by Brianna Hale
My heart moves up into my throat but I keep smiling even though it makes my lip hurt. “I’ve been here a few weeks. You’ve probably seen me around the office.”
“Herr Hauptmann. Can I help you with anything?” Lenore is standing by her desk, an unfriendly expression in her eyes. That’s not like her. Usually she’s all smiles for the officers.
He stays where he is, still watching me and smiling his synthetic, curious smile that makes me want to leap out from behind my desk and run. “Just looking for Volker, Fräulein Hoffman.”
“Herr Oberstleutnant is not here at the moment but I’ll make sure he knows you wanted to see him.” Lenore puts a hard stress on Herr Oberstleutnant as if correcting his insubordination, and gestures for me to come to her desk. “Fräulein Dittmar, can I get your help with this?”
Willing my legs not to shake, I peel myself out of my chair and go over to Lenore. What will happen to me if he remembers where he last saw me? Will Volker be punished, too, or will it just be me who’s sent to Hohenschönhausen?
I feel the Hauptmann’s eyes on me for several moments longer, and then he gets up and leaves. I notice Lenore glaring after him.
Trying to sound curious rather than terrified, I say, “Don’t you like that man? Who is he?”
“Hauptmann Heydrich. And no, I don’t.”
“Why?”
“Herr Oberstleutnant doesn’t like him. No, it’s all right. I didn’t actually need you, I was just getting you away from him.”
I go back to my desk, thinking. Volker not liking Heydrich is enough for Lenore to dislike him? She’s very loyal, so that’s not a surprise. But what can Volker have against him? Remembering Heydrich’s careless use of Volker’s name, the comfortable way he settled himself on my desk to talk to me, I suppose the man’s arrogance could rub Volker the wrong way. There’s probably only room for one self-important autocrat in this building as far as Volker’s concerned.
Twenty minutes later Volker himself strides through our alcove on the way to his office. Lenore calls after him, “Hauptmann Heydrich was here earlier, asking Fräulein Dittmar where you were.”
Volker stiffens, and he turns to me. His tone carefully even, he asks, “Did he talk to you?” But I can see what he really means is, Did he recognize you?
I shake my head. “He didn’t say what he wanted.”
Volker taps his forefinger against his thigh, thinking. He’s got an expression on his face that I haven’t seen before, something akin to wariness. Is he afraid of Heydrich? But from the way he’s looking at me I realize that he’s not afraid for himself. He’s afraid for me. That’s why he changed my name from Daumler to Dittmar, I realize, in case Heydrich got my name from one of the people who were captured during the raid.
Then again, maybe Volker is a little worried for himself. I doubt his superiors would be pleased to hear he’s got a traitor working for him and living with him. How much trouble would he get into if they found out? Those silver epaulettes of his probably get him out of all sorts of crimes.
Like shooting a prisoner. I wince and look down, thinking about Ulrich. Volker’s standing in front of my desk, watching me. Me and my stupid glass face. He’s probably seen every thought I just had flicker across it. There’s a smudge on the side of my typewriter and I rub it carefully, keeping my eyes averted. Finally, Volker realizes I’m not going to look up at him again and he disappears into his office.
Not looking at Volker becomes a habit over the next few days. The bruises on my neck fade to a flat purply-brown and my voice goes back to normal. A few capillaries that had burst around my eyes shrink and disappear, and Frau Fischer pronounces that my lip is healing well and she’ll be able to take the stitches out in a day or two. Volker doesn’t call me into his office to dictate any letters and the drives back and forth between his apartment and HQ are made in silence. I can sense he wants to talk to me but I’m too angry with him, too confused. I don’t want to hear more sad tales from his past.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not curious. I wonder who the woman was, the one who died at Auschwitz. Did he know she was Jewish when he met her? Surely not, or he would have tried to get her out of the country, if he really loved her. So why did she keep being Jewish a secret? Was she afraid of him? Maybe he felt about her the way he feels about me—a dark possessiveness that’s more like ownership than love. Or maybe she just didn’t trust a Nazi officer with the truth.
