Life Behind the Wall

by Robert Elmer

  “All right, now.” Herr Reinberger rapped on the edge of his desk with his ruler and looked over his funky half-glasses. “I’ve asked Fraulein Stumpff to present her paper first, simply because it’s one of the best I’ve ever seen.”

  Yeah, right. If he knew what was missing from this paper, he’d know what a sham it really was. One of the best? Ja, the paper without an ending. But Herr Reinberger kept going on and on to everybody about what a fine job she and the other top writers had done, and blah blah . . .

  “ . . . And believe me, in the past twenty-two years I’ve seen plenty of papers. Some of them excellent, others nicht so gut.”

  Great. Nothing like a little pressure. Herr Reinberger ran a hand through his spikey gray hair and explained something about their evaluations and grades. On a normal day Liesl rather liked Herr Reinberger. But today she saw him as the enemy, putting her through this stinking trial. Never mind that all five of the top writers had to read their papers. Maybe they’d have an easier time of it, once she made a fool of herself up here.

  What an honor. Liesl could have kicked herself for spending so much time on this paper, so many rewrites, so much — ach, ja.

  “She will read it to you as an oral report, and then she will answer your questions. And I expect you all to pay close attention, because you will fill out evaluation papers. Go ahead, Liesl.”

  That’s when their headmaster, Frau Goudsmit slipped into the back of the class. She did that once in a while, just to watch what the class was doing. And any other time, it would have been fine with Liesl. But today her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as she looked at her teacher, hoping he would take it all back and tell them he was joking. Instead he smiled and nodded at Frau Goudsmit, as if he’d been expecting her. Vielen Dank.

  Thanks a bunch.

  On the other hand, a kid in the second row looked as if he had already settled in for a midmorning snooze. Well, let him. What did she care? She stood up straight behind the podium, the way her father had coached her. This was no big deal, really. Read each word slowly, and pronounce her words carefully. She could do this, and if some people chose to sleep through it, all the better.

  “My paper is about a family split apart by the wall,” she began. “And it starts back in 1948, when my Onkel Erich was thirteen years old. Our age. He told me that — ”

  But as she gathered her papers together they somehow slipped from her grip and —

  No! She might expect this to happen in a bad dream, but not in front of the headmaster and a hundred snickering kids. She felt her face steaming as she stooped to collect her pages off the floor, in random order. Oh, please. She could find page one easily enough, but after that — why hadn’t she written page numbers on them? She straightened up and tried to put the report back in order, but everything looked blurry.

  “Take your time, Liesl,” Herr Reinberger told her, and that helped a little, but not enough. She took another deep breath, because her head had started to feel a little lighter than usual.

  Make that way lighter than usual. But another deep breath didn’t help any. Herr Reinberger’s voice had turned fuzzy, and the room began to spin around her like a carnival ride. She gripped the edge of the podium for balance. The last she remembered, her knees buckled as she fell to the floor.

  “Liesl!” Jürgen came running behind her on the sidewalk. How did he always find her? “Where have you been?”

  She didn’t slow down, just kept walking. He’d probably heard about her fainting in class. Hadn’t everyone?

  “Hey, hold up.” He tried to grab her shoulder, but she shrugged away. He jumped around in front of her and held his arms out, forcing her to stop. “I’m only trying to be friendly, huh? What’s wrong with you?”

  She looked straight at him and did her best to keep her voice steady.

  “Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m just on my way home. Excuse me.”

  She started walking again, forcing him to walk backward. What was he thinking?

  “Sure. Well, I just thought I’d tell you we’ve planned another protest. Thought maybe you’d want to tag along again.”

  Tag along? Liesl shook her head no, but he wouldn’t give up that easily. What was with this guy?

  “I thought you wanted to make a difference.”

  “Of course I want to make a difference. Just not the same way you do. The kind of difference you’re making will just get people hurt.”

  “Come on. When has anybody ever gotten hurt?” He held up his arms again, as if she had called him a criminal. She didn’t answer, but that was apparently enough for him.

