Two sad tiles, a path to nowhere. That was as far as she’d gotten in finding Erich. Two huge risks she’d taken—for nothing.
“What time should I pick you up?” Peter asked.
Right. That too. “Seven, I guess,” Lena said.
Peter put a hand on her arm. He had trimmed his fingernails. This was serious. “I’m looking forward to it.” His voice seized up on forward and he turned away.
She wanted to say, We’re not going as boyfriend and girlfriend, you know. She wanted to say, There’s this boy, he’s the cook in the play. She would explain about Max’s hair, how it curled in the front even though it was conscription-short. “And there’s a dimple involved.” She would apologize in advance for hurting Peter’s feelings. But she said none of these things.
Auntie would be out for the rest of the day. The afternoon was unexpectedly free. Lena would go to the theater, find Max, and warn him.
— 15 —
you don’t really know anyone
Someone was watching her on the S-Bahn—a pinched man wearing wire-rim glasses and a black beret. He looked like the type who might work in a library, or in a building underground with lots of yellow lighting. Every time she glanced over, he turned away.
Erich always said she was pretty when she smiled, but this fellow wasn’t trying to catch her eye. He was trying to avoid it, pretending to read his book. What if he’s from the People’s Police? What if Friedrich So-and-So— Maybe they were just waiting for her to return to Prenzlauer Berg. This was a mistake. Or maybe it was all in her head. For sure it’s in your head. There are lots of things in there that no one would believe.
She considered getting off at a different stop, but what good would that do? If he was following her, he would get off too. Her stop was approaching. She waited until the last possible moment and hurried to the door. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him leap up. But she didn’t see if he got off after her. When she looked back through the train windows, he wasn’t there. Beside her was a crowd of passengers, maybe with him in it.
She set off for the theater, doing her best not to check over her shoulder. That in itself would attract the wrong kind of attention. She had the address, and she knew the neighborhood well enough to take a circuitous route. Yes, Auntie, we know what circuitous means. If the man really was following her, it would be obvious soon enough.
She stayed on the busier main street, repeating the slogans on the billboards she passed to keep calm, then turned abruptly onto a smaller road. Don’t run. Be purposeful. Not like the house is on fire, more like you’re determined to buy a decent pair of shoes.
Soon there were footsteps behind her. Don’t turn around. She turned. The man in the beret made no attempt to hide. She braced herself for a loud Halt or a subtler You’re coming with me.
Instead he said, “Wait.” And then, “Please.”
Lena allowed him to catch up to her. “Who are you? Why have you been following me?”
“I’m sorry, I had no choice.” He lowered his voice. “I’ve been watching you all day. I had to make sure it was safe to talk to you. You telephoned me about your uncle. I’m Günter Schulmann.”
Günter Schulmann—the man from Erich’s letter. Lena stared at him. “That’s not possible.”
“I assure you, it’s true.” He showed her his identification, and offered his hand for her to shake.
“But—” She lowered her voice. “You live in West Berlin. I thought visas took weeks to be approved.”
“I don’t have to apply in advance for a visa if it’s only a day trip,” Herr Schulmann said. “I just have to exchange some of our good Western currency for your Eastern nonsense—at a terrible rate. I come across whenever I like, as a tourist.”
A tourist! How uncomplicated it was for Westerners. Once, Lena had asked her parents if they could make a trip to the West, just to see it. “If you know of a family member over there who’s dying, maybe,” Papa had said. “Even then, they’d never let us go all together.” There was always the possibility that they wouldn’t return. Oma and Opa had gone a few times, because they were senior citizens. The government didn’t care if they came back. Otherwise, for Easterners, it was forbidden.
“Did you ever meet my uncle?” Lena asked.
“A few times,” Herr Schulmann said, “but meeting writers in the GDR is tricky. The Stasi keep a close watch on that sort of thing.”
Günter Schulmann’s coat looked soft. Lena wanted to touch it. Then something occurred to her. “You didn’t tell the border guards you were coming to see me, did you?” There would be questions, possible repercussions at work.
“Of course not,” he said. “And I don’t believe I was followed.” The sound of someone shouting on the road startled them both. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Lena took him to Erich’s favorite pub. The barman nodded to her as she entered and didn’t make a single comment about milk. The waitress who had helped her before gave her a look of are you okay? Lena smiled and found a wobbly table in the corner.
“How did you know to contact me?” Herr Schulmann asked once they were seated. “And where did you get my private number?”
Lena told him about the letter hidden in the freezer.
“Your uncle talked about you. He worried your employers might force you to inform on him.”
Force? No, not force. They had tricked her into it. “Sir, I—”
“Günter.”
But he was a stranger. She couldn’t use his first name. “Herr Schulmann, people are saying I don’t have an uncle. I went to the state registry office to see his birth record and they said he didn’t exist. His novels are gone. He is gone. And I found a listening device in the coffee room at work. Please tell me what he was doing. No one will answer my questions. They keep telling me to stop asking them.”
