“It’s got to be in my purse somewhere.”
“Then I can’t help you there. A woman’s purse is one of the great mysteries of life.”
After removing every single item from her purse, Annie let out a groan of utter frustration. “I’m sorry, but this makes me so mad. If I have to replace my phone—”
“It will show up.”
“Not necessarily. I lost my cross necklace last week, and it’s disappeared for good.”
“Maybe you left your phone at home and just don’t remember.”
She ran her hand through her hair and sighed. “You’re right. I need to wait until I get home. Got to be patient.”
She sat back down, but she had a difficult time concentrating on her work. She didn’t know why losing things frustrated her so much. She wasn’t this way before the accident. Her grief counselor back in Phoenix told her that small losses dredged up the emotions of her greatest loss.
On that Saturday morning five years ago, she and her husband, Jack, were driving to the yard and garden store to pick up flowers. It had been her idea to go, and she wondered what her life would have been like if she had decided to stay home and clean the garage instead. The garage always needed cleaning. Why couldn’t she have done that instead?
They were on an undivided highway, only about a five-mile stretch, and directly in front of them was a car pulling a boat. Visibility was good; the road was dry. Conditions were perfect, but the timing was awful. At that moment, a black car was coming toward them in the opposite lane, traveling much too fast. The car towing the boat suddenly turned left, for the driver assumed there was plenty of time to turn. And if the approaching car hadn’t been going too fast, there would have been time to complete the turn. The driver with the boat later said he tried to accelerate his turn when he realized how fast the approaching car was coming. The driver of the black car didn’t even slow down but tried to swerve around the boat instead. He very nearly did. It was a matter of inches. Inches!
The black car clipped the back end of the boat, and the next thing Annie and Jack knew, the spinning, out-of-control mass of metal was in their lane and coming right toward them.
“Annie. You all right?” Kurt suddenly asked. She realized she was just sitting in her chair staring into space. “Don’t worry, we’ll find the phone,” he assured her.
Annie shook the memories out of her head and tried to fake a smile. “Thanks. You’re sweet.”
Not feeling much like talking, she went back to work, piecing together another photograph of Katarina and Peter.
“How was your Sunday?” Kurt finally asked.
“Good, but not half as good as my Saturday. I had a wonderful time with you.”
Kurt smiled back. “I had a good time too.”
He continued to fumble with his scraps of paper, and Annie could tell he too wasn’t concentrating on his work. She could guess what he was thinking, and it scared her. She wasn’t ready for this.
Sure enough, he used her comment as a lead-in to the question that she dreaded. “Maybe we could do it again sometime. What do you think?”
Even though she had known the question would be coming sooner or later, she was not prepared. It may have been five years since her husband had died, but she still didn’t think she was ready for another relationship. That was the reason she broke it off with Richard back in the States. She liked Kurt. But that was exactly what spooked her.
When she didn’t respond immediately, she could see the spirit drain right out of Kurt. He lowered his eyes and fumbled with his puzzle pieces.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m being too forward.”
Annie kicked herself for being so difficult. She couldn’t keep hurting men like this. “You’re not being forward. Yes, I would love to get together again. That would be nice.”
“Are you sure? I mean, if you don’t think . . . I don’t know . . .”
“It would be very nice to do something again.”
“You mean, you genuinely had a good time?”
“I genuinely had a good time.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
Without another word, they returned to their puzzles, and they worked in silence for about ten minutes before Frau Holtzmann popped her flaming red head around the door.
“Anybody leave a phone in the break room?”
She had Annie’s cell phone in her hand and was waving it around.
Annie was out of her seat in an instant. “Oh, Frau Holtzmann, you’re a lifesaver. Where was it?”
“Just sitting on the corner of the table in the break room.”
“That’s so odd. I don’t remember taking it out of my purse. But thanks!”
Frau Holtzmann gave a nod and a grunt.
“I told you it would show up,” Kurt said as Annie returned the phone to the zippered pocket in her purse. “When I lose things, they almost always show back up.”
“They do, but I get frustrated anyway.” Annie looked for a way to veer the conversation away from the subject of losses. “Do you have any idea what you’d like to do when we get together again?”
“Not yet, but give me some time. I want to come up with a day you’ll never forget.”
She tried to work up another smile, but it was difficult. She knew that “a day you never forget” was not always a good thing.
15
East Berlin
March 1962
The first group arrived under the cover of darkness. A Free University student, Alexander Eberstark, led six East German students—four males and two females—into the deserted factory yard, staying close to the desolate three-story brick buildings. They approached the shadow of a car parked about twenty feet away in the dark—a black Wartburg, a two-door sedan with a long sloping front hood.
“The manhole’s just underneath the car,” Alexander whispered.
Vopo patrols were nowhere in sight, so Alexander motioned his “tour” group forward toward the car, which he had put in place earlier in the night to block any view of the open manhole. The manhole was located about five hundred yards into East Berlin. It was chilly, hovering at about forty degrees, but it was typical for a March night. They scurried across the paved lot, staying as low to the ground as possible.
