The House of One Thousand Eyes

by Michelle Barker

  “Good evening, Comrade Lieutenant General,” she sang. Lena couldn’t hear his response. She held her breath as she wiped down the bust of Lenin, the clock on the wall, the flag stand with the Party flag in it. Waited. Smash. Bang. “Are you going home already, sir?” Extra-loud-and-cheery Jutta was even worse than everything-is-miserable Jutta. “Your wife will be pleased.”

  No response.

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor, then clip-clip down the stairs. Lena peeked out into the hall. Jutta was laughing so hard she was bent over double. She switched off her Purimix. “I’ve outplayed him. He couldn’t stand it anymore.” She wagged a finger at Lena. “My work here is done. The floor’s all yours.”

  All yours. Explore at your leisure.

  “Make sure you do the windows. Mr. Can’t Keep It in His Pants leaves a lot of smudges.”

  Those big sweaty hands, no wonder. “I’ll do them,” Lena said.

  “And when you’re done, come find me so we can do the Comrade General’s floor.”

  Jutta gathered her things, and the elevator clunked as it took her up to the higher floors. Lena entered the office and her stomach turned over. The scent of him was still in the room. Pulling the curtains open, she dabbed a piece of newsprint with vinegar and scrubbed. The thousand eyes that watched everything—great idea, clean them so they can see even more. The newsprint made squeaking noises on the glass, and the tang of vinegar made Lena think of Mama’s solyanka. This was a waste of precious time; she wanted to start snooping. Patience. Let Jutta settle into her rhythm.

  All Lena could think about was that she would finally find something helpful, something significant enough to save her uncle. She would send whatever she discovered to Herr Schulmann. There would be an international outcry. Maybe the Other Berlin would send spies to rescue him, or there would be official negotiations. Something would happen.

  Get him out? Right, out to the West. But if you went with Max— No, it was a tunnel, remember? And she couldn’t do that to Auntie. She wouldn’t. But if Erich gets out.

  Lena set down the newsprint. Jutta would be busy by now. Let Herr Dreck deal with his own smudges. She found his key, which she’d seen him tuck beneath the telephone countless times when he’d thought she wasn’t paying attention, and went straight to one of the large cupboards. It was filled with an intimidating number of boxes, each of which was packed with files. Some were organized by number, others by name. Trust him to have his own filing system.

  But wait, these weren’t just numbers. They were addresses. Lena wasn’t sure where to look first. The streets weren’t in any order, and there were names thrown in seemingly at random. One name caught her eye: the People’s Theater of Prenzlauer Berg.

  With great care she pulled out the file—remember, remember exactly where it goes—and opened it. The theater troupe had an extensive file. There were notes on all the actors, including Max: his age, where he’d been to school, details on his time in service, the books he’d taken out of the library recently, the girlfriend he’d had—before Lena? Now? The file didn’t specify. It only said her name was Rita and she was a figure skater: A little on the pudgy side was added in cramped handwriting.

  But Rita wasn’t the important part. What? Yes, she was.

  No, Mausi. Look. At the bottom of Max’s page were two words: flight risk. They knew.

  She flipped through the other pages. Some of the actors’ names she didn’t recognize, but then she found Dieter’s page. He likes to paint portraits and once considered a career in flower arranging. They suspected him of homosexuality. He, too, had flight risk written at the bottom of the page.

  Who was the third one? Bem, with the big nose. She read right through to the end of the file but didn’t find any mention of him. Maybe that wasn’t his real name—it sounded more like a nickname. She went through the pages a second time. The nickname would surely be in there. It would be So-and-So, also known as Bem, wouldn’t it? But there wasn’t any mention of Bem anywhere. Because he’s the one doing the telling.

  Was that how it worked?

  In the file there was a handwritten declaration of willingness to work for the Stasi. It had been signed, but the signature had been blocked out and replaced by the word Kingfisher. That must have been a code name. Another letter recommended the launching of a surveillance operation to monitor certain people who were negatively inclined toward the State.

