The House of One Thousand Eyes

by Michelle Barker

  Lena put down her embroidery and made herself smile. Auntie deserved that, at least. “I’ll help you plant them.” Before I go and make both our lives a misery. Tomorrow was Saturday. She and Peter would collect recyclables and work in the courtyard, then spend the afternoon on some radio instruction. Auntie had only agreed after making sure Peter’s parents would be home. Let’s use frequency 14.285, Peter. Can I say something? Just one thing: I promise it won’t be subversive. She was despicable.

  Tomorrow was the day her life would change forever. She could at least pretend for twenty-four hours more that everything was all right.

  That night Lena took the camera to work with her just in case. There were still some important unanswered questions, and she hoped to give Günter Schulmann as full a picture as she could. As a student, she had never left a question blank on an exam. She didn’t want to start now.

  Jutta was smoking in the ashtray room as usual, a mug of bitter coffee beside her. “Did I ever tell you about my mother? I mean my impostor mother, not my real one. I don’t know my real one.”

  Lena let her talk. The sound of her voice was soothing, in a way. And it was immensely satisfying to think of the person on the other end having to listen to and take notes on the most boring conversation ever. Lena was tempted to say hello to him, the way people sometimes did on the telephone. Whoever’s listening, please let us know if you need us to repeat anything.

  Instead she said, “My mother was a swimmer.”

  Jutta studied her, evaluating this new fact. She tapped one of Lena’s shoulders, then the other. “I can see it. Your bone structure. I bet you swim too.”

  “When the pool is open, yes.” She talked about pool repairs, and the petition they’d sent to the authorities. And so it went: a conversation about nothing. They gathered their supplies and crossed the compound to House 1. Lena took the stairs; Jutta took the elevator.

  When Lena reached the second floor, every room lining the hallway was dark. She loosened her grip on the bucket. It seemed Herr Dreck was well and truly gone from her life. She switched on the Purimix and vacuumed the corridor, humming the Sandman tune, letting Jutta know she was hard at work. One last search through his office, and then she’d be done.

  Lena went into the room next to Herr Dreck’s and flicked on the light. She brought in her Purimix and started it. If Jutta happened to pop down to the second floor, she would see light and hear the machine. Meanwhile—

  She slipped into Herr Drechsler’s dark office and switched on the small desk lamp. It wasn’t the best lighting, but it would have to do. The last thing she wanted was to get caught at this late stage. She was reaching for the key when . . . What was this? He had left papers on his desk. This was carelessness of the highest degree. If only there was a spot security check that night, he would be dragged into Mielke’s office and forced to think on his feet again.

  She flipped through the documents—boring, boring, boring—and then felt guilty. These were real lives she was dismissing, decisions with consequences not just for those directly concerned, but also for their parents, their children, their spouses. Who knew the power contained in a no? A line crossed through something important, a notation in the margin to send Herr So-and-So an invitation to lunch with a few Stasi agents and an offer he couldn’t refuse. We’ll take your children away. You’ll lose your job.

  She began going through another pile—then tumbled backward, right into Herr Dreck’s big chair, nearly toppling it. Her hand shook so badly she could barely read the page it held, no matter how hard she tried to steady it. Near her head, a sound was coming closer. Fast, and faster. A swarm of wasps so loud it sounded like an approaching plane.

  It was a preliminary death report—for Erich Altmann. Occupation: writer. Date of death: October 12, 1983. Two days ago, of natural causes. The man who’d never been born was dead.

  Lena took out the camera, placed the death certificate beneath the circle of light made by the desk lamp, and pressed the shutter button so hard it hurt her finger.

  Snap. Did he suffer? Of course he did: a plank bed, isolation, constant questioning, no sleep. They would have fed him undercooked potatoes and meat fit only for dogs, though the food was hardly the worst thing at Hohenschönhausen.