  “Fine. You know what you are, Liesl?”

  “I have a feeling you’ll tell me.”

  “You’re a feigling, Liesl.” He kept up with her, still walking backward down the sidewalk. “You say you want to do something important, but when someone hands you the chance, you run.”

  A coward? Wasn’t that something boys called other boys? But by this time Liesl could feel the steam erupting from her ears. And though she could see the lamppost getting closer and closer, she said nothing. Three steps, two, one —

  “Ohhh!” Jürgen crashed backward into the post and stumbled.

  So sorry about that. She took the chance to hurry past.

  “Feigling! Do you hear me? You’ll never get what you want by being sweet and nice. That’s not the way the world works.”

  Liesl stopped for only a moment, not turning.

  “I don’t care how the world works, Jürgen. And besides, I don’t know how old you thought I was, but guess what? I’m only thirteen.”

  She kept walking, and this time Jürgen had nothing to say. Good thing, too.

  16

  KAPITEL SECHZEHN

  PITY PARTY

  “How was school today, Schatzi?”

  Liesl had hoped to slip into her room unnoticed, maybe bury her face in her pillow and have her own private pity party. She deserved a good cry. But no such luck.

  “Okay for most people.” She decided to try for a middle-of-the-road answer, something that wouldn’t get into the details. She would show them the note from the school nurse later.

  She cheered a bit when she realized that her mother had parked herself in front of the television with a box of tissue and hadn’t even looked up. Another episode of “Schwarzwaldklinik,” her mother’s favorite daytime soap opera? But it didn’t quite sound like the Black Forest Hospital.

  Maybe it was just an automatic question, and Mutti wasn’t really looking for an honest answer.

  As in, “Oh, I fainted in front of the entire eighth grade, and I’ll never be able to face my class again so now we have to move to Antarctica where no one knows us.” Good thing she hadn’t bumped anything on the way down and hurt herself. At least she wouldn’t have to explain any bumps or bruises to her mother. They told her afterward she had looked just like a limp noodle or a rag doll — folding up on the floor in front of everyone.

  So much for the best paper Herr Reinberger had ever read. If he wanted anybody else to hear it, he would have to read it to them himself.

  “That’s good.” Sabine didn’t take her eyes off the TV screen.

  Well, maybe Liesl didn’t blame her mother. But she couldn’t help stopping in the hallway to see what held her mother’s attention. Once again she saw a demonstration at the wall — the arrests, the shouting, the protest signs. Only this time several people looked like they were bleeding. Liesl winced as a video clip showed some teenagers lighting a fire beside the wall, climbing the wall, yelling and screaming. Of course the police grabbed them, and Liesl couldn’t tell if the grainy picture was of Jürgen or Katja or one of their friends. She remembered Jürgen’s words. No one was getting hurt?

  But Liesl had her own walls to climb, and as she turned away she nearly stumbled on Oma Brigitte’s purse. Oh! Had it been there since they’d practically had to carry her home, after everything about Fred DeWitt had come out in the open?

  Maybe I should
go see her, Liesl thought, and take her purse back.

  Maybe. Unless her Oma asked about the paper, and — forget about the paper. The good news about fainting was that she’d learned one thing: it really wasn’t about the paper. In fact, without the ending to the story about her American grandfather, the stinking paper wasn’t finished.

  So what am I doing here? she asked herself, feeling a pang of shame. Am I the only one who understands how big this is?

  She watched her mother for a moment longer and it became pretty clear. It was all up to Liesl. Sure, Papa said he would help, and he had sent out a few letters requesting information about the American. But letters took time, and besides, he’d left this morning on another business trip to the factory in Stuttgart. Perhaps he could make some calls from the hotel, he’d said, in between his meetings.

  Sure, everything could wait until he got back. But when would that be — next week?

  And if the American boy wouldn’t help, either, she’d just find what she needed on her own. Well, why not? Newspaper reporters figured out people’s phone numbers all the time, didn’t they? Even halfway across the world. All she had to do was — what, exactly?