“Move, move,” Alexander whispered when they came around the car. Just underneath the vehicle was a pitch-black opening into what smelled like hell. The sewer stench wafting from the manhole was potent.
“Is it safe to breathe in there?” asked a student, one of the males.
“It’s safer than not breathing down there. But don’t worry. We’ve got a reception committee inside the sewers waiting for you, and they’re still breathing. It’s safe.”
The guys let the two girls go first. The one named Rebekka flattened herself on her stomach and scooted backward, squeezing underneath the car—a tight fit—until her feet reached the open manhole. Alexander held on to her hands as she continued to scoot backward, sticking her feet into the manhole and blindly scrabbling for the ladder along the wall. He held on until she found a safe foothold and was moving down the ladder.
“She’s clear,” said Alexander. “You’re next, Susanne.”
Susanne, crouching next to the car, didn’t budge, didn’t say a word.
“Susanne. It’s time.”
“I can’t.”
“You must.”
“No. Take me back.” From the look in Susanne’s eyes, one would think they were asking her to jump from an airplane without a parachute.
Susanne’s body trembled, and her eyes screamed fear. Alexander was afraid she was on the brink of hysteria. So he told the guys to start going down the manhole while he dealt with the situation. If he had known that Susanne was going to lose it, he would have given her a sedative first. That was what rescuers did with infants to keep them quiet during escapes.
Three of the four guys were down into the sewers in no time, but one remained behind—Gerhardt. “We’re together,” Gerhardt whispered to
Alexander. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Talk quickly. A patrol may be coming by anytime now.”
Gerhardt put a hand on Susanne’s shoulder. “I’ll help you down.”
“But I’ll suffocate in there.”
“You won’t. They’ve been running escapes through here for weeks. Everyone has made it safely.”
“What if we get caught?”
“We won’t.”
We won’t as long as you get moving, Alexander thought.
“C’mon, Susanne,” said Gerhardt, rubbing her back. “I’ll be right behind.”
“Why did you ask me to do this?”
“So we could be together. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Hold my hands.”
“I’ll hold you as you go down.”
Slowly, carefully, Susanne got onto her stomach and scooted backward beneath the car, her feet kicking and trying to find the open manhole. Gerhardt was on his belly and facing her, and he gripped her by her forearms. She started to whimper, and Gerhardt whispered, “No noise. It’ll be fine.”
“I can’t . . . I can’t find the ladder.”
“It’s there, just inside the manhole, along the wall.”
“Where? Hold on to me. I’m falling.”
“I’m holding on.”
Alexander peeked beneath the car and saw that Susanne still hadn’t moved very far down into the hole; he could picture her feet flailing belowground, still looking for purchase on the ladder.
“Hurry,” Alexander said. “They could be here soon.”
“Soon” was sooner than he thought. They heard footsteps, shoes clicking on bricks. The Vopo foot patrol usually passed through the factory yard twice per night, and this evening they were early. The clicking steps moved closer. Multiple footsteps.
Alexander was confident that the Vopos wouldn’t spot the open manhole beneath the car in the dark. He and his group were concealed from view on the opposite side of the vehicle, but it was still extremely dangerous to be out in the open. The clicking of footsteps neared. The Vopos typically didn’t walk to this side of the factory yard. They came up the street leading into the yard and usually stayed along the opposite side, closest to the Wall.
Alexander touched Gerhardt’s shoulder and whispered, “Wait.”
Gerhardt stopped lowering his girlfriend, and they all struck statue poses. Time stopped. The girlfriend was half in, half out of the sewer.
Alexander was afraid the girl would start whimpering, and it would be over. Gerhardt remained on his belly, holding tightly to Susanne’s arms, waiting for the threat to pass. Crouching next to him, Alexander listened for the sounds of the guards. The Vopos were still a safe distance away, but the footfalls were coming closer. The guards had broken from their usual routine. Not good.
The Vopos carried flashlights, and Alexander saw two beams dance across the pavement only ten feet away from him, crisscrossing each other like large luminous insects. If one of the beams slipped underneath the car, the light would catch a glimpse of the boyfriend still holding on to Susanne’s arms. But the bouncing beams stayed just out of reach. One of the streaks of light moved along the factory building’s brick wall, lingering on a gaping hole, while the second one drifted lazily across the pavement.
“There! I see something!” one of the Vopos said, and his light beam stopped. It had caught a rabbit in its beam. Alexander could see the rabbit, only about six feet from the car, struck stone still, as motionless as they were, eyes wide and unblinking.
One of the Vopos laughed. “A rabbit! Shall I make an arrest?”
The rabbit shot off into the dark, and the border guard tried to follow it with his beam, but the animal was faster than light. Alexander heard the crunching of footsteps—perhaps the guards turning on their heels. Then the footsteps headed off, becoming fainter and fainter before dissipating in the dark.
Alexander tapped Gerhardt on the shoulder. “Go,” he said under his breath.
Within moments, Susanne was lowered the rest of the way down the manhole, and her boyfriend quickly followed, although in his hurry, he nearly slipped off the ladder. Alexander could breathe now. He slunk off into the dark, ready to usher the next group through in about forty-five minutes.
