Walls

by L. M. Elliott

This Shirley was . . . was . . . wow. With her dark hair swept back from her face, arty gold earrings carved like Egyptian hieroglyphs dropping to below her chin, and an off-the-shoulder black dress, Shirley looked like glamour-girl photos he’d seen of Natalie Wood, the star of Rebel Without a Cause.

  “Hi!” Shirley held up a boutonniere. “I told Mom we were just going as friends, but she insisted I bring it.”

  “Oh gosh.” Drew felt his freckles flush hot and damned his face. “I . . .I didn’t get you a corsage.” Strike one.

  “Don’t worry.” Shirley smiled, waiting for him to move. Drew was spellbound by her large dark eyes, now catlike with mascara and thick eyeliner. “Drew?” She waited, then finally asked, “May I come in?”

  “Oh! Sorry!” Strike two. He stepped back to make way.

  Shirley’s crisp skirt rustled as she swept past. Drew’s heart banged against his chest.

  “Oh my—get a load of you, gorgeous!” Joyce held Shirley at arm’s length and turned her around, revealing a little swish of purple satin below her hem. “You wore the slip your nana sent!”

  “You don’t think it’s too much?”

  Joyce shook her head. “No. The color combination is absolutely wonderful. So mod.” She introduced Shirley to Matthias.

  Matthias stared—no other word for it—and kept staring as they sat down to their dinner of Irish stew.

  Drew kinda wanted to punch him.

  Once everyone was settled, Drew’s father said to Linda, “You’re official now, cutie patootie. You say grace.”

  “Really? Okay.” Linda sat up proudly, bowed her head, and shyly recited, “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty . . .”

  “Amen,” everyone murmured, except Matthias.

  “What is official?” he asked.

  “She finished her confirmation classes right before we came here in August,” Joyce explained. “For Catholics, that’s the big step into adulthood.”

  “Ah. For us, that is the Jugendweihe. But we pledge our lives to the state, not God. Karl Marx said religion is the opiate of the masses.” Matthias took a bite of his stew while everyone else froze, their forks halfway lifted.

  “What are you talking about, man?” Drew asked, incredulous.

  “Our youth consecration, when we join the FDJ, marking us as responsible socialist citizens. I took classes, too—but on Ethik, Marx’s Philosophie, and the . . . hmmmmm.” He looked to Drew’s mom for help. “Die edle Architektur des Kommunismus, und Verfolgung des deutschen Kommunisten durch die faschistische Nazis.”

  “ ‘The noble architecture of communism,’ ” she translated, raising her eyebrow at Drew’s dad, “ ‘and the persecution of German communists by fascists and Nazis.’ ”

  “Yes,” Matthias continued, oblivious to the startled reactions around the table. “We took field trips, met our soldiers. When I completed all those hours, I was selected for a ceremony at the Theater of Friendship, where I repeated our official pledge.” He held up a finger for each promise: “ ‘To the workers’ state, to support friendship with the Soviet Russian people, who are the best friends of Germany, and to secure and defend peace.

  “ ‘Youths who finish the classes and make the pledge are sent to attend academic high school’ ”—he looked to Linda—“ ‘that prepares people for university. Those who do not, or who do church confirmation instead’ ”—he looked to Drew—“ ‘go to apprenticeships.’ ” Matthias took another bite of stew. A big, ravenous one. “This is good.” He scooped up more. “Thank you, Cousin Emily.”

  Inwardly, Drew groaned. Taking this dogma-spewing commie kid to an all-American Sadie Hawkins dance had the makings of a total disaster. Especially among military brats whose fathers might have to risk their lives to protect West Berlin against a Soviet Russia incursion, something Khrushchev was threatening more frequently with each passing week.

  Every day it’s a-getting’ closer, Goin’ faster than a roller coaster . . .

  The sounds of a Buddy Holly song skipped down the halls as the foursome approached the sports center gym.

  “Oh, the band’s starting!” Shirley grabbed Drew’s hand to dance them through the canopy entrance of maroon and white streamers and balloons. Spotting Bob just inside, Drew entered with dread. Matthias trailed along behind them in absolute bewilderment.

  “Look what a great job the art class did!” Shirley said as they came to a life-sized drawing of Li’l Abner darting away from Daisy Mae Yokum, in hot pursuit.

