‘That is such a stupid thing to say. Everyone here has secrets. Our wired walls and tapped telephones are what’s kept the DDR stuck together for the last forty years. But this with my father is different. This is something more personal than the informing or the blackmail that passed in this country for currency. I said earlier I knew who he was, but that’s not strictly true. I know who he is now, what others tell me he is. He never talks about his life before. None of his generation do. I know nothing about his childhood or my grandparents.’
His face wears everything he feels.
‘My father is the same. Apart from the one picture of his parents I’ve seen, and that he was always in the army, I know almost as little about him as I do about my mother. I certainly know nothing about his feelings.’
Karen stopped. She knew her father’s feelings all too well at the moment: he was angry and upset and disappointed in her. He had recovered his voice a week or so after her last visit, but he hadn’t wanted to see or speak to her. She had left word with the hospital that she was going to Berlin, that she was going to meet with Markus and, she hoped, Michael. He hadn’t responded – not that she expected him to. Since her last disaster of a visit, she had been forced to get the news of his continuing recovery from whichever overworked nurse could spare any time for her calls.
She looked up, conscious she had lost the thread of the conversation. Markus was smiling. It took years off his face.
‘Our systems must be more similar than I thought, at least when it comes to parents. I used to get so cross with how closed Father was, how easily he would shut down a conversation he didn’t want to be having. My mother always sprang to his defence. She said his silences were normal. That no one who lived through the war wanted to remember either it or the miseries that came after. She said the way he lived, forgetting the past, focusing on what the DDR offered us and what he could offer it, was the right way to be. That was everyone’s line, the party propaganda we were all fed. I went along with her for the sake of peace, but now you are here…’
‘The past is shifting. And you’d rather it didn’t.’
He nodded. ‘Maybe it’s the timing of this. Right now, for those of us brought up in the East, the past isn’t just shifting, it’s breaking down. Everything we were brought up to value is disappearing. There’s very little left to count on, except family. And now I find out my father isn’t the solid man I thought he was. I don’t know if I need that. More importantly, I’m not sure he needs his life questioned and picked over.’
The smile vanished; his face suddenly grew stern.
‘I won’t let you hurt him, Karen. If any of this exploring of yours causes him pain, no matter what you need, I’ll stop you.’
Karen stared into her cup, where a skin had formed across the cold coffee. The Michael he described, the relationship they had, sounded so familiar it was like listening to her own thoughts about Andrew. She had been right to come; there were answers here. She sensed that from Markus’s agitation, from his need to set the rules of engagement.
She nodded as if she agreed, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t plan to hurt anyone, but neither did she plan to shy away from asking Michael questions that might prove uncomfortable. If doing one caused the other, she would have to live with it.
For all his charms and his apparent empathy with her situation, how gatekeeper Markus felt could not be her problem.
The building Michael lived in was a time capsule. The hallway was tiled in faded blues and underwater greens, forming a hushed retreat from the outside bustle. Postboxes fashioned like miniature houses marched along one side of the entranceway. The lift creaked behind stout double doors.
‘I hope you’re feeling fit. The lift looks impressive, but the stairs are always the safest option.’
Karen’s first impression of Michael’s flat as she entered the hallway was that it was spacious, but the interior was visibly aging. Markus must have seen her frown as he steered her down the corridor towards the living room where he said Michael was waiting.
‘He won’t decorate. He abides by party directives too strictly. This was the best on offer in 1953, so it’s still the best on offer. His pig-headedness used to drive my mother mad.’
The once-cream walls were nicotine-tinged. The turquoise units Karen could see as she passed the open kitchen door were scuffed and shabby, and the sparse furnishings in the living room left the flat feeling half-finished. As they entered, Michael rose from a chair by the window. He was tall and smartly dressed and he would have seemed composed except for the tightness round his eyes and mouth.
‘You are her image. You could be nobody’s daughter but Liese’s.’
His English was heavily accented and tripped clumsily over his tongue. When Karen thanked him in German, his face relaxed into soft creases.
‘Other than Russian, I do not have my son’s language skills. That he speaks English so well was his mother’s doing. She loved languages – she was fluent herself, and she loved your literature. She never thought Russian and German gave a wide enough view of the world. It was hardly a popular view to hold here, but on that she wouldn’t be argued with.’
He embraced Markus and led them into a sitting room furnished with books and two sagging green armchairs. A photograph of a smiling woman holding a laughing little boy took centre stage on the bookcase.
‘You will take some coffee and apple cake? I baked it myself – one of my newer skills.’
I was right. He looks in charge of the situation but he’s as nervous as me.
Karen tried to sit without hovering, while Michael fussed in the kitchen and Markus fetched a plastic chair and a small table.
‘Let me speak to him alone, tell him what you told me about your mother’s death. Get that done with.’
He left the room. Karen heard a few muffled words, and then a cry and a cup smashing and was glad Markus had taken the details away from her watching.
When Michael returned, his age-softened but still handsome face was twisted, and his tall frame was hunched over. Markus led him to a chair, brought him coffee; sat at his side while he drank it.