  Forget about the pity party. She padded into her father’s den, skimmed through his phone book, and dialed one of the “help” numbers in the front of the book.

  “Hello?” She hoped she was talking to the right operator. “I need a telephone number for Herr Mister Fred DeWitt . . . Oh. Where? Amerika . . . Yes, I know that’s a big place. I was just getting to that. He lives in Greybull, Wyoming state, USA . . . Yes, I’ll wait, danke.”

  As she did, she almost hoped there would be no number for Fred DeWitt, but she knew she’d feel cheated. And after twenty minutes and almost as many calls to operators and directory assistance (half of whom she could hardly understand — so many different odd Amerikanisch accents!) she still didn’t have a number for Mr. Fred DeWitt.

  Or should she call him “Grandpa” DeWitt? Not yet. And maybe not ever, if she couldn’t reach him. She might have to write a letter, after all, the way Nick Wilder had suggested.

  No. She sat by the phone trying to think of a way to find this number, if there was one to find. She knew her call wouldn’t give him a heart attack. She would — she nearly fell off her chair when the phone rang! Speaking of heart attacks. She grabbed the receiver and squeaked, “Ja — hello?”

  “Oh, yeah. Guten tag and wie gehts?” The American boy did his best to say “Hi” and “How’s it going?” Give him credit for trying, anyway.

  “This is Liesl Stumpff.” She kept her voice down so she wouldn’t disturb her mother in the next room. “I speak English, remember.”

  “Liesl Stumpff! That’s great!”

  He hardly took a breath as he went on.

  “Nick Wilder. Remember me? I was afraid your mom had answered.”

  Ja, she remembered. And she waited for him to go on.

  “So I — ” he began into the silence, just as she’d decided to ask what he wanted. Like a dance where both partners try to lead. Finally she told him to go ahead.

  “Okay, fine,” he said. “Anyway, I just called because I told my parents what you were doing, trying to track down Fred, I mean, your grandpa.”

  He paused, as if waiting for some kind of drum-roll in the background. Couldn’t he just come right out and say what he wanted to say?

  “And?” she asked. This American kid was driving her crazy.

  “They thought it was a great idea.”

  “Er, what does that mean, bitte?”

  “It means that my dad called the airport guys back home in Greybull to see if they could tell him how to get hold of your grandpa. And I’ve got a number for you.”

  Another pause. Enough with the pauses, already.

  “Fred’s phone number.”

  17

  KAPITEL SIEBSEHN

  FINDING FRED

  Liesl knew this phone call would take courage. She stared at the string of numbers Nick had given her. He still seemed pretty annoying, but he could be nice, too. About the number, she meant. So, okay.

  She dabbed at her eyes, trying not to get all emotional.

  “Stop it, stop it!” she whispered fiercely to herself as she fanned her eyes. “Leave the crying to Mutti.” Determined, she reached for the phone and carefully punched in the numbers. The international code, the area code, and all the rest. And at first, just silence. Then the line started ringing — three, four, five times. Finally a click told her someone had answered.

  “Hello?” Liesl waited for someone to say something. Instead, she heard the phone fall — thud — some scuffling, and finally a far-away, thick-voiced “Yeah?”

  Did all Americans answer their phones this way? Maybe Nick had given her the wrong number!

  “Er, am I speaking with Fred DeWitt?”

  “Hard to say.” The man cleared his throat and sniffed. “Four in the morning, I have no idea who I am.”

  Four — what? Liesl’s face flushed in confusion as she checked her watch. But it was noon — oh, no! Noon in Berlin. She had totally forgotten about time zones. How stupid of her, forgetting that Wyoming state, USA was — she did the math in her head — eight hours behind!

  “So who wants to know?” he asked, as she nearly hung up in panic. But something in his voice told her not to. She hesitated as she listened to her grandfather’s voice: “Only time someone calls this early in the morning is to bring bad news. Like somebody died.”