  Bob, of course, had positioned himself beside a drawing of the busty Moonbeam McSwine, Daisy Mae’s main competition in the Al Capp comic strip. “Whatcha think, Mac? Now, here’s a babe any red-blooded American could fall for,” Bob blustered as he pointed. “Wait a minute.” Bob stopped mid-ogle and shifted his point to Matthias. “What’s this guy doing here?”

  “He’s my date,” Joyce announced. “Matthias, you remember Bob?”

  “Yes,” Matthias answered, completely distracted by Moonbeam and Daisy Mae.

  “The whole Sadie Hawkins thing started with this cartoon,” Joyce explained to him. “In the comic strip, when Sadie was in danger of becoming an old maid, her father, the mayor of Dogpatch, set up a race and declared that any bachelor caught that day had to marry the woman who nabbed him.”

  Seeing Matthias’s perplexed and slightly shocked face, Joyce burst out laughing and took his hand, saying, “It’s okay. Just pretend you’re here on a diplomatic mission. We’ll probably prove everything the Politburo says is amoral about the West a hundred times over tonight. But maybe you can have a little fun, too. C’mon.” She led him to a table holding punch and cookies to watch the band.

  Drew started to follow, but Bob caught his arm. “Why would you bring him here? That kid could be gathering all sorts of intel.”

  “It was my mom’s idea.”

  “Well, she’s a birdbrain, then.”

  “Watch it,” Drew snapped. “It’s just a dance. It’s not as if we’re discussing battle plans.”

  “Listen, Mac, you haven’t been here long enough to understand—”

  “Understand what, Bob?” Charlie had crossed the dance floor and cut him off. “That you’re top dog? Nobody doubts that.” He clapped Bob on the back. “Hey, Drew.”

  Drew shot Charlie a hundred silent thank-yous as he shook his hand.

  But Bob kept at it. “Listen, I could tell you some things. The Russians have totally brainwashed East Berliners into thinking we’re out to take over Germany. My dad said—” He broke off abruptly, adhering to military family rules that Drew recognized. In a place like Berlin, even dinner table conversation was essentially classified. “Just keep an eye on that bozo.” Bob tipped his head in Matthias’s direction. “I know I will.”

  “Ah, maybe you better keep an eye on your girl, Romeo.” Charlie elbowed him. “I see a snake coming, twelve o’clock.”

  The school’s quarterback—a loping boy with a sunshine smile and Hollywood-dreamboat cleft chin—was asking Bob’s date for a dance.

  “Hey, what the—” Bob started forward, but it was too late. She took the football player’s hand and followed him out to the floor just as the band switched to a Sam Cooke ballad.

  Darling, you-oo-oo-oo send me . . .

  The quarterback swung Bob’s date into his arms and spun them around and around.

  “Damn. That guy’s a regular Gene Kelly,” Charlie joked. “But of course, he ain’t got your charm, Bob.”

  Bob snort-laughed in reply. “Well, that serves me right for neglecting her.” He turned to Shirley. “May I?” he asked, as courtly as could be. “If Mac here doesn’t mind?”

  Shirley glanced at Drew.

  The night had been full of surprises already. If Bob could regroup and act civilized, Drew could, too. “If the lady agrees,” Drew answered, adding a litt
le touch of flirtation with Shirley. “Just promise you’ll come right back to me.”

  She giggled and gave her hand to Bob, who bowed low to Drew before sliding them into the swirl of dancers.

  “You old smoothie,” Charlie teased him. “Let’s get some punch.”

  Drew and Charlie joined Joyce and Matthias against the wall, tapping their feet to the music. “Shirley sure looks gorgeous tonight,” Charlie commented. “Brains and beauty—you better be on your toes, buddy boy.”

  Drew laughed at his teasing, but he felt his face flush a little as he watched Shirley dance with Bob. “Who’d you come with, Charlie?”

  Charlie pointed to Betty, one of the cheerleaders, center stage in a circle of pretty girls. “We’re just friends,” he added. “We actually knew each other from before—elementary school at Fort Bliss. We promised to come together and to leave together, and maybe dance a few times in between. Her dad is being transferred back to Texas at the end of the school year. No use starting anything up again.”