‘I have explained that you have questions and you have a working knowledge of our language. We have agreed that he will speak in German and I will translate whatever is needed. I have told him we will end this whenever he wishes.’
Karen nodded, although Markus’s prescriptive manner chafed.
‘I am so sorry.’ Michael’s voice was as dry and cracked as a summer river. ‘That she did such a thing was my fault – her misery was all my doing.’
Markus translated as Michael spoke and then reared as he took in what had actually been said.
Karen shot forward, pulling Michael’s attention onto her before Markus could instantly close down the conversation.
‘How could that be? Markus said she never replied to your postcard. If you weren’t in touch, how could you have known what she would do?’
Michael’s gaze was so intense, Karen wished he would look away.
‘I always knew. After Lottie was lost, I knew one day Liese would follow.’
The curtains fluttered against the open window. Karen caught the movement and felt it like the walls trembling.
‘Who is Lottie?’
Michael flinched. ‘You don’t know?’
She’s not here; she won’t answer.
Karen bunched her hands into fists as if she could ward off the answer she knew instinctively was coming.
‘Lottie was Liese’s first child, my dear. Lottie was your sister.’
The sky outside the window hadn’t switched from its earlier clear blue. The hands on the clock had eaten away little more than an hour. How had a lifetime not passed?
Michael’s eyes were closed, his breathing thick. Karen was bone-chilled, her teeth chattering. She didn’t know how to be in her own skin. She wanted to howl, for her mother, for her lost little sister, but the tears stuck like ice in her chest.
�
��I was late to collect her, the unforgiveable sin.’ His voice was so quiet, Karen could barely hear it. ‘I was caught up in a raid on the printers where we were meant to collect the next batch of leaflets, pinned down in a crawl space for hours. By the time the soldiers left and I could get to the flat, Liese and Lottie were gone. I am so sorry.’
He kept saying it; Karen needed him to stop talking.
‘You are in shock. Breathe slowly, deeply. Look at me.’
Markus had her shaking hands cupped in one of his, had her chin tilted so she was forced to see him.
‘Good girl. Slow down – that’s it.’
‘I am so very sorry.’
Why did he keep saying it? Did he want her forgiveness? She didn’t know what to say, what to do. She knew none of the blame was Michael’s, but she badly needed someone to shout at. Why had she thought uncovering the past would be helpful? How would she ever push the image of her sister’s murder, of her mother’s anguish, out of her brain?
She stared past Markus to where Michael was curled up, his arms wrapped tight round himself. The way he was looking at her. There was more to the story – she knew it. She could see it in his tear-filled eyes, in his suddenly snapped-shut mouth.
‘There’s something else, something you’re not—’
And then nausea swept her words away. The walls were closing in. She couldn’t stay – there were too many horrors in the room.
She jumped up, pushed past Markus and ran out of the flat with no thought beyond getting away.
‘What are you doing?’
Markus pulled her hands away from the lift buttons she was furiously pressing.
‘I have to go back to my hotel.’
She twisted away from him and ran for the stairs.
‘Karen, stop! I understand, I do. But you can’t go alone. Never mind that you’ll get lost; it’s too dangerous. And you will never find a taxi on your own, not on this side. You have had a terrible shock. We all have. I need a drink; so must you. Come on.’
He took her arm and steered her to a bar that was as bare as the café. A counter lined with rough stools, a handful of plain wooden tables; fewer bottles on show than she had ever seen in the West. Markus sat her down and fetched a jug of red wine and two glasses half-filled with clear liquid.
‘Drink this; it will take the edge off. If you need more, there’s plenty.’
Karen gulped the vodka, gasping as the rough alcohol rasped over her throat.
‘Do you always give so many orders?’
He poured out the wine and passed her a full glass.
‘Yes. I’m a doctor. Most days, it’s the main part of the job. I thought I’d told you.’
‘You didn’t tell me anything, but don’t worry: I’m used to that.’
And then the shock sheared away and she burst into tears.
‘Good. Get it out.’
He moved his chair, pulled her head onto his shoulder.
‘Nobody cares. Too many people have cried in here for one more to matter.’
He let her sob until she was empty and then found a handkerchief.
‘Karen, I swear I didn’t know about Lottie. If I had, I would have warned you, prepared you. He never breathed a word about it. I can’t imagine how it must feel for you to hear that, never mind for him to tell it. So much pain to carry round and so much guilt, for both of them, and now for you. And all the secrecy. It’s all right to feel angry, if that’s how you feel.’
Karen flushed.
‘He kept saying he was sorry and I couldn’t bear it. I know it’s not Michael’s fault; I know that he’s suffering. He was almost captured himself – what could he have done? How could he have known what would happen? There’s nobody to blame but the guard, I know that. But in there, I wanted to hit out at him, I did, and that’s awful. And as for my mother’s pain, I can’t imagine it; I don’t want to…’
She took another deep drink.
