Shocked into motion, Wolfgang cursed, but he followed her. Their two flashlight beams bounced crazily off the narrow brick walls, and Katarina caught sight of more rats. The vermin were busy this evening. Suddenly, as they moved along the narrowest stretch, something landed on her back—two “somethings”—and she couldn’t help but shout. She twisted around and swatted one off her shoulder, but the other rat leaped for her face. She turned away and ducked, and she felt the rat pad across her hair, almost getting caught in the strands, before it jumped from her head. She heard it hit the sewage with a splash.
Soon, she and Wolfgang had more room to move, and when they reached the thirty-degree turn in the sewer line, she felt some measure of relief. They were entering the West. However, she knew that bullets knew no border. Once they were into the turn, the angle of the walls would provide some protection. But just before they made the turn, two more shots rang out. One bullet ricocheted off a wall, and she heard Wolfgang grunt as he was thrown forward into the foul liquid. His flashlight also went into the sewage—the beam doused—and Katarina feared the worst.
“Are you hit?”
Wolfgang’s response was a curse.
Was it a fatal shot? Even if the bullet hadn’t hit a vital organ, his wound was exposed to contaminants.
Katarina hauled him to his feet, and he came up groaning and hobbling and slipping and almost falling again. It looked as though he had swallowed some sewage, for he kept spitting and cursing and spitting and cursing. Most of the curses were directed at her rather than at the sewage. She pulled him forward, expecting more gunfire, but nothing more came. The final two bursts must have been parting shots.
“Where are you hit?” Katarina asked.
“The leg. Right leg.”
Wolfgang let out a roar of pain as she helped him forward, wrapping her arms around his waist as he hopped on one leg.
They finished making the turn, putting themselves in the West and in the clear. The Vopos didn’t dare pursue past the border, not even a subterranean border.
“If I die, I’m blaming you,” Wolfgang said. He didn’t even seem to notice how ridiculous his statement sounded.
West Berlin
The sewer route was closed for good. After the incident, the East Germans had acted quickly to fortify all of the sewer lines with strong barriers—much stronger than the steel grilles that had been installed in the ’50s. Wolfgang’s wound turned out to be minor, and the doctors acted quickly to prevent any infection from the exposure to sewage. This was good news; but for Katarina, there also came a heavy dose of bad news.
“That can’t be true,” she said to Wolfgang when they met over a week later. He had set up the meeting. Strictly business, he stressed.
“We don’t know for sure if it’s true. But we have strong suspicions.”
“I know Stefan. I can’t believe he’d do something like this.”
Wolfgang warmed his hands on the sides of his coffee cup. They had found a table in the back corner of Café Koch.
“Believe it. There’s a good possibility that your boyfriend betrayed you. We think he revealed our sewer route.”
“You really think Stefan is an informer?”
“It’s a good possibility.”
Stay cool. Katarina absorbed the impact of those words, trying not to let Wolfgang see how it shook her. “Even if he was an informer, how would he know our escape was through the sewers?”
“That’s what we’d like to know.”
Wolfgang seemed to take great pleasure in being the bearer of bad news. “Herr Hansel is too big a risk,” he added.
“You mean Stefan is off the escape list.”
“That’s right. I’m sorry.”
Katarina didn’t buy his sympathy. She scowled into her cup of coffee.
“When you made contact with him on Christmas Eve, did you say anything about the escape through the sewers?” Wolfgang asked.
“Absolutely not. I know the rules. I only asked if he wanted to come west. He said he was interested. That’s all. He knew nothing about the sewers.”
Wolfgang stared her in the eyes, as if searching her soul for any signs of duplicity. He acted as if he had a sixth sense about people, but in Katarina’s opinion, he didn’t have even a first sense about people.
“Listen, why would I give away our secrets if I knew I could get shot if something went wrong?” As she said this, she couldn’t keep her eyes from settling on his crutches, which leaned against the wall.
“I’m the one who was shot,” he pointed out.
“I’m sorry. I’m just saying it could’ve also been me getting hit. So why would I put myself in such danger?”
Wolfgang took a slow sip of coffee. “I know you’ve risked a lot for the Kappel Group. You have shown uncommon valor, and you are not under suspicion.”
Even when he tried to be reassuring, his words dripped condescension.
“What leads you to believe that Stefan is an informer?” she asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say. But we are not going to jeopardize any future escapes by involving him. We can’t help him now. We won’t help him.”
Katarina ground her teeth. She wondered if this was Wolfgang’s way of getting back at her for rejecting his advances. But there was also the nagging suspicion that he might just be right about Stefan.
“What happens now that the sewer route is closed off?” she asked in a dull monotone, eyes on the table.
Wolfgang scratched at his beard. “We have plans.”
“What kind of plans?”
“I’m not at liberty to say just now.”
Not at liberty to say just now! Katarina frowned.
She was testing Wolfgang to see what he might divulge, to gauge the seriousness of his suspicions, and it was clear that he considered her tainted by her relationship with Stefan. But she didn’t need Wolfgang’s information, because she had close friends in the group, and they had already told her what was in the works: a tunnel. They were digging a tunnel, and she planned to be part of the effort, no matter what Wolfgang might think or say.