  “You guys were an item?”

  “Oh yeah, we were a biiiiiig thing in sixth grade.” Charlie laughed. Then he grew serious, lowering his voice. “The girl I’d really like a dance with is your sister. She’s . . .” He watched Joyce explaining various all-American things in the room to Matthias. “She’s . . . lovely.”

  “Ask her.” Maybe Charlie could distract Joyce from her college crush.

  Suddenly bashful, Charlie shook his head. “Maybe in a minute.”

  “Oh, don’t be a chicken.” Drew shoved Charlie in Joyce’s direction. “Hey, sis, someone wants a dance with you, but he’s being all Li’l Abner about it.”

  Joyce smiled. “Why, Charlie, I’d love to.”

  Speechless, Charlie let Joyce take his hand and pull him toward the band. Over her shoulder, she mouthed at Drew, “Stay with Matthias.”

  Drew nodded. Shirley was still dancing with Bob. Wouldn’t hurt to stand post with Matthias for the next song, which turned out to be Elvis.

  Oh, baby, let me be your lovin’ teddy bear . . .

  Matthias’ mouth fell open as he watched Joyce and Charlie rock ’n’ roll.

  “Never heard Elvis Presley before?” Drew asked.

  “I have,” Matthias muttered, like he was confessing to a crime.

  “On AFN?” Drew knew the signal was strong enough to waft into the Soviet sector.

  Matthias shook his head. “AFN zu hören ist in Ostberlin verboten.”

  Listening was forbidden? “How can they know?” Radio was sound, floating free, like air, like imagination.

  Matthias sighed. “They know. Spitzel.”

  “What?”

  “Informers. Paid by the State Security Ministry, the Stasi. Each street has one. Or more.”

  “What?” Matthias’s life really was straight out of Orwell’s dystopia. “Jeez, man, that’s . . . that’s awful.”

  Matthias remained silent a moment before hesitantly adding, “I know ‘Jailhouse Rock.’ ”

  Wow, of all things. That song was controversial even in the United States. “How, if you’re not allowed to listen to our radio stations?”

  “A friend. He . . . he . . . smuggles . . . he visits a cousin in the West.”

  “Like me?” Drew found himself smiling encouragingly. That’s what his mom would want him to do, but in truth, Drew was beginning to feel sorry for Matthias. Not being able to hear Chuck Berry, Little Richard, the Everly Brothers, or Bill Haley—it’d be like starving!

  Matthias turned to look at Drew. “Yes, like you.” He nodded, mulling that over with a tiny hint of a smile. “He brings records to the East, but it is dangerous.” He watched the dancers. Slowly, carefully, Matthias added, as if thinking aloud, “It’s not as if music makes . . . my friend . . . stop believing in the needs and rights of the workers.” He rubbed his forehead and murmured, “Fats Domino is his favorite. ‘Blue Monday.’ ”

  “Whoa, daddy-o! That song? That’s straight-up blues. All about work being nothing more than a paycheck so you can play hard on the weekend—not exactly happy-worker, proletariat lyrics,” Drew teased him.

  Matthias cocked his head, baffled. “Daddy-o?”

  Flushed and breathless, Joyce and Charlie came bouncing back to them before Drew could explain the slang. Joyce grabbed Matthias’s hands. “Your turn!”

  “Nein, nein!” Matthias was totally flummoxed now. He managed to say thank you—relatively politely, for him—before explaining, “FJD says free dancing is corrupting—the wiggle-hip, facing each other.”

  “Oh, we could all use a little corrupting, Matthias. Don’t be afraid.” Joyce refused to let go of him. “Besides, I asked the band to play a totally innocent line dance. No wiggling at each other. You’ll see!”

  The combo started singing Johnny Otis’s “Hand Jive.”

  I know a cat named Way-Out Willie

  He got a cool little chick named Rockin’ Billie . . .

  Oh, yeah! Clapping, cheering, everyone shouted and took to the floor, reminding Drew of the gleeful jamborees his mom used to orchestrate at the playground with a box of tambourines and kazoos.

  Joyce and Drew guided Matthias through the hand-jive sequence: slapping his palms on his thighs; crossing his hands over and under; balling them into fists and bouncing them on top of each other: right on top, left on top, right, left.

