by Anna Ellory
In an instant, the past seemed to have cleared and she realises she is on the floor. She changed the locks, she has filed for a divorce, and yet here she is again, exactly where she left.
‘No,’ she says, thinking of Eva. Fight back. Miriam stands abruptly, so he is on the back foot.
‘I thought this might make you reconsider.’ He opens the envelope and tips paper over her. She shrinks away from it, unsure what it is. But when the paper flies past her vision she knows, familiar yet broken.
‘What is this?’
‘This is what happens when you leave. I had no choice, Miriam, just know there was no choice. Your psychosis comes from this. This destruction.’ But his words fade as she realises what is in front of her.
Her only picture, the footprints on pale blue paper. The photograph from the hospital too, scattered around her.
‘You needed to cleanse the house of all the pain. The memory that broke us. You took too much medication, and . . . well, it’s lucky I found you, right?’
Suddenly he is too close to her, surrounding her like a swarm of bees, she cannot hear what he is saying or understand any of it.
‘Come back to me, my love,’ he whispers. ‘It’s not too late to try again. A new baby, what do you say? You’re not too old yet, right?’ She looks at all the paper on the floor and up at the man in front of her. He’s played his hand, he looks euphoric.
‘After Michael,’ she says, hushed and calm. ‘I couldn’t do that twice. There will never be another baby for us,’ she says.
He looks confused. ‘But we tried for years.’
‘I got pregnant six months after Michael. I had an abortion. I had my tubes tied. I was never going through that again.’ She cries. ‘I couldn’t do it again.’
He looks at her. ‘Oh, my Mim, what did you do?’ He wipes away Miriam’s tears with his thumb. He bends and kisses her softly; it’s a kiss from the past. She kisses him back, full of passion and pain and loss of their child. Longing for a life she had hoped for.
He kisses her long and slow and deep and moves into her open body, he removes her trousers and she steps out of them. She moves closer in to him trying to sink into a touch she hasn’t felt in years; into the love of the man she married; into her own dreams.
He breaks away and slaps her across the face. She steps back, stunned, but he hits her again so hard she falls to the floor.
‘You disgust me,’ he says. ‘You liar. Did you murder him too?’
‘Who?’ She touches her cheek, the skin tingling like shards of glass.
‘Michael. Did you murder him like the other one? Abortion.’
‘No! I loved Michael, and you know it.’
‘Couldn’t have kept him till his time though, you gave birth too soon.’
‘It wasn’t my fault, I tried. But you remember, before we lost him, that night, what you did to me? You hurt me.’
‘And I’ve not forgiven myself, but the doctors said it was no one’s fault. That we couldn’t have done anything to prevent it.’
‘You shouldn’t have raped me,’ she says quietly.
‘Raped you? Raped you? Miriam, I am your husband. Look at you, you are practically naked and throwing yourself at me and look at me.’ He gestures dramatically. ‘I don’t want you at all.’
‘You just want to hurt me.’
‘Hurt you? When you’ve broken my heart?’
‘I can’t hear this anymore,’ she says and pulls on her trousers. ‘I don’t care that I have nowhere to go. I cannot be around you, Axel. Divorce, hospital or jail. I do not care. Anything is better than this.’
She moves to the hallway on wobbling legs then grabs a coat from the rail.
She doesn’t hear him behind her. She doesn’t see his hand raised. She doesn’t see the look in his eye. But she feels his sweaty hand as he grabs the back of her neck, and she feels the door slam her in the face.
‘Miriam, Miriam, Miriam,’ he says, as she reels from the shock of impact and is turned so she faces him.
Fingers clutch at her neck, she cannot move. Her limbs have given up the fight, and the more she tries to push back against him, the tighter his grip, until a red haze falls across her vision.
‘This will not do,’ he says and bends so they are eye to eye. Her back is now at the door.
In a millisecond she moves, lunging forward and up, knocking into his nose with her forehead. He stumbles back and blood seeps through his fingers as he covers his nose with both hands. Miriam cowers away from him, up the hallway, away from the front door to her father’s room.