  “Nobody died, I don’t think.” Her voice cracked as she pressed the receiver hard to her ear, as if she could feel her grandfather through the line. “And I am so sorry. I didn’t realize — didn’t think. I’m calling from Berlin.”

  “Yeah?” She heard him snort and cough, and imagined him fumbling for the light. She’d better deliver the line she’d rehearsed for hours, before he hung up on her.

  “My name is Liesl Stumpff. My mother is Sabine Stumpff, and her mother is Brigitte — Brigitte Becker DeWitt.”

  “Brigitte?” This time his voice went cold.

  “Your wife.”

  “Used to be.”

  He said nothing for a long while. The soft hiss of the phone reminded Liesl of the sound of listening to a seashell.

  “Are you still there?” she wondered.

  “Still here,” he finally answered. “But — how do I know this isn’t some kind of — scam?”

  “Because it’s not.” This wasn’t going as well as she’d hoped. “And because I have some letters you sent to my grandmother, to Brigitte. One a nurse wrote for you after you were — hurt.”

  Hurt, not killed. She hoped she could read it without breaking down. The other end of the line grew very quiet, just that quiet hissing sound, slightly louder now, like wind through a tunnel.

  “And you need to know,” she went on, “that she read them for the first time just three days ago.”

  “I’m not following.” Now his voice sounded flat, maybe angrier than before, as if she had no right to tell him such things. “Where did you get these letters?”

  “I found them in my great-grandmother’s Bible. She died before I was born and my Onkel Erich had the Bible, but he never used it. He gave it to me for my birthday, and I just found the letters. We think she kept them from Oma Brigitte — I mean your wife. Please don’t be mad.”

  When he didn’t answer, Liesl took a deep breath and read from the first letter in his handwriting, the one that started “I am not the man you married, anymore . . .” But her voice quivered, and she felt very small as she read the lines. It felt wrong to give voice to something so sad and personal. These were, after all, the pleading words of a broken man — though they had never reached the one who should have read them so many years earlier. And now —

  And now when she finished she ignored the tears streaming down her cheeks. She could hear ragged breaths coming from the man in Greybull, Wyoming state. She waited for him to say something, anything, and it seemed like the longest
silence she’d ever sat through.

  “Are you saying — ” He swallowed hard and started over. “Are you saying I have a daughter, and I didn’t even know it? A granddaughter, even?”

  She tried to explain what she knew — the letters, the lies, the wall that had separated her family. She even told him how she’d talked to Nick Wilder and about the communion cup. Of course, he already knew that part of the story. Maybe that would help him believe her.

  “But what about the other fellow?” he finally asked.

  “What other fellow?” Liesl replied.

  “The one her mother-in-law told me she wanted to marry?”

  “That’s just it!” she said, anger tingeing her voice. “There never was another guy. No one else. It was all a horrible lie!”

  “Forgive me if a guy has a hard time believing that. After all these years, I mean.”

  “But it’s true. Oma Brigitte never married again. She raised Erich and Sabine, your daughter, by herself.”

  “Sabine. That her name?” He sighed, long and heavy.

  “Wouldn’t you even want to talk to her? Meet her?”

  Should she have asked that? He must have thought about it for a moment.

  “Listen,” he finally answered. “This is all pretty sudden. I’m not quite sure what to do with this kind of stuff.”

  “I understand.” She didn’t. She couldn’t.

  He went on. “See, a guy like me gets used to the way things are, and it’s not so easy to change gears, just like that. Especially not when someone calls out of the blue at four A.M., tells you she’s your long-lost granddaughter.”

  Out of the blue. She understood this time.

  “But that’s who I am,” she whispered.

  “Okay. But even if what you say is true, and you really are, I can’t just . . .”

  His voice trailed away. Maybe she should have listened to Nick. Maybe she should never have called him like this. She should have written him, given him a chance to ease into the idea of a family a little more slowly.

  “I could mail you the letters, prove to you — ”

  “You don’t have to do that, Lisa — Liesl. That’s a nice name. But tell me something: why are you calling me, and not your mother, or — ?”