East Berlin
Stefan couldn’t believe his good fortune. He spotted an open seat at the cloth-covered table in the far corner. Seated at the round table was Elsa Krauss, one foot crossed over the other and bobbing to the beat of the music. She was heavily made up—thick eyelashes, bright red lipstick, and pearl earrings. She was stunning in a tiered white lace dress.
No doubt in Stefan’s mind: This was an assignment he didn’t mind taking.
He strode over to the table before the empty seat could be snatched by another male on the move.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked, pulling her attention away from the dance floor, where a couple was demonstrating dances for the college students who had gathered.
Elsa looked up at Stefan and smiled; then she shook her head and said, “No. Please, be my guest.” She smiled politely again and then turned away to gaze at the dance floor.
Stefan slid into the seat and pretended to stare out on the dance floor as well, but Elsa remained in his line of vision, and he spent most of the time studying her blonde hair, which was pulled back from her face and piled up, her bangs sweeping down just above her left eye. She was stunning.
After taking in Elsa for several minutes, he finally let his eyes drift to the dance floor, where a man and a woman, both in their thirties, were demonstrating the Lipsi—a dance created by East German cultural authorities to counter popular American dances. It had never occurred to Stefan before, but the Lipsi looked like a stilted, robotic version of a Latin dance like the rumba. The man and the woman stayed in dance position most of the time, for dancing apart would seem too American, too rock and roll. They stepped back and forth from side to side, occasionally throwing in a twirl, sending the woman’s long dress swirling around her body. Every so often, they would also toss up an arm, which was about as expressive as the dance allowed them to be. All the moves were committee approved, and they
looked like it. The Lipsi dance was not born; it had been manufactured.
“Care to dance?” Stefan said as soon as the demonstration was over and the students were invited to take the floor.
Elsa shot a look over her shoulder, as if she was surprised he was still sitting at her table. But Stefan wasn’t fooled. He knew he had a knack for turning the heads of women, and he didn’t lack confidence. He knew that she knew he was there.
“Yes, please, that would be nice,” she said.
He was immediately on his feet, taking her by the hand and leading her to the floor.
“I suppose we should begin with the Lipsi,” he said.
“If we don’t, we might start an incident.”
“And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
So they began rocking from side to side, and Stefan could see that she was displaying a little more hip movement than would probably meet government approval. But monitoring dance steps wasn’t something the Stasi had taken up as a cause—yet.
“My name is Stefan Hansel.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Elsa Krauss.”
Very formal, very polite. A perfect accompaniment to their stiff dance steps.
“I noticed you from a couple of my classes,” Stefan said. “What are you studying?”
“Art. And you?”
“Law.”
“Oh.”
Elsa drew her eyes away and perused the other dancers, all doing the Lipsi.
Stefan was well aware that she had seen the inside of a Stasi cell, so he didn’t suppose she would be too fond of the law. But he aimed to change her opinion of lawyers—especially prospective lawyers like him.
“Have you ever done the twist?” he asked.
Elsa snapped her head around and gave him a wide-eyed look. This was what he was going for.
“Herr Hansel, don’t you dare.”
Stefan wouldn’t dare do the twist. He wasn’t that bold, but Elsa didn’t need to know that. She squeezed his arms and smiled, as if she was pleasantly excited by the rebelliousness of his suggestion. If Katarina were here, she would have no qualms about doing the twist, a dance that had caught fire in America. She would probably twist the night away—at least until the authorities dragged her out.
“Why not?” Stefan asked, pretending to break away so he could start twisting. But Elsa clung to him, preventing him from separating. That was the idea as well. She clearly got the message. He might be a future lawyer, but he was willing to break the rules.
Elsa was intrigued. Stefan had a dark, Mediterranean look, which was refreshing after so many years with Peter, as Aryan as they came. She also liked his brashness. Peter would never dare suggest doing the twist at an official university function like this.
She clung to him tighter. “No, don’t.”
“Come on, let’s show them how a modern ’60s couple dances.”
For a moment, she was almost tempted to do it. But after what had happened with the leaflets, she wasn’t about to take any chances, even with something as innocuous as a forbidden dance step. Nothing was worth it.
All at once, the memories of her time in prison swept over her, and she felt dizzy and sick. She fell forward into Stefan, who must have interpreted her move in a romantic way. He held her tightly as their Lipsi dance came to an ungainly end.
Elsa didn’t know this man. She should pull away, but she was too dizzy, too sick to her stomach. She stared down at the floor and saw it spinning. The room tilted, like a ship on high seas. She felt faint and nearly slid out of his grip.
At last, Stefan realized what was going on.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m sorry, so sorry. Just a dizzy spell.”
With an arm around her shoulder, Stefan directed her back to the table and helped her into her seat. Elsa felt feverish. She sucked in deep breaths and fluttered a hand in front of her face.
“I’m sorry. Did I upset you?” Stefan asked.
She put a hand on his arm. “Oh no, don’t think that. These things just come over me at times.”