I wonder too about his time as a prisoner of war and when it was he decided that communism was the way forward. I wonder about his love for Germany. I even envy it. What must it be like to feel so strongly about your country—about anything—that you would devote your life to it, to the exclusion of almost everything else?
But I keep my questions to myself and turn my face away when he offers his arm to help me out of his car, when he offers me a cup of coffee, or when he removes his uniform jacket the second we’re inside the apartment. One evening he even offers me a cigarette, a sardonic glint in his eyes, which makes me angry as he’s reminding me of what happened in his office with the silk stockings.
Things seem like they will go on like this indefinitely until Thursday, when a very strange thing happens.
I’m in the filing room putting away some correspondence when a boy from the mail room walks past the door, stops when he sees me, and comes in with his wire box on wheels. I’ve seen him around the office. He’s nineteen or so and is always whistling or chatting to the secretaries. “Oh good, you’ll save me a trip. I’ve got some post for your Oberstleutnant.”
I clench my teeth. Volker is not my anything, but I bite down on my temper because it was meant as an innocent turn of phrase. I’m about to point out that I’m hardly saving him a trip as Lenore’s desk, where the mail is usually delivered, is only thirty feet down the corridor, when I hear him mutter something under his breath so quietly I’m not sure if I heard him right.
“Are you looking for friends?” He’s still flipping through the envelopes in the basket and I can’t see his face through the fringe of auburn hair that’s fallen over his forehead.
I stare at him. Friends? What does he mean by friends?
When he glances up his green eyes fasten on my lip and the faded bruises on my neck. He’s got lots of freckles on his face, like cocoa powder scattered over cold milk. Still speaking softly, he says, “He did that to you, didn’t he?”
He means Volker. I don’t say anything, letting him draw his own conclusions. There’s a tight, angry look on his face as he holds out a bundle of letters to me, and I take them. “I’ve always thought Volker was a nasty son of a bitch.” In a normal tone of voice he adds, “Hang on, I think there’s some more in here somewhere.”
I flip through the letters, trying to look nonchalant, but my heart is racing. What do you mean, friends? Do you mean people who can get me out? How do you know it’s safe to ask me this? Do you know who I am?
My companion murmurs into the correspondence, “I’m part of a group. We’re all over East Berlin. In offices, factories, the border guards. We can get you out, if you want. Away from him.”
My heart leaps for joy and I’m sure he can see it in my eyes, but I can’t speak. It’s as if Ulrich’s hands are still tight around my throat. My father taught me never to trust strangers and that if something seems too good to be true, it probably is. This boy could be anyone. It could be a trap.
“If you’re interested we can help you. But we’d need you to do something for us first.”
I study a postmark on a letter, hoping that he’ll keep talking. I’ve heard how this sort of thing works. Help has to be earned, like when I did my bit to dig the tunnel beneath the Wall. Ana once told me there are some groups who get each other out leapfrog-style: as new people join, old members can escape. That way the groups’ secrets are kept alive. But how did this young man know to approach me? Perhaps Volker’s sinister reputation and my injuries are enough for to him to believe that I’m suffering enough to want to flee
to the West.
He watches me for a moment, amused that I still haven’t said anything. “You don’t talk much, do you? My name’s Peter.” He hands me another stack of letters and says softly, “Don’t lose hope. And don’t tell anyone we talked.”
I can’t let him go like this. “Wait!” I hiss. When he turns back to me I whisper, “If someone was interested, what would they have to do?”
Peter casts a quick look over his shoulder and comes back into the filing room. “We need dirt on Volker. Things that he has lying around his apartment that might incriminate him. Details of any shady activities. And we want to know where he goes at night. He’s up to something and we don’t like it.”
My excitement dims. Gather information on Volker. Spy on Volker, he who must know every surveillance trick in the book. How long would it take for him to realize what I was doing?