  Who was Rita? Should Lena ask Max? She would have to tell him about this file, at least. If they knew he was planning to leave, if they were using a reliable source, she’d have to tell him. And maybe casually mention figure skating, or pretend she had a cousin named Rita and gauge his reaction.

  Why had she told Jutta about Max? Herr Schulmann had warned her about friends with dangerous leanings. What if she’d gotten him in trouble? Suddenly Jutta came crashing down the hall calling Lena’s name. She slammed the file shut, its contents in disarray, and threw it into the cupboard, then closed the doors and grabbed her balled-up piece of newsprint. Squeak, squeak, it went on the windows.

  “Where are you, child?” Jutta’s voice was louder now.

  “In here.” Calm down. But the wasps were going wild. There was Rita, and flight risk, and the possibility that Bem was an informer. There was also if you get caught doing this you will go to prison. Or the uranium mines. Or who knew where—really? You don’t know? She knew. Pastel landscapes, padded rooms—hush, hush.

  Jutta opened the door. “I trust you’ve done the other offices already. This isn’t going to be one of those molasses nights, is it?”

  “I’ve done some of them,” Lena said. What if she checks? But she wouldn’t. She only pretended to care because she liked giving the orders.

  “You’d better pick up the pace or we’ll be sweeping around the agents’ shiny shoes tomorrow morning, and they won’t thank us for that. We’ll meet on the third floor at midnight.”

  Lena had poked around enough in Herr Dreck’s office. After Jutta left, she returned the file to its proper place, straightening the papers and resisting the urge to reread Max’s page. She would do more tomorrow. In the meantime, she got down to work.

  *

  At midnight she met Jutta in the Comrade General’s rooms. Maybe tonight is not the best night for this. No, Lena couldn’t delay. Time might be running out for Erich, and who knew what tomorrow would bring for her? A change in the work order, a transfer to another building. She had to do it tonight.

  Lena could hardly stand the waiting—be thorough, be normal, sing something. She sprayed disinfectant onto Mielke’s special red telephone, not the solution that smelled like turpentine because Comrade General Mielke didn’t want his office to smell like a railcar. Again she left her duster behind. Again she suggested doing the bathrooms. They did the bathrooms. They took a break. Then Jutta stepped into the elevator to go upstairs and told Lena to do the main floor.

  Lena had never mopped the foyer faster in her life. Hello, red flags. Hello, Herr Marx, Herr Dzerzhinsky, soapy water splashing the bases of their pedestals. And then—you seem to have misplaced your duster. She climbed the stairs as quickly as she dared and entered Comrade General Mielke’s office. The key was under the right boot. Steady your hand. Go back to those desk drawers. There was his hair tonic, pencils, notes for this and that. Careful. Put everything back in its place. Another drawer: in it were stacks of paper that had nothing to do with the West.

  And then—yes, she remembered having seen this one. It was a list of places in West Berlin, together with a map: bridges, airports, train stations. Radio and television stations. They were all places that might be the first targets during an invasion. Was it possible? The heading on the page said Day X. There were suggestions for new street names, and medals being made in anticipation of bravery. Lena took out the camera, positioned it over the sheet, and snapped a photograph.

  In the next document was a
diagram filled with arrows. Code name: THRUST. There were notes and more notes, which became clearer as she skimmed them. The Eastern forces would comprise 32,000 men, made up of members of the People’s Army, Soviet forces, and People’s Police Alert Units. They planned to invade West Berlin over three days, overpowering its government and military defenses. They had tanks, a fighter-bomber squadron, helicopters, guns, and mortars. Lena found lists of regiments and battalions, different types of aircraft, and routes for the ground forces to follow. The Stasi’s job would be to occupy police stations, intelligence offices, and research centers, and arrest any troublemakers. They seemed to know already who the troublemakers would be: senior police officers, important politicians, unsympathetic journalists, intelligence officers, people with scientific or technological secrets, anti-communist leaders, and others. It was a long list.