“These things” came over Elsa whenever she was in closed spaces—small rooms, anything that reminded her of her prison cell. This was why she had the door taken off her apartment’s bedroom. It was the only way she could sleep in an enclosed space. It frightened her that the panic and nausea had now hit her on the open dance floor.
“Would you like me to take you home?” Stefan asked.
You would like that, wouldn’t you? she thought.
“No, no, I’ll be fine. It’s passing.”
“Can I get you a glass of water?”
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
As Stefan scurried off on his gallant errand, Elsa took a deep breath. She was attracted to Stefan. There was no denying it. He was very good-looking, and he was probably the same age as Peter, but he didn’t come across as old as her fiancé did. Peter could be so stodgy, complaining about American music and American dances. He sounded like his father, which was probably the scariest thing of all.
After Stefan returned with the water, they talked about their classes and the teachers, and they danced some more—but not the Lipsi. The music had mercifully shifted to a fox-trot.
“Can I walk you home?” Stefan asked toward the end of the night, and this time she took him up on his offer. “I’ll get your wraps,” he said.
The night was cool but clear as they made their way out into the quiet streets past several vacant lots. In East Berlin, there were still so many empty spaces where bombed-out buildings had been razed after the war. The wind whipped a few scraps of paper across the cold ground. The emptiness increased the sadness in Elsa, the sense of loss. In one of the vacant lots stood a large propaganda sign that showed a Soviet soldier perched on top of the Reichstag waving a flag with the hammer and sickle on a field of red. “The heroes of the Soviet Army will never be forgotten,” it said.
Elsa and Stefan didn’t comment on the sign. There would probably be another one around the next corner.
“Cold?” Stefan asked.
“A little.”
He took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Then, to Elsa’s shock, he took her right hand and warmed them with his own. “Your fingers are like ice.”
“Yes, they’re cold most of the time. But I have gloves.”
Gently, she drew back her hand and then dug into her coat pocket for her cotton gloves. But when she slipped them over her fingers, she noticed there was a piece of paper jammed into one of them. Strange. She was about to remove the glove when she realized that someone might have inserted a note into the fingers when her coat had been checked. So she left the paper in place and said nothing to Stefan. She didn’t dare.
Elsa’s apartment building was adjacent to yet another empty lot, where another old apartment had once stood before being leveled by Allied bombs. The removal of the apartment rubble exposed the side of Elsa’s apartment building, which hadn’t been designed with windows in mind; there had been no reason to include windows on the side because the neighboring building had been so close. But with that building obliterated and replaced by an empty lot, all one saw as one approached her place was a massive wall of bricks—with one lone window that somebody had added to bring in some light and break the monotony of the wall. It was an odd sight—one window in a sea of brick. The window was lit up like a large peephole, and the drapes were open.
To Elsa’s relief, Stefan was the perfect gentleman, leaving her at the door with a polite peck on the cheek. Then she rushed inside her building and hurried up the stairs. Once inside her room, she dug into her glove and fished out the note.
She sank into a chair. It was what she thought. The note carried information from Peter. She had been expecting someone to make contact with her, and she had hoped the word would come directly from Peter. But she didn’t think this note had been written by him; it didn’t look like his handwriting. The message said that although the sewer route was closed, Peter was stil
l going to get her out. She had to be patient.
After burning the note in an ashtray, she sat on the edge of her bed for the longest time, fearing the worst, fearing another knock on her door. It took her two hours to fall asleep that night—even with her door off its hinges.
18
Berlin
June 2003
Annie was running a half hour late for work. She hurried from the S-Bahn station, and even jaywalked at a couple of corners, something that just wasn’t done in Berlin. But as she rounded the corner of Dorotheenstrasse at full tilt, she pulled up short, suddenly finding herself face-to-face with a mob. She stood there, surveying the chaos in disbelief.
The crowd down the street appeared to be congregating directly outside their office building, along with a large police presence. Could it be that people were protesting the work they were doing on the files? Germany was home to many former Stasi officers, who were immune to the threat of prosecution in the interests of reconciliation. But many of them claimed they were still being unfairly demonized and strongly opposed the opening of Stasi files. Could this have anything to do with them?
It took less than ten seconds for Annie to realize that these people looked more like gawkers than protestors. There were no chants, no signs—just a sense of curiosity. Then she saw the crime scene tape, snapping in a brisk wind. Her eyes also took in an ambulance, and as it pulled away from the scene, the two-tone, hi-lo siren began to wail. Someone had been injured. Or worse.
Kurt? Oh God, please no.
Annie ran toward the crowd, her heart racing even faster than her legs. She hated the sound of ambulances.
She was upside down in the crumpled can of a car. There was glass everywhere and the smell of gasoline in the air, volatile and dangerous; and a knife-sharp strip of blue metal snaked out in front of her, only inches from her face. The airbag had gone off. She remembered that much. She remembered being hit by the billowing blast of white nylon, coming out at her like some alien plant blossoming from the dashboard at two hundred miles per hour, all in less than a quarter of a second. She remembered the scream of twisting metal—and the sirens. This was not the hi-lo siren of European emergency vehicles but an American siren. She remembered the numbness in her legs, the dizziness, the emergency workers swarming the vehicle—and her husband, Jack, lying motionless.
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