Peter watches my face closely and his eyes brim with sudden amusement. “I know what you’re thinking, but he’s only human. It can be done.” With a jaunty whistle, he grasps his cart and pushes it out into the corridor. I listen to the tune as it fades away, and realize it’s one of the Free German Youth songs that Ana and I would sing on car trips to exasperate my father.
I go over and over the conversation with Peter for the rest of the day, thinking about every time I’ve seen him around the office; trying to discover from these remembered glimpses whether I can trust him.
I can’t trust him. He works for the Stasi.
Yes, but in the mail room. The mail room is probably staffed by ordinary people.
So he just approached me out of the blue and asked if I wanted to flee to the West? Sure. That’s normal.
I look like I’ve been beaten up, and he thinks Volker did it. Maybe that made him angry enough to approach me. And he was honest about wanting something in return.
The needing something in return makes him seem authentic, but I would rather be sure.
That night, I get into bed just after eleven, tense and exhausted, and in my distraction I realize I’ve forgotten to bring a glass of water with me. Telling myself it doesn’t matter I try to fall asleep, but soon my mouth is dry and all I can think of is water, so I throw the covers off and tie a dressing gown over my nightclothes.
The apartment is dark and quiet except for a single lamp burning in the living room, casting a pool of light over stacks of files and paper. There’s no sign of Volker. The papers are just lying there, unprotected.
We need dirt on Volker. Things that he has lying around his apartment that might incriminate him.
Incriminate him in what way, exactly? Does Peter’s group believe he’s involved in illegal activities? Perhaps they are trying to topple him from his position of power. That could be useful to them if they believe that he’s an inordinately good Stasi officer and whoever would replace him wouldn’t have his zeal and cunning. Or maybe it’s just that Volker’s captured a lot of their friends and they want revenge.
These papers that Volker brings home, I’ve always assumed they’re unclassified reports that he reads out of thoroughness, but the possibility crosses my mind that they might be something more. I take a step toward the sofa—
And Volker steps out of the darkened kitchen rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He stops short when he sees me, and studies my face and my long, loose hair. His eyes travel over my fading bruises, the redness of my lower lip. Frau Fischer has taken the stitches out and told me my lip is healing nicely. He steps closer and with a gentle forefinger traces my mouth, his touch feather-soft.
I stand stock still, my heart pounding. Did he see me looking at his reports, and do I look guilty now? I can never trust my face.
Then his finger is gone and his mouth is on mine, his kiss gentle as if careful of hurting me. I feel that magnetic pull toward him as I always do when he’s close to me. In this strange, unpredictable world he is safety, warmth, strength. It’s madness, this desire, but I feel myself sinking deeper and deeper into him just the same. I kiss him back, my mouth opening beneath his.
It’s not madness if his desire for you could be useful.
My eyes open wide and I see his dark lashes against his cheeks as he kisses me. I could do it. Use this against him to escape. But it doesn’t make me feel triumphant, this realization, only wretched, and I shove him away from me.
“No. Stop it.” I don’t want to become like the Stasi, sneaky, lying, betraying. I’m not like them. I’m not like him.
But how badly do you want your freedom?
Not like that. There must be another way.
As I turn toward my room he grasps me by the wrist and pulls me back. “You wanted me for a few moments, Liebling. Remember? You needed me.”
I’m confused, thinking that he’s talking about the incident in his office with the stockings. But then I realize he means how I clung to him, struggling to draw breath after Ulrich strangled me, and begged him not to go. We were both so raw in those moments, so afraid. Amid the blood and pain and fear I had needed him.
“I was weak.”
His eyes flash with anger and frustration but he lets go of my wrist. I’m coming to understand something about Volker. He wants me to go to him willingly despite everything he’s done. He wants absolution. And it’s not even for what he’s done to me, it’s for what happened to her. He can’t forgive himself for her death so I’m to offer some sort of twisted, surrogate forgiveness.
“It’s not even me you want, it’s her. Do you think she’d be happy to see what you’re doing to me? Is this what she’d have wanted you to become?”