The waitress brought two small glasses of beer and a plate of meat and bread that Herr Schulmann had ordered. Auntie never let Lena drink beer. Herr Schulmann clinked his glass against hers and said, “Prost.”
She took a sip and cringed. “It’s bitter.”
He laughed. “You get used to it.” He set his glass down on the table. “I’ll tell you what I know, which isn’t much. That’s probably a good thing. The more you know, the more danger you’ll be in.” He paused, weighing his next words. “Whoever advised you to stop making inquiries is giving you good counsel. Every time you ask a question, you risk giving the Stasi more information about your uncle.”
“I never thought of that.” Oh, Uncle. She was afraid she might cry.
“Contacting me—I mean, I’m glad you let me know what’s happened, because I might be able to help. But if they hadn’t known about me before, well—they certainly know now. I expect they’ll leave you alone in the hope that you’ll give them what they need.” He pushed the plate of food toward Lena. “Please, eat. I ordered this for you.”
Lena made herself a sandwich to be polite, though she wasn’t sure she’d be able to eat much. “Do you have any idea where my uncle is?”
“Probably in a cell in Hohenschönhausen. I suspect they’re questioning him and, considering you’re still working at Stasi headquarters, he must not be talking.” Herr Schulmann took a long drink of beer. “I’m surprised they’ve taken such drastic measures. Lately they’ve been very concerned with their image. They want their Western neighbors to think they’re respectable. Not that I’d put anything past them. It wouldn’t be the first time.” He rested his head on one hand. “God, you should get out of this damned country. This is no life for a young girl.”
“Get out?” Lena’s body went so heavy she wasn’t sure she could get out of her chair, never mind the country. Did this man have any idea what he was saying? Fleeing the Republic carried a prison sentence of up to eight years. As a bonus, if Lena succeeded in leaving, Auntie’s life would be ruined. She’d lose her
job, possibly also the apartment. Rumors would circulate: an addiction to alcohol, or pornography. She would become a social outcast. Lena would never be able to live with herself.
And what would she do in the West? Who did she know? No one. Her life was here, and her life—before Erich had disappeared—was not so bad. She had a job, a place to live. Visits to the doctor whenever she needed them, child care for the children she would have one day, a State-sponsored holiday once a year. There was hardly any crime. The State took care of her. “Everything for the good of the People,” as the slogan went.
“Was that what my uncle was planning?” she asked. “To go to the West?”
“No, his business was on this side of the Wall. He was investigating something that was making your security people nervous. Something to do with your parents getting killed in that munitions factory.”
Munitions factory? Lena almost choked on her mouthful of food. Swallow it. Auntie will take away all your privileges if she finds out you spoke with your mouth full in a public place. She swallowed hard. “My parents didn’t work in a munitions factory.”
“Actually, they did.”
“Herr Schulmann, you have been misinformed. My parents worked in a freight car factory in Magdeburg. I lived there with them. I know what they did.”
“You think you know.”
Here we go. It’s Jutta’s jar of pickles all over again. You don’t really know anyone. But these were Lena’s parents. This had been their place of employment. “Who told you that?”
“Your uncle. He had proof. There was no question, it was ammunition your parents were making.”
Ammunition? “Our country believes in peace.” All the songs said so. All the slogans, and the promises Lena and other young people had made when they’d joined the Free German Youth. That’s why in sports practice you learn both football and hand grenade–throwing. Quiet, Mausi. The soldiers at the border were protecting the citizens. And the Wall was built to keep bad people out.
“Your country believes in propaganda,” Herr Schulmann said.
What was that buzzing sound? Do you really need to ask? The pub was dark, the air close. Too many people were smoking. Lena’s clothes were too tight. How could— “When my parents came home at night they talked about freight cars, and what they did on the line.”
“I’m sure they did.” Herr Schulmann picked up a slice of salami and stuffed the whole thing into his mouth. Auntie would have sent him away from the table. “They would have been coached.”
“The accident—an explosion. No wonder.”
“An explosion, yes.” He took another slice of salami. “Whether or not it was an accident—that was one of the things your uncle was investigating.”
Not an accident. This had been Lena’s secret hope: I wish it had been someone’s fault. A crime with criminals. No wonder Uncle’s reaction had been so strange—asking her who else she’d told, or if someone had made her say that. It made sense if he’d been afraid she might be forced to become an informer. Thank goodness you never mentioned that to Jutta.
Maybe it had been someone’s fault.
“You said that was one of the things.” Lena was almost afraid to ask. “What else was he investigating?” How much trouble had he gotten himself into?
Günter Schulmann placed both hands on the table. His fingers were long and skinny, and the tips were greasy from the salami. “Think about this. East Germany—”
Lena winced. “We don’t call it that. It’s bad manners.”
“Right. Excuse me. The German Democratic Republic has a People’s Army. It’s got the Society for Sport and Technology, which is paramilitary. You learn how to shoot in your youth groups, don’t you? They even give the children toy weapons in day care. Militarization is no secret in this country.”
“It’s defensive,” Lena said.