Katarina crouched in cold, filthy water, up to her midcalves in muck. The smell was horrible, but she had become used to breathing out of her mouth.
She was inside the sewer, which she had dubbed Route 4711 in honor of the cologne of the same number. She was part of the “reception committee”—two rescuers positioned near the crusty steel grille, which the East Germans had installed in the sewers during the 1950s to prevent criminals from smuggling cigarettes and other contraband into the Soviet sector. West Berlin high school students, the first to discover this sewer, had used hacksaws to cut through the grille, providing just enough wiggle room for people to pass through. Katarina adjusted the position of her feet in the putrid liquid, grateful that a wealthy West Berlin businessman had donated knee-high rubber boots to the cause.
The entire route from the East Berlin manhole to the West Berlin manhole was nearly a half mile, with the sewer typically a little over five feet in diameter, although it narrowed as you approached the border. Katarina and the other member of the reception committee, Wolfgang Krüger, maintained complete silence because they never knew who was passing by just above them. East Berlin streets were notoriously quiet after dark, and the silence made it much more dangerous. Subterranean sounds carried.
The silence between Katarina and Wolfgang was awkward, for he had tried asking her out several times in the past few weeks. Katarina had considered requesting that Jürgen pair her off with another member of the team, but that seemed too petty; she was also afraid Wolfgang would find out and feel even worse about her rejection.
“I have a boyfriend in the East,” she had told him, but he didn’t take no for an answer. He kept trying to talk her into going to a dance with him, just to keep her options open.
“Herr Hansel might never make it to the West,” he had pointed out with brazen insensitivity. But that was Wolfgang’s way. He had as much diplomacy as a sledgehammer. He was the one who suggested charging people money for being rescued and escorted west. But this wasn’t a business endeavor, in the group’s opinion, and the idea was quickly squelched.
Wolfgang was highly valued for his engineering expertise, which would come in handy should they ever turn to tunneling. He was a tall, gangly man with narrow shoulders, a beatnik beard, wire-rimmed glasses, and skeletal fingers. A cigarette was typically lodged between two fingers at all times, and he constantly smelled of smoke. Katarina would not have considered going on a date with him, Stefan or no Stefan. But he didn’t need to know that.
The sewer was pitch-black, except for the beams of their flashlights. When they first took their positions, she smiled at him, hoping to smooth things over, but he returned her smile with a dull stare. Clearly, he hadn’t forgiven her for rejecting his multiple advances. So she leaned her back against the sewer wall, rubbed her arms for warmth, and let her thoughts drift. She thought about her father, who would have been proud of her. Her father had been part of the German resistance during the war, living through tremendous dangers—only to be felled by a heart attack planting green beans in his pocket-handkerchief garden on a peaceful day in 1951. As a result, Katarina had grown up without a father—only a drunken mother.
She felt as if she had led her own resistance movement as an adolescent, resisting her mother in every way possible. When she looked at old photos of her parents together, her mother looked so young and glamorous, but glamour wasn’t what Katarina knew of her mother in real life. From age eight on up, she had fought constant skirmishes with her. She snatched any liquor bottles she could find stashed around the house. At first, she poured them all down the sink, but once, at age twelve, she decided to get rid of the liquor by pouring it down her own throat. The first time she got sick on the booze was the last time she drank hard liqu
or.
Katarina spotted other lights dancing along the sewer walls and knew that a group was approaching. She was always nervous when the lights appeared, for she was afraid that one of these times the flashlights would be carried by Vopos. But not this time. The six students appeared, and Katarina directed them on the final leg of the journey. The most difficult part was where the sewer narrowed and they had to crouch low, putting their faces uncomfortably close to the sewage. The group of students knew to remain quiet, although one of the girls couldn’t refrain from groaning and occasionally sobbing as they moved through the muck. Katarina’s light caught the sudden flash of brown fur. A rat. She had seen her share of rats in the sewers, and she always worried that her group would make an unwelcome encounter. But none of these students noticed.
The sewer line followed the street leading from the factory, and it made a thirty-degree turn once inside the West Berlin border. The turn was a sign of safety, a signal that they had made it West. The manhole opened up into an empty West Berlin lot, about three hundred yards into the free sector. Katarina led the students to safety with no hitches, and they climbed the ladder to fresh air and were greeted by a team that would take them to a Free University hostel, where they could shower and get clean clothes. A laundry service handled their foul clothing. The East Berlin students would register as refugees, but they were given a false story of how they escaped. The Kappel Group knew that the Stasi had infiltrated the refugee camp, so the students were not to breathe a word about how they really escaped.
Two more groups were scheduled to come through at forty-five-minute intervals, so once this group made it safely, Katarina would slog back through the muck, back into East Berlin, back to the steel grille. Because of the numbers coming through, the entire operation was ambitious, requiring a large group of runners to collect students in East Berlin and tell them the exact time of the escape and the meeting place.
Puzzle People (9781613280126) Page 11