  Could they take over an entire city in three days? They put up the barbed wire for the Wall overnight. They could do it.

  None of these documents had carried meaning the first time Lena had seen them, but this time it was different. Thank you, Hans. She felt like opening the bottle of hair tonic and pouring it all over Mielke’s chair so his pants would be soaked with it the next time he sat down. Plans and diagrams—it was so easy when you did it from a desk. Arrows, lists, place names—it was merely a puzzle, an arrangement of X’s and Y’s that had nothing to do with the people who would be affected by it.

  “Protect peace by making socialism stronger”: that was the slogan on the banner she and Auntie had carried in the parade on Republic Day. All the vows they’d made in youth group to love peace—it was a puppet show, and they were the puppets.

  Lena took pictures of everything, and then carefully put the sheets back. She replaced the key beneath the boot, gathered her duster, and went downstairs, the camera in her pocket beside her hairbrush. The sight of Jutta on the second floor startled her so badly she dropped the duster and it clattered to the floor.

  “Where were you?” Jutta demanded.

  Think fast. “Looking for you. I thought you needed help.”

  “You don’t have enough to do, Pippi Langstrumpf?”

  “I was trying to do a kindness for you.” Her voice cracked.

  “Oh.” Jutta’s face softened and Lena felt guilty for lying. “My floors are under control. I’m going for a smoke break. Get back to the main floor and keep those feet moving.”

  Lena did her best not to fall down the stairs on her shaking legs. When she got to the foyer she steadied herself against the statue of Marx. She’d done it. Some of it. Not the most important part. She hadn’t found Erich, but at least now things made sense.

  Her mind wandered as she vacuumed the hallway. Should she contact Herr Schulmann about West Berlin now? Wait until you know for sure what happened to Erich. Who knew how many times she’d be able to fool Peter with the radio? Once, yes. Twice, maybe not. It wasn’t worth the risk.

  *

  That afternoon, the front door of the People’s Theater of Prenzlauer Berg was locked, so Lena went around to the back. When she knocked, it was Bem who answered. He said “Hi” and “You’re the girl from under the table”—God, he knows that too. What has he said to them about you?

  So many words crowded into Lena’s mouth she didn’t dare speak. She wasn’t sure which ones would edge out first. She studied his face for signs of betrayal. Surely it would show somewhere: a shift in the eyes, a crease at the mouth. But there was nothing, only his giant nose, and his small eyes crowded against it.

  “Are you all right?” Bem asked. “You’re here for Max, huh?”

  All you have to say is yes. So—“Yes.”

  “I’ll fetch him for you. But you can’t keep him long. We’re rehearsing a new play.”

  He shut the door and Lena waited alone outside, wishing things hadn’t gotten so complicated. Someone yelled from a nearby window for a child to hurry up. A crow cawed; a breeze picked up. Real life never stopped. All she wanted to do was disappear into Max’s strong arms, lose herself in the lemon scent of his soap, shrink the world down to lips and skin.

  The door creaked open and there he was, with his misbehaving hair and his not-Slavic dimple. “Hi,” he said in a rush of breath, taking her in his arms. He hadn’t bothered to wear a coat.

  Lena wanted the kiss to last forever, but they didn’t have much time. “We need to talk.”

  Max held her away from him. “What’s the matter?”

  She shook her head. “Do you have time to walk? Bem said—”

  “Don’t listen to Bem. He’s way too keen on all this acting stuff.”

  Don’t listen to Bem. Someone was listening to him. Kingfisher. You don’t know that for sure. She walked down the alley, leaving Max no choice but to follow. “Tell me,” she said when they were far enough away from the theater, “who are all the people in your troupe? How many actors?”

  Parked cars were everywhere. The ones nearest them were empty, but Lena kept her eyes open. A man sitting in a Lada, pretending to read the newspaper—he had to be here somewhere.

  Max listed off the actors on his fingers. “There’s Margitta—”

  “Right,” said Lena. “The girl who failed math in Oberschule and may or may not have a boyfriend she’s corresponding with in Portugal.”