‘The agony of it is unthinkable. To have to witness that; to be so powerless to stop it. What was it Michael said? “Liese spent the whole of Lottie’s little life trying to keep her safe, but in the end she failed.” We know that wasn’t her fault, but did she? Did she carry the guilt or, God help her, the blame, her whole life? The damage of that is beyond measuring.’
‘Perhaps there is your answer. Such an awful thing would explain her suicide.’
Karen put down her glass, wanting and not wanting a clear head.
‘Maybe. I’d like to believe it’s as simple as that. But your father also said he always knew my mother would follow Lottie. If that was true, why did she wait so long to do it?’
Her voice cracked as the question that had haunted the past eighteen years surfaced.
‘Lottie was long dead when my mother killed herself, but I was alive. I needed her. How could she do it when she had me to love and look after? Explain that, Markus, with all your medical training. She lost one child and then she chose to leave another. Why would she do it?’
His arm was the only thing keeping her on the chair.
‘I can’t explain it; I wish I could. I’m not that kind of doctor, although I once wanted to be. It was safer here to deal with broken limbs than broken minds; the authorities were less prescriptive.’
He fell silent.
Karen took a deep breath and hoped he would still trust her to do the right thing.
‘I have to talk to him again, Markus. I’ll apologise for running away so rudely, but I have to speak to him again. My mother carried on. She married my father; she went to England. Lottie’s murder is a reason for her death, but it’s not the end of her story.’
He rubbed his eyes and nodded.
‘I think you’re right – I do. But not now. Wait until tomorrow. Please. Give him the day to recover and understand you need more from him. After your meetings, after my shift, I’ll come for you. Will that be all right?’
It was a question, not a decision taken and delivered. His tone was concerned, not commanding.
Karen managed a smile, managed to look properly at him. There was a kindness in him she could sense ran deep.
‘Yes. Yes, I can manage with that.’
Markus held her briefly before she climbed into the taxi he had called from the bar. It was barely a hug, but there was a reassurance in its warmth that stayed curled round Karen through the long, sleepless night.
Markus was waiting in the lobby the next afternoon when Karen extricated herself from the day’s final appointment, his boxy blue car parked outside. They didn’t touch. They didn’t speak beyond greetings until they were clear of Checkpoint Charlie.
‘He’s different today. More recognisable, more in control. More like the father I’m used to, who always works to a plan.’
‘What does that mean? Is this a warning that he won’t tell me everything?’
Markus took so long to answer, Karen wondered if he had heard her.
‘Nobody who lived under the DDR tells anyone everything. We’ve been trained too well. Part of me is wondering now if I am making a huge mistake. If talking to you could have consequences I can’t foresee and should avoid.’
‘You make it sound like I’m a spy!’
Markus managed a smile that was warm enough to relax her.
‘I know. I’m not really serious. But this isn’t easy. We think before we speak here; we choose language that fits inside party parameters – we are always aware that someone is likely to be listening. The Wall that physically ringed our lives might be down, but I’m not sure that’s the one that matters. I don’t want to live with those restrictions anymore, so I am trying to shed them, but my father? He will tell you the version of the past he believes that you need, but, no, he won’t tell you everything. I’m not sure that he’s capable.’
Karen could feel her skin tightening.
‘He has to. I came to Berlin once before and ended up with more confusion. I can’t go away from here again without the answers I want.’
‘You may h
ave to. My father is stubborn – he sets his mind and it stays there.’
Markus shook his head as Karen began to argue. ‘It’s what I said yesterday: you have to try and understand him or you won’t get anywhere with him at all.’
‘Then explain him better to me.’
There was a pause and then Markus nodded. ‘Okay, I’ll do what I can. Let’s say then that you met him in a different way and tried to talk, like everyone is doing, about Berlin’s reunification. He wouldn’t engage in a discussion; he would walk away or he would deliver the same lecture on the miseries of capitalism he’s been quoting for years. He won’t go to the West, even though he’s past pensionable age and no one would bother. He still won’t call the barrier between the sectors the Wall. Every time he hears it called that, he corrects the name back to the “Anti-Fascist Protection Rampart”, like a DDR robot. When I was a child, he would make me turn my back on it and pretend there was nothing beyond the concrete but more East Germany. It was ridiculous, but he was unshakeable.’
Karen laughed at the image of the West-defying little boy – she couldn’t help herself – and relaxed even further when Markus joined in.
‘Exactly. Stubborn to the point of madness. He lives his life inside strict boundaries and strict beliefs – he always has. Your needs won’t push him outside those.’
Markus drove into Karl Marx Allee’s wider road and stopped the car outside Michael’s apartment, his voice and face all seriousness again.
‘I’m sorry, Karen, but I would be lying if I promised you a different man.’
‘What if whatever he tells me isn’t enough?’ Karen hovered on the pavement, her energy for this next bout already draining. ‘What if none of it is ever enough?’
Markus could have offered platitudes; Karen knew other men would. Instead, he simply took her hand as he pressed the buzzer.
There was an unexpected comfort in his silence.
Thirteen
Liese
Berlin, September 1943–May 1945
What Only We Know: A heart-wrenching and unforgettable World War 2 historical novel Page 22