“Please.” Herr Schulmann gave her a look. “The Soviets have nuclear weapons stationed in your country. The Americans have their missiles in mine. Both sides expect a war to erupt at any moment. None of this is hidden. And yet your parents were instructed to tell everyone—even their own family members—that they worked in a freight car factory.”
That did seem odd. “Why?” Lena asked.
Herr Schulmann steepled his hands and smiled. “If you find the answer to that question, I suspect you’ll know why they made your uncle disappear.”
“He found out.”
“He told me he’d found something big, and he was frightened. That was the last I heard.”
Lena couldn’t eat any more, and she certainly wasn’t touching that fizzy bitter beer. She needed to get outside. Herr Schulmann paid the bill and they left, taking a quiet side street.
“I’m sorry to have given you so much to mull over,” he said.
She shook her head as if the things he’d told her might fall out. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“If you want to be safe? Nothing.” He buttoned his coat. “Keep stumm.” Silent. “Go back to your life. Anytime you ask questions, you risk putting your uncle in danger.”
“Could I at least visit him in jail?” She could bring soup, and warm clothes. She’d go every day.
“They would never admit that he was there. Not after the trouble they’ve taken to make him vanish.” Herr Schulmann looked sad, regretful, the way a person looked when they realized they’d squashed a small animal with their car.
“Listen,” he said. “I work with several important writers in the West. Prominent names, lots of publicity. If we can find proof of what’s going on, we could blow the whistle on it from our end. Embarrass your authorities. Maybe force them to release Erich.”
“They wouldn’t release him after this,” Lena said.
“Not back to you, no. But they might ship him over to us, for a fee.”
“To the West? I’d never see him again.” She couldn’t bear that. She almost lost her balance, and had to steady herself on a nearby wire fence.
Herr Schulmann took her gently by both shoulders. His face was thin and his blue eyes were faded, as if they’d been laundered too often. “I’m sorry to say this, but you may never see him again anyway. At least if he gets sent to the West he’ll be alive. Free to write whatever he wants.”
It will be a life without you in it. No, she had to stop thinking of herself. Think of him. This was the biggest gift she could give him.
“So you want me to find out why that factory was making ammunition in secret.”
“I would never ask you to do that,” Herr Schulmann said. “And anyone would understand if you decided not to. You would be risking everything. But—” He opened his hands as if to catch something that was falling from the sky. “You work at Stasi headquarters, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“You have access to their offices, their files, material that no one else in this country could ever get their hands on. If the secret is as big as Erich suspected, the files will be there, maybe even in Mielke’s office.”
“They lock up their documents at night. I’m not supposed to touch them.” Lena pictured Jutta’s big angry face, her nonprotruding Slavic ears going red.
Herr Schulmann cocked his head like a robin waiting for a worm. “I don’t suppose you know where they keep the keys.”
She smiled. She wasn’t supposed to know. But after two years of dusting the offices, she knew all the agents’ hiding places.
“You’d have to be careful,” Herr Schulmann said. “Put things back exactly as you found them. You mustn’t get caught. It could mean death for your uncle. Certainly you’d end up in prison.”
Lena bit her nails as a flock of starlings burst out of a tree. What are you getting yourself into? You don’t even know this man. But Erich was in trouble and there was no one else, no one in the world, who was in a better position to help him. Help him how? Help him get to t
he West so you can never see him again? The Stasi had erased him. He did not exist in the Better Germany anymore. They’d made it easy for themselves. No need for a death certificate if he’d never been born.
“What if there are cameras in the offices?” she asked. Hidden cameras in House 1? Why not? These were the top functionaries in the Stasi. They had the most incriminating secrets at their fingertips and they were above the law. But they weren’t above Comrade Mielke.
Then she thought of Herr Dreck. “Never mind.” There couldn’t be cameras. He would not do what he did to her if he thought someone was watching. And the phone call to Herr Schulmann—they would have known she was the one who’d made it; they would have seen her. But it was him they’d questioned. They’d known the call had been made; they just hadn’t known who had made it.
“We’ll have to keep in touch somehow,” Herr Schulmann said.
“You can find me if you need me,” Lena said. “But how will I get hold of you? If I discover something? We can’t use the phones, or the mail.” Department M monitored the mail. They would intercept their letters and steam them open. They had special machines; Lena had seen them once when she’d taken some cleaning solution over to House 46.
Herr Schulmann looked to the left-hand side of the sky, because it wasn’t only dead Helmut that hung around up there. The best thoughts tended to float left. “Do you know anyone who’s familiar with radio?” he said. “Amateur radio, where you can talk.”
“Yes. My neighbor Peter has a ham radio in his bedroom.” He’d only told her about it a thousand times. He called his bedroom his ham shack.
“I’ll talk to some friends and see what we can organize.” Herr Schulmann leaned toward her. “I’ll arrange for them to leave a note with the details in your mailbox. We’ll have to choose a frequency to make contact, and we’ll need a harmless phrase that your neighbor won’t pick up on. That will be the sign that you want to speak to me, and then we can meet in this pub.”
The House of One Thousand Eyes Page 15