  “Do you know her?” Max asked.

  “Sort of.”

  “All right. There’s Dieter. He was at the pub that day we first met. You remember him?”

  “Possible homosexual,” Lena said.

  “Hmm, I never thought of that. He does wear a lot of flowery shirts. There’s Petra.”

  “The girl with relatives in Munich who send her knitting magazines.”

  “Do they?” Max stopped walking. “Wait, how do you know all this? What’s going on?”

  Lena looked around, as if the trees might be listening. It was ridiculous to be this paranoid, and yet maybe that had been her big mistake. She hadn’t been paranoid enough. “There’s a file on all the members in your troupe. I found it in one of the offices I clean. You’re in there too.”

  “Me?” The color drained from Max’s face. “This is a joke. You’re kidding.”

  “Do you want to tell me about the figure skater? Rita, right?”

  “Mein Gott.”

  “Are you still going out with her?” The rage came out of nowhere. Lena’s face grew warm and she wriggled away from his arm.

  “Is that what this is about?”

  Yes. “No. Not only that. At the bottom of your page it said you were a flight risk.”

  Max started laughing. “Sure it did. I’m an actor in Prenzlauer Berg. It probably said that at the bottom of every page.”

  Think back. “No, it didn’t. Only you and Dieter.”

  “And Bem,” Max said. “That must have been on Bem’s page too. He’s coming with us.”

  “Bem doesn’t have a page in the file.”

  She could see Max’s shoulders tense through his T-shirt. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not saying anything. I’m just telling you what I saw. I went through the whole file twice. All the actors were in it except Bem. Someone named Kingfisher signed a declaration of willingness to work for the Stasi.”

  “Kingfisher. That could be anyone.” Max was walking as if his legs had turned into wood. “Maybe Bem’s page had been taken out for some reason. To update it or whatnot. Maybe it was on someone’s desk or in another office.”

  Lena’s mouth went dry. Bruno Drechsler’s desk had locked drawers which were probably full of files. She hadn’t had time to look through them.

  But Max wasn’t finished. “Whatever it is those important men do in that wonderful place where you work.”

  Ah, now comes the truth. It always came down to Stasi headquarters sooner or later. “I risked my job for you. If I had gotten caught—”r />
  “Have you considered working somewhere that doesn’t make you dirty?”

  “I only clean the building, Max. I don’t work there in that way.”

  “Right. Only now you’re telling me one of my friends, someone I’ve trusted with the most important secret of my life, is an informant. Bem’s the one planning the whole thing. He knows the people at the tunnel. How could he—how could he be—how could—” But the question wouldn’t come out no matter how many times he tried to ask it. “I have to get back.”

  He walked toward the theater, but Lena didn’t follow him. “I’m trying to help you. Don’t you understand that? I’m trying to warn you. If you go—”

  He marched back to her and spoke through clenched teeth. “I am going. We’re going, the three of us. I know I asked you to come, but now—”

  “Now you don’t trust me.” Lena wanted to punch him, and she might have, except for one small thing. What if he’s right? You didn’t check Drechsler’s desk. Even so: “It said you were a flight risk.”

  “Nearly everyone’s a flight risk, except maybe you. True believer—you’ll never leave.”

  That was how quickly it happened. Just when she thought she’d found her One True Love, he stormed away.

  — 24 —

  being normal is overrated

  Dear Herr Honecker, Mr. General Secretary,

  I believe my pig is whistling. Didn’t you know about the freight car factory in Magdeburg that was not making freight cars, or anything even close to freight cars? Didn’t you know about the plan to take over West Berlin? My parents were in that factory when it exploded, Mr. General Secretary. And now my uncle is—

  Lena ripped the letter into tiny pieces and sprinkled them into the trash. It made her feel better to think about sending something like this, but it was pointless. Takeover of West Berlin, Lena? the doctors would say. Hush, now. You’re getting overheated.

  It was all true, and all lies—just like Erich had explained about writing a novel.