  Snap. Would the authorities even bother to send Auntie a letter? We regret to inform you . . . Lena stared at the official document until her eyes burned, then folded it and stuck it in her pocket. Herr Dreck would think he’d lost it. Maybe he’d get in trouble, but she doubted it. They could fill out another one. What difference did it make to them?

  Günter Schulmann would get these photographs; Lena would make sure of it. Even though they wouldn’t bring Erich back, they would mean something. She switched on the overhead light and picked up her broom. Smash something, Mausi. Just one thing. It will make you feel better.

  But she didn’t get the chance. She sensed, before she saw—maybe because of the warmth, or maybe it was the scent. He was there. He’d been there all along.

  The breath left her body.

  “Fräulein, is that you?”

  The door was already shut. He locked it and shut off the main light. Only the desk lamp remained lit, one small bright circle in the darkness.

  “I was right to suspect you. Always follow your gut, you know? Others would have said, ‘Her? That cleaning girl, little Lena Altmann? She doesn’t have it in her.’ But I knew you did.”

  He knows your name. There’d been some irrational part of Lena that had imagined she would be safe as long as he only knew her as Fräulein.

  “You killed my uncle.” Hatred was not just something you felt. It had its own body, its own beating heart, and it could consume you from the inside until there was nothing left of you. If she’d had a weapon, she would have stabbed Bruno Drechsler with it right then.

  “Your uncle had lung cancer, in the advanced stages. It was only a matter of time.”

  The worst thing was that Lena couldn’t completely disbelieve it. All those years in the mines, the cough that had been getting worse: it was possible.

  “Give me the camera,” Herr Dreck said.

  Lena slipped it into her pocket. “What camera?”

  In two steps he was in front of her, shoving his hand into her pocket. “Don’t play games with me. You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

  Though she didn’t want to touch him, she grabbed his wrist, but he twisted away easily and emptied the contents of her side pocket: hairbrush, camera, death certificate. He tossed the brush onto the floor, but tucked the camera and the document into his jacket.

  What does it matter? You’ve seen the truth. Herr Dreck couldn’t take that from her. “I know about the invasion of West Berlin.”

  She might as well have dumped her bucket of mop water on him. He stood absolutely still and stared at her for a long time. You shouldn’t have said that.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he said.

  “Yes, you do.” Stop. For your own good. But the conversation was a wild horse and Lena was on its back. Hang on or fall off; those were the choices, and it was a long way to fall. “The freight car factory in Magdeburg, where my parents worked. It was a munitions factory, you know it was. The State was planning to take over West Berlin, but the factory exploded. They called it an accident, but it wasn’t.”

  His big square face deflated. “Actually, it was. No one was supposed to have died in that explosion.”

  No one was supposed to have died? “It was planned?”

  “Don’t pin that on me, you Sau. I wasn’t involved in the incident.”

  Incident. That word. Something terrible, smothered in a blanket.

  “A different department handled it,” he added. “And it never should have happened anyway. We had eyes and ears on that site. One of the workers was planning to talk to the West. We had no choic
e but to destroy the factory. But it was supposed to happen at night, when no one was there.”

  No one was supposed to have died. Everyone had died. Lena should have figured it out on her own. The State had planned the explosion, and the result had been the exact opposite of what had been intended. Scheiss Osten. This had been the story of the Better Germany from the beginning.

  “I’ve told you what you wanted to know. And now—” Herr Dreck unbuckled his belt.

  Not this time.

  Lena ran for the door, but her fingers struggled with the lock. Too slow. Herr Dreck raced up behind her and yanked her hands away.

  “I’ll scream,” Lena said. “Jutta will hear me.”

  “Try it.” He clamped a hand across her mouth. With the other, he tried to push her to her knees, but she kicked him in the shins. He winced, even though the blow was not that hard. Aim higher. But she couldn’t; he was using all his weight to force her to the floor. He was so much bigger and stronger than she was. Her legs buckled, and then she was where he wanted her.