Trapped in her own home.
He is dripping blood from his nose, his eyes are black.
‘I . . . I . . .’ she stammers but no words come out.
‘If I can’t have you Miriam . . .’
He moves towards her, and instinctively she backs away, but trips over the step to the bathroom. He grabs her ankles and pulls her underneath him. Sitting on her chest he places both hands around her neck and blood drips on to her face. His full body weight is crushing into her. She cannot breathe and although she is kicking her feet and scratching at his hands, trying to move . . .
Nothing happens.
The black of his eyes seeps into her until she is surrounded by his darkness. She cannot see anything.
Her eyes open, yet only black crumples around her.
Her body stops fighting.
Her hands loosen on Axel’s wrist.
She drifts away, into the velvet sea.
HENRYK
I could not find a way to really know if Frieda died, in all those years.
I thought of her often, but I saw uniforms. I heard laughter. I tasted flames and human ash. My feet cramped and froze over and my body refused to move. I sat for hours, rigid, my mind willing my body to move, but it would not. My nose burned and my eyes watered, then dried so that every blink felt like sandpaper, drawing blood-tears. Not for anything could I make myself move, even if Frieda was just across the street.
In the end, after years of torturing myself over my desk with maps and memoirs, to see if anyone mentioned her, the radio came to my aid:
‘We interrupt this broadcast to bring you breaking news that protestors are destroying the Berlin Wall. Although police are present, this is seemingly a peaceful protest. People young and old are using hammers, rocks or bare hands to remove the Wall. No one is said to be hurt, but the Berlin Wall is coming down . . .’
And as if the newscaster’s voice melted the chains tying me to my desk, I stood, gathered a few things in a bag, took out the money in the safe and placed it in my wallet and left the house, leaving the key with Lionel at the desk.
But I didn’t get far.
33
MIRIAM
A voice shouts at her. A voice from the land, way off in the distance. An enormous crash reverberates around her and the noise stuns her back.
The pressure around her neck falls away. She feels the carpet under her back and Axel, no longer holding on to her neck, sags on top of her. Miriam pushes against the dead weight, but cannot move him. She sees a shadow towering over her. She cannot think straight, but knows that someone is there.
Eva!
Eva lifts the intercom phone over her head and brings it down over Axel again. It chimes, and the splintering sound makes Miriam turn her head away and vomit. Axel’s body slumps to the side.
Pushing Axel completely off, she wiggles free.
Eva grabs her under both arms and hauls Miriam to her feet. She sways and wobbles, leans against the wall and slides slowly to the floor.
She watches Eva take off her own coat and wrap it around her. Then wipe Miriam’s face with the sleeve of her dress. She can still see spots across her vision, but she is held by Eva’s arms and sits stunned, looking at Axel prostrate on the floor.
‘Is he dead?’ she whispers.
‘No, he’s breathing, look.’
She sees his chest rise and then fall, with it a grunt. She stands and staggers
back, straight on to Eva’s feet.
He remains on the ground.
‘Shall we call the police?’
‘Maybe an ambulance.’
Miriam looks at Eva, whose face is full of worry. ‘It looks like you need one, Miriam.’
‘I’m fine,’ is her reflex response, but Miriam is unsure if she is even whole.
Eva covers her in the coat and buttons it up, then taking her by the hand and elbow she guides Miriam out of the apartment and down the stairs.
She finds herself facing the doors of the entrance hall, looking at the lights from outside reflected a thousand times like stars trapped in the glass. Eva passes her a telephone and mimes for Miriam to talk.
‘Operator, what’s your emergency?’ a female voice says.
‘Ambulance,’ Miriam croaks.
She watches as Axel is loaded into the back of an ambulance. He has a white blanket over his legs, an oxygen mask on his mouth and blood all over his face, flaky and darker against his pale skin.
She has a blanket over her shoulders and Eva by her side.