  Repeat, repeat, repeat, everyone on beat. Everyone happy.

  The most amazing sight, though, was Matthias belly laughing.

  “There you are, Mac.” Bob was leaning up against the sinks in the men’s room with two of his buddies when Drew, Matthias, and Charlie entered to splash some water on their faces, sweaty from dancing.

  There was a faint scent of something sweet hanging around them. Drew couldn’t identify it until he got a little closer—whiskey.

  Charlie whistled. “You on some kind of suicide mission, Bobby? If the chaperones catch a whiff of you, you’re DOA.”

  Bob waved him off. “We’re moving out. Heading to the Metropol. Best cabaret in Berlin. Wanna come?”

  Charlie shook his head. “Nah.”

  Bob shrugged. “Suit yourself. Be a stiff.” He glanced at Drew and then scowled at Matthias. “Enjoying our hospitality?” He took a step forward. “Our music?” Another step. “Our girls?” He stood toe-to-toe with Matthias.

  “What the hell, man?” Drew instinctively stepped in front of Matthias, pushing Bob back an arm’s length. In return, Bob shoved him, his hands instant fists.

  “Hey, hey.” Charlie moved between them, throwing his hand up against Bob’s chest. “You want the teacher-MPs down on you?”

  “My beef’s with the commie, not you, Charlie.”

  “Well, see, now you’ve made it my beef, too, Bobby. I can’t let you cause some international incident in the can. You know what our dads say.”

  At the mere mention of their dads, the boys leaning on the sinks stood like they’d been shoved into a cold shower. A scuffle in the men’s room was the kind of thing that could get them in trouble with the principal, sure, but it could also land their dads in hot water with the CO. Teenage rebellion carried heavy penalties on post. Drew had already been warned that not stopping and getting off his bike during evening retreat and the flag being lowered for the night could bring serious reprimand.

  Bob backed off. But as he exited, he knocked Matthias’s shoulder with his.

  “You’re kidding me,” Joyce said when Drew quietly relayed to her and Shirley what had just happened.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Shirley. “You know those horse-drawn carriages that sit outside Café Kranzler’s?”

  Joyce looked a little puzzled at the non sequitur, but she followed along. “Like Tavern on the Green in Central Park?”

  “My dad said I could treat us to a ride around the Kurfürstendamm
. Take a look at the city all lit up and lively.” She turned to Charlie. “You want to come?”

  “I better get back to Betty. But thanks.” He put his hand on Drew’s shoulder. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Matthias extended his hand to shake Charlie’s. “Dankeschön.”

  They gathered their coats and took a military taxi to the Times Square of Berlin, thick with people all gussied up for a Saturday evening on the town.

  “Here we are!” Shirley announced.

  They got out at the entrance to the famous three-story restaurant ringed with red-and-white-striped awnings and awash in bright lights, waltz music, and delicious smells.

  “Oh, look!” Shirley pointed down the avenue. “I see a carriage circling back already! It’s like they knew we were coming.” She bounced up and down on her toes.

  Standing beside them on the curb, a petite, pretty young woman murmured, “Gott sei Dank, mir ist so kalt!” She snuggled up against her American GI date.

  Wrapping his arms around her against the cold of the November night, the soldier asked, “Are you sure you’ll be okay, honey? I know there’s a blanket in the carriage, but if you’re too cold . . .”

  “Nein.” She smiled sweetly. “Tonight is a fairy tale. The carriage—I will feel like a princess.” She gazed up at the GI adoringly.

  Beaming, the guy announced to Drew, Matthias, Joyce, and Shirley, “She just agreed to marry me. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

  “Ooooooh—congratulations!” Joyce and Shirley sang out.

  Matthias had been staring at the couple, and now he elbowed Drew. “Does this Black soldier know about Emmett Till?” he muttered. “White men killed him just for flirting with a white woman, yes?”

  “How do you know about that?” Drew asked with surprise. The 1955 Mississippi trial of the Black teenager’s murderers had ended with a not guilty verdict after less than an hour of deliberation by a white jury. Newspapers back home had been filled with the shameful details, but in Germany?

  Matthias looked at him like Drew was a total dolt. “It is used as proof of American cruelty and . . . mmmmm . . . die Heuchelei.”