by Renee Roszel
Her tormented mind became aware of his hand beneath her sweater, slipping the hooks of her bra. Her eyes flew open and she groaned against his lips.
Suddenly his kiss was less harsh, more giving. He moved his lips across hers, nipping softly. Then as his hand slid forward to cup a breast, his lips moved down to her jaw, his tongue slid teasingly to her throat.
The protests that had clamored behind her lips died a shuddering death, and her eyes fluttered closed.
He moved lower. His warm hand on her breast was replaced by soft moist lips, tasting, sampling its taut tip. A warmth overflowed from the depths of her body and moved like molten lava through her veins. Drew slid her hands over his shoulders and down his back, lowering her face to the clean softness of his dark hair. She pulled him close and sighed with the delightful sensations that his kisses were sending through her. She pressed her mouth to his curly head and let a throaty moan escape her lips. Her legs trembled in their weakness and she longed to be lifted to paradise within the circle of Rolf’s arms, longed for the complete fulfillment that she knew he had the power to give.
He lifted his face to hers, the hard angular planes were softer, the deep brown of his eyes shining with want. Their lips came together in unbridled passion as he straightened, taking her in his lusty embrace.
Both of his hands were beneath her sweater at her back, leaving their warm imprint against her tingling skin. She clung to his broad frame, pulling herself up to mold to his long lean masculinity. Lifting his lips from hers, he gently kissed the tip of her upturned nose. Drew was surprised to feel him slip her bra back together and raised her eyes to his to see them sparking with amber fire, a knowing smile curving his finely sculptured lips. “I think, Liebchen, you will find me harder to forget than you realize.”
Rolf’s shrewd appraisal, spoken in a husky whisper, was like an icy shower, sobering and painful. Drew’s heart stopped, dead, at the same instant as the train ceased its motion. She had been fighting hard to keep the unwanted truth of his statement from surfacing, but now it hit her between the eyes. She knew, no matter how she tried, she would not be able to erase this vigorous man from her memory.
Rolf stepped away from her. The place they had shared grew noticeably colder and Drew shuddered involuntarily as he moved to the bunk and removed her jacket.
As he placed the coat across her stiffened shoulders, she choked, “How could you play with my feelings that way?”
He shrugged easily. “As is the way with scientists”—he spoke low, near her ear—“I was conducting a small experiment.” The easy baritone was soft as he continued, “Would you care to know the results?”
Drew stared straight ahead. “You’re a cad!”
She felt him drape his arm about her shoulders as he steered her toward the door. His parting words were gentle. “That is not a well-kept secret, my love.”
DREW stared unseeing out of the bus window. The Peabodys had anxiously searched her out, and now the reverend sat beside her, patting her hand and talking softly, reassuringly. But Drew’s mind wandered away, back to her last vision of Rolf, standing silently on the snow-swept ground beside the bus.
In the last instant, as the bus had pulled away, Drew thought she could detect a slight nod of his head. What had he meant? Her brows knit in confusion. Could he have been wishing her well?
Otherwise, he had been the image of the unperturbed commander as he looked up at her, his lids lowered slumberously over dark eyes, his face a mask, showing no emotion.
Regarding him from the window, Drew had been acutely aware of the singular magnificence of the man as he stood there, tall and cool, legs braced wide, and an errant curl brushing his forehead. She had watched his unmoving figure recede until the bus, rounding a corner, obscured her captor-husband from view. . . perhaps forever.
Now the large bus crawled along a nearly deserted, icy street toward some unknown destination. Their conveyance was being escorted by two dark green Volga police cars, one preceding it, and one following. Within minutes, they were passed through a high gate into what they heard whispered among several of the English-speaking Germans as the police headquarters and offices of the Staatssicherheitsdienst—the State Security Service. Drew and the Peabodys learned, too, that this grim, fortresslike building once housed Hitler’s SS operations.
Armed, green-uniformed Vopo, Volkspolizei, lined the way as the passengers disembarked and were led up a wide, creaking staircase to the third-floor offices of the SSD. The hallways were eerily lit by yellow and green fluorescent tubes, giving everyone a sickly pallor, only serving to accentuate the stark and fearful expressions on the already harassed captive faces.
They were stopped to wait in a long hall. Names were called, and as the captives stood restlessly, a few at a time were admitted into an office. The door was unlocked and relocked after each new group entered. But, as a source of added worry, no one ever exited.
The four Americans were called together. Drew and the Peabodys entered a small, sparsely furnished room where a bushy-haired man with his shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows sat at a wooden desk. He looked up as they entered and pushed a pair of glasses up to his wide forehead, sitting back. His homely face was carved into a permanent scowl.
Propping his elbows on the table and placing his fingertips together, he spoke; the deeply accented voice rumbled like distant thunder. “You are the Americans of the Lufthansa.” He surveyed the quiet group slowly before moving a hand to a stack of passports. Lifting one he continued, “Reverend Peabody?” His small eyes met the pastor’s. “Were you treated well during this unfortunate delay?”
His scowl deepened. He was obviously expecting a positive answer.
Norman Peabody spoke quietly, “Why, yes.” He cleared his throat. “We were given adequate housing and food.”
The bushy-headed German nodded, replacing the passport and retrieving another. “And you, Frau Pollard?” He looked up. “You appear fit. Do you concur with the reverend?”
Drew gulped, shifting her weight nervously What was the purpose of this type of questioning? Did they know of her living arrangements with Rolf? Did they possibly suspect the marriage—or the escape plot? She must keep calm, she ordered herself. She could not allow the raggedness of her emotional state to cause her to slip, endangering the Peabodys or herself or—she realized in some awe—Rolf Erhardt. “I—I have no complaints.” She managed in a voice that sounded more secure than it had a right to.
The German scooped the passports into his hammy fist and pushed himself up. “You understand, of course, that this delay was not the desire of the German Democratic Republic.” He circled the desk, crinkling his face into a devastatingly poor attempt at a friendly smile. “We regret that the weather was so inclement. And we hope that you understand.” Leaning back against the desk, he continued, “Even your own government would have diverted such an unidentified aircraft. This I am sