e. They live with their mother in Gera. We see them every other weekend. They love it here.

  ‘Please – sit down and relax while I bring you some breakfast.’

  It took Frau Kempelmann just ten minutes to warm some croissants and make a pot of coffee. She chatted to them all the while about the home and the family she’d married into and how lucky she felt. Initially, she could hear acknowledgements from the living room, but they grew less with every passing minute. By the time she returned with a large, stacked tray, all three of her guests were snoring soundly.

  Heike came to with a start.

  ‘Forgive me! Roland! Bruno! Wake up. I’m sorry, but perhaps when we’ve eaten we should be on our way.’

  ‘My friends, I completely understand. Eat your breakfasts. I’ll call my neighbour, Hubert.’

  ‘We’ll come with you. We mustn’t sit down too long or we’ll never get up,’ said Heike.

  After breakfast they followed Frau Kempelmann out into the front garden where she called across to her neighbour’s house: ‘Hubert! Hubert!’

  A man appeared at a small upper window on the gable end of the house. His fleshy upper torso covered by a white cotton Aertex vest, he looked as if he had only just risen from bed and was still going about his ablutions when interrupted by Frau Kempelmann’s shouts. He pushed open the window. ‘What is it, Ute?’

  ‘This family are lost and need your help to get to Rudolphstein. Can you take them?’

  ‘Rudolphstein? Yeah, yeah! A minute – just a minute.’

  ‘Hubert is a wonderful man. He is retired, but works part-time. If anyone can help you, he will.’

  ‘We are very grateful – thank you!’

  Reluctant to return indoors, Heike and Roland were keen to see the garden while they waited for the neighbour to appear. The house and garden reminded Heike of her childhood home. The very same aroma of pine and autumn decay, covered stacks of chopped timber; the stillness in the air and the call of rooks and blackbirds; even a robin chattering away on the frosty grass near their feet, appealing for anything they might wish to discard for his breakfast. This was as close to her rural roots as she had been in seventeen years of living in East Berlin. It was all so familiar and reminded her of just how isolated she’d been in the city with its wall, divorced so entirely from the country. Maybe this was where the future lay for them. Not in some city but in the country.