  When he took his hands away to pull down his trousers, Lena cried out as loudly as she could, but then she remembered: she’d left the Purimix on in the next room. Jutta wouldn’t hear her. She’d hear the Purimix and assume everything was fine on the second floor. Lena reached out to strike Herr Dreck between the legs, but he caught her hand. Then he squeezed her jaw so that she had no choice but to open her mouth. He held her head back, pulling her hair so hard it made tears come to her eyes.

  It was an accident. At a freight car factory.

  There was no planned takeover.

  Your uncle died of natural causes.

  You don’t have an uncle.

  Which was true. She didn’t have one anymore.

  He thrust so forcefully she was choking. Her eyes watered and snot ran from her nose. She gagged and coughed, and still he pushed it in.

  At last it was over. If only she could throw up like last time. She spat his semen onto the carpet.

  Herr Dreck shrugged. “More for you to clean later.”

  I don’t think so. She would let it dry and harden. “What happened here, Comrade Lieutenant General?” someone important would ask, stepping around the stain in the carpet. Let Bruno Drechsler think up something clever.

  He fastened his trousers, a smug expression on his face. “Enjoy your last night of work in House 1, Fräulein. Effective Monday your employment here will be terminated. Security risk; it was to be expected.”

  Terminated.

  The events of the night fell on Lena like an anvil. It was too much. Erich was dead. And now—her job. She didn’t want to cry in front of this man, and she certainly wouldn’t beg for anything. Let him fire you. On Monday. That gave her two days to make sure Günter Schulmann, and the world, would know the truth. She’d seen it. She’d remember.

  “By the way,” he said as he buttoned his coat, “in case you get any ideas about telling someone about this?” He held up the camera. “I have a copy of your admission forms to the asylum. With your history of mental illness, no one will believe a word you say. Especially without proof.” He walked out, clicking the door shut behind him.

  Lena needed to sit down, but not in Herr Dreck’s leather armchair, with the patches worn away by his body. She sat on the carpet in the dark, rested her face in her hands, and wept.

  Where was the Wall, the one in her mind that could make everything feel okay? Too late for that. You’re deep in the middle part now. Was it the trip wire that had gotten her? Or the lights? Please don’t say it was the dogs. What did it matter? Once you were stuck in the middle part, it was over.

  There was no way to pretend this hadn’t happened. So she got up, fetched the Purimix from the office next door, and went back to work.

  The minutes passed like soldiers on parade: methodical, mechanical. They knew where they were going, and so did she. Someone would telephone Auntie. Arrangements would be made. “There wasn’t enough progress, Frau Keller, it’s not your fault. You were the Guardian of a Difficult Child.” Lena would be allowed to pack a small bag: nothing subversive, nothing sharp.

  In the morning, when her shift was over, she lingered in the ashtray room. Jutta was putting on her coat, and Lena wrapped her arms around her. Jutta’s coat smelled like cigarette smoke and fried onions.

  “What is it, child? What’s gotten into you?”

  “You’re still a great beauty,” Lena said to her. “Thank you for helping me.”

  “It’s only the weekend, you silly goat, not the end of your life.” Then Jutta stepped back and took Lena by the shoulders. “Was he here tonight? Did something happen?”

  Lena’s face grew hot. “It’s okay.”

  “It most definitely is not okay. I’ll put in a request to change the work order. We’ll switch floors permanently, see how he likes that. I’ll do it first thing Monday, don’t you worry. Now go, have a good weekend.”

  First thing Monday. Too late.

  Lena walked over to House 18 and entered the schrullig world, probably for the last time. In the entire year that the special grocery store had been open, she had never once bought anything to take home. She’d seen others leave with grocery bags, but somehow she’d never believed she was allowed.

  “I’ll have three oranges, please, and three bananas.” Lena paid for the fruit and packed it into her bag.

  Ernst was not on duty at the compound gate. It was the other man, the one who kept a firm grip on his rifle and made sure not to smile. Lena walked home in the quiet of Saturday morning. The air was damp, the sky misty with indecision—to rain or not to rain. By the time she arrived at the housing development, she was still not sure how to break the news to Auntie that she had lost her job.

  Before mounting the stairs, she checked the mail—nothing. Then she went into the courtyard to check on the tiny tree. It was still standing, maybe less droopy than before. She patted the ground around it. “Hang on,” she whispered.

  — 26 —

  how about 14.285?

  When Lena arrived at the apartment, her egg was still warm. The eggcup stared at her with its happy-chicken face. Everything in its world was fine. Sausage Auntie asked, “How was work?” Lena’s jaw was sore, and her scalp still hurt where Herr Dreck had pulled her hair.

  Tell her. But she couldn’t. Instead, she took a banana from her bag and set it on the table.

  Auntie stared at it as if it had dropped from the ceiling. “Where did you get this?”

  Lena said nothing. It felt grand to bring home something special. She wished she’d done it sooner.

  Auntie wanted to cut the banana in half, but Lena said, “No. You take the whole thing.”

  She hugged Lena and tucked it into her bag before leaving for school.

  That afternoon Lena overslept, and Peter had to collect the recyclables without her. When she woke up, she went down to the courtyard and passed nails to Hans as he built the enclosure for their raised garden, the one where turnips would grow. Turnips she’d never get to eat.

  She brought him an orange and a banana. “I lost my job,” she said to him. “Please don’t tell my aunt.”

  Hans put down his hammer. “There are other jobs. And working at Stasi headquarters? Not such a loss.” Though the fresh fruit at his side had a different opinion.

  Lena pressed the sharp end of a nail against her fingertip. “I think something very bad is going to happen to me.” I have a copy of your admission forms.

  “It’s never as bad as you think,” he said. “Whatever it is.”

  But that wasn’t true; sometimes it was worse. Erich was dead. Lena knew too much. And the men who sat under the orange space helmets would get to decide what happened to her. This time, they knew exactly which buttons to press to send her into a black hole.

  In the center of the courtyard stood the willow tree, prote
cted by its wall of sticks so no one would step on it by mistake. “Will you take care of it for me?”

  “You’ll take care of it,” Hans said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  When she came back upstairs Auntie was home, dusting her porcelain dogs with a green rag.

  “You don’t have a German shepherd in your collection,” Lena said. German shepherds were one of the big dogs that the border police used; the ones with the woof as deep as a cave.

  “I’m missing many breeds.” Auntie said this with great sadness. “Helmut had planned to get me some first-rate porcelain from his brother in the West, but we had to break off contact with him.”

  If I go to the West, I’ll find a store that sells the best porcelain and I’ll send you some dogs. One per month, maybe. Not in the mail, because the workers in Department M would either smash them or steal them. She’d send them through Günter Schulmann: Western editor and smuggler of porcelain dogs.

  If she went. Would she? How would she endure the tunnel? And what would they do to Auntie? Tell everyone she was a lesbian? Or maybe a prostitute, or a raging alcoholic. She would lose her membership in the Party, all her special relationships. This apartment. Her job as a teacher.

  Lena couldn’t bear to think about it any longer. It was time to go to Peter’s. She wasn’t sure she could stomach Military Papa that afternoon, but she was also feeling reckless. There was no longer anything to lose. Erich was dead, and Lena had no future. The worst had happened—or was about to. She could do whatever she wanted.

  Lena knocked on their door harder than necessary. When Frau Military Papa answered, Lena said, “Hi. I don’t want tea, so you don’t have to pretend you want to make me some.” She took off her shoes and left them in a crooked heap next to the line of straight ones.

  “My goodness, did you leave your manners at home?” Frau Military Papa said.

  Military Papa stared at her, straight-backed at his straight table, with all his receipts in straight rows (prolonged applause). “I’ve a good mind to march right over and tell your aunt how you’re behaving.”