‘How did you get in?’ Miriam asks; her voice is crushed and deep, and very sore.
‘I came by the other day, the locksmith thought I was you, and I didn’t correct him.’
‘You have a key?’
She holds the gold key into the light. ‘I’m sorry, I was worried about you.’
‘Excuse me,’ a paramedic interrupts, ‘can we check you over?’
She allows herself to be poked and prodded, she answers questions and the response from the paramedics is that she needs to attend the emergency department, for observation. They feel the tender swollen skin on her neck, her bright red cheek and the lump on her forehead, and say there is a risk that swelling may cause further damage to the voice box, possible head injury.
‘Axel went to hospital,’ Miriam declares. ‘I am going nowhere near him.’
‘Well, if you have any symptoms of dizziness, vision changes or your neck feels any worse, then make sure you get checked out.’
‘I’ll make sure she does,’ Eva says to the paramedic.
Miriam takes Eva by the hand and squeezes it between hers.
‘Thank you for coming back.’
The paramedics pack up their belongings and say, ‘Happy New Year’ before leaving.
The main hallway is suddenly cold. Miriam shivers uncontrollably and continues to do so until she is back in the apartment. The smell of vomit and rust is overpowering and Eva goes around opening the windows.
Eva helps Miriam wash the blood off her face and hands. Miriam, feeling exposed without clothes on, covers her arm with the large plaster, but Eva doesn’t draw any attention to it as she warms a thick towel. Miriam dries and dresses quickly with Eva’s hands helping her button the clothes where her body still shivers. Dressed in layers of T-shirts and jumpers, Miriam places her mother’s silk gloves on her hands.
‘These are beautiful,’ Eva says.
‘They were Mum’s.’
‘Your father never tidied her things away after she died?’
Miriam’s hands shake so Eva covers them with both of hers. ‘Beautiful,’ she says.
‘I want to keep them that way, and it seems to be working.’
‘Your hands?’
‘Yes, they are a bit better, and I stood up to Axel. Eva . . .’ Miriam sobs. ‘I’m sorry.’
Eva holds Miriam’s hands for a long time before speaking. ‘I saw his face, you did stand up to him, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’ The shakes and sobs do not cease until Miriam is sitting with a scalding coffee in her hands, trying not to spill the contents over the gloves.
Eva collects the tiny shards of paper from the floor without questioning what they are, she places them carefully on the dining-room table next to her letters.
‘Where would you like these?’ She holds up the bag of medicines.
‘I suppose the police will want to talk to me, maybe this is evidence? Leave them, I think.’
‘Why would the police come to you?’
‘Because Axel, well, he didn’t look in a good state. And . . .’ She wants to say that they might believe her now, but the tremor of uncertainty pulls inside her. ‘You don’t think he is dead, do you?’
‘No, he’ll have a great headache and a broken nose from us both. He should consider himself very lucky he didn’t get worse.’
‘We’ll get into trouble.’
‘With whom? He was going to kill you.’
‘Will you tell the police that?’
‘The police have better things to do with their time,’ Eva says, about to walk into the kitchen.
‘Please stop, just sit.’
‘I can’t. I have to do things, get things done, if I stop . . .’ She pauses. ‘I was very scared I was too late. I saw Axel come in, I buzzed but you didn’t answer. Your security guard who thinks he is the fucking Stasi wouldn’t let me in.’
‘He let my husband in though,’ Miriam says, shaking her head.
After a silence that seems to reverberate across the entire room, Miriam squeezes out a small voice and gets Eva’s attention.
‘What a mess.’ Miriam shakes her head.
‘Actually, I think you are quite courageous. When I was in jail, after falling foul of the Stasi “intelligence”, I was regularly taken in for “routine” questioning. Solitary confinement, sleep deprivation, no light.’ Eva takes a long deep breath before continuing. ‘Once a month I was taken in for forty-eight hours. It was less after my husband died. I think they were just trying to cement his loyalty to the party,’ she says, brushing the word ‘party’ away with disdain.