But it’s as if he hasn’t heard me, and his voice is low and sinister. “You shouldn’t have clung so sweetly to me, Liebling. You shouldn’t have told me not to let you go.”
He doesn’t follow me into the refuge of my room. I ask myself, my back pressed against the door, why my skin should crawl more at the thought of spying on Volker than the feel of his hands on me.
A few moments later I hear heavy footsteps in the living room, and then the front door bangs shut. Der Mitternachtsjäger is going hunting. I send up a prayer to whomever might be listening that they protect anyone who crosses Volker’s path tonight.
Chapter Fourteen
Evony
He goes out hunting every night that week, slamming out of the apartment just before midnight and not coming back until the small hours. I lie awake waiting for him to return, unable to sleep while he’s abroad, worrying over what he’s doing. In the morning I have gritty eyes and a fuzzy head and come yawning to the breakfast table.
Volker seems much the same as ever, and is even energized by his nocturnal activities. There’s a self-satisfied air about him as he drinks his coffee and reads Neues Deutschland, and his smiles for me are sharp and unfriendly. I had hoped to shame him into better behavior by reminding him of the woman he once—I have to presume—sincerely loved, but he delights in proving that he won’t be shamed. Though I wonder, if late nights don’t exhaust him what was it that gave his eyes their haunted, weary cast the day of the car accident?
During the restless nocturnal hours I spend waiting for him to return to the apartment I worry over the things Peter told me. I’m still not sure that I can trust Peter, and even if I can, what he imagines I can discover about Volker. How will I spy on the Oberstleutnant without him discovering what I’m up to? And, most important of all, can I leave East Berlin without knowing what happened to my father? It’s crossed my mind that Peter could use his network to find out where Dad is. He said that the group had people all over the city.
On the sixth night in a row that Volker has gone hunting I doze off before he returns. I’m awakened in the darkness to the feel of a mouth at my breast. A low moan escapes me as I emerge from sleep, and then I gasp as he moves to suck my other nipple through the fabric of my nightclothes. Volker is sitting on the edge of my bed fully clothed with a bright gleam in his eye.
I glare up at him. “You’ve had a good hunt, have you? You’ve sp
ent an enjoyable night terrorizing my fellow citizens?”
The room begins to lighten as my eyes clear, and I see him smile. “I think you mean my fellow citizens, little traitor.”
“Men like you are despicable.”
He laughs softly. “Then I’m sorry to tell you that you like despicable men.” He palms my breast, rolling the nipple with his thumb and I try not to whimper. The sensation shoots straight down through me to pool between my legs. Desperately I try to summon the words to tell him to get out, but then I remember that I am Volker’s weakness, and I could also be his undoing if I am clever.
He kisses me, and my hands rest on his shoulders, neither pulling him closer nor pushing him away while I think rapidly. This is how I will do it, by making him believe that I’m giving in. He’ll be a difficult man to fool but he might just be arrogant enough to believe it. I’ve tried to think of another way. There isn’t another way.
I allow my body to unclench beneath his hands and I tilt my mouth up to meet his. It’s not difficult to shift from angry and rebuffing to tentative surrender as that’s how it’s been between us every time. It’s not hard, either, for me to draw him down so that he’s lying against me.
And he believes it. He slips his hands beneath my hips and holds me against him. His eyes close as he kisses me and his breath deepens. I find myself pressed against his chest, my nipples rubbing against his shirt and an ache growing between my legs. When his knee pushes between mine, pressing them open, I feel a thud of thankfulness.
Then I realize with alarm that this isn’t like those other times. We’re in bed together and I can feel the hard length of him against my thigh. I pull away, my breathing uneven, my expression uncertain.
“Liebling?”
“I haven’t—I’ve never—” Oh, Christus, am I really doing this?
He kisses me. “I know. It’s all right.” He gets up off the bed and undresses, laying his clothes over the stool. His underwear comes off last and I see the length of him spring free, thicker and longer than I expected when I felt it through his trousers. I can’t look at him, it’s too strange, seeing a man naked and in this state, and I turn my face away.