‘One of these “routine questioning” occasions,’ Eva says, ‘I really thought I had reached the end, but then I knew something, something bigger than all this.’ She gestures dramatically. ‘It was as small as a tiny golden speck. Light. It gave me a cause, and I saw that in you when we were at the church tower. You can kill anything if you surround it with a wall.’ Eva presses both her thumbs and fingers together to make a circle. ‘But if there is a tiny light, if there is hope . . .’ She separates her fingers. ‘You can survive anything. The letters and finding Frieda gave you a cause, and I wanted you to keep fighting, no matter what.’
‘So you told me I was a mouse.’ Miriam laughs, but her voice squeaks on the rush of air and they both smile.
‘I wanted you to keep fighting,’ Eva says. ‘I was very scared you wouldn’t. Clotilde didn’t.’
‘Clotilde, your daughter?’ Miriam says stunned. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think I ever will. She stopped fighting. She stopped seeing me, and I never saw my grandchildren again. Filipe was ill for a while, but I think watching his daughter submit to her Stasi husband . . . It was too much. I couldn’t save her.’
Miriam turns away to allow Eva the privacy to dry her eyes and gather her composure.
Miriam speaks carefully, ‘You saved me though, even though I have done nothing to deserve it.’
Neither woman speaks for a very long time.
‘I had a thought,’ Miriam says eventually. ‘The letters should be in a museum or published, or something, they are such a timeless thing. The women, the stories, shouldn’t be lost.’
‘They are not lost, they are with you now.’
‘Yes, but others should read them too.’
‘Maybe. See how you feel after you read them all, they are yours so you can decide. I saw your advert in the paper, about Frieda,’ Eva says. ‘That’s why I came over – you need to read all the letters. I think you will have your answers.’
‘Why?’ Miriam asks. ‘She died, didn’t she?’
‘I think,’ Eva says carefully, ‘I think you should read them all and then you can do what you feel is right.’
Eva stands and brings Miriam the final letters. She places them down on the table next to the dress in its bag on the chair.
‘But first, let’s eat somet
hing. I’ll make another pot of tea.’ She looks at the bag again. ‘It’s amazing how it survived for so long.’
Miriam hears Eva pottering around the kitchen, filling the kettle, and sinks further into the sofa. Closing her eyes, just for a moment . . .
HENRYK
I was sitting on the bus with all the commuters going from Charlottenburg to Checkpoint Charlie. The black suits and briefcases, the newspapers full of yesterday’s news, and idle chat became the noise of my future. I was finally moving and I couldn’t help but smile, I even tapped my toe as we were jostled around. I would find out what happened to Frieda, and for no reason at all, I knew that journey would start at the Wall.
I was ready after all this time. To face what I had done, to finally know, when a volcano of pain started behind my eyes. What if she was alive? She would look at me and see. See all that I had done.
That I threw people into the crematoria, that I never checked if they were alive.
The volcano erupted into my face, pulsing my skin like magma.
That I did not fight, I did not stand up for what was right.
Cleaving my head.
The heat swallowing me whole, a heartbeat and I would fall deep into the flames. Sucked away with only ash to rise.
To steal some bread, to last the night.
The heat to my heart shivers.
Though so many died. How many did I kill too?
It burns its way down my arm.
So it is over. It must be over.
34
MIRIAM
She sinks to the sea floor, under darkness. Frieda’s letters move around her like tiny shoals of fish. A rust-black anchor held tight around her neck embeds her to the seabed. The letter-fish scatter, the anchor rises and her eyes open to a crash.
She sits, suddenly, prepared for what, she doesn’t know. The blanket that has swaddled her falls across her lap.
‘Miriam Voight,’ a voice calls.
‘Yes.’ Her voice comes out so pinched, she places her hands on her neck, then withdraws them as if hot.
She answers the door and the police officers, the same pair from after the ‘incident’, are on the other side. Concern etched into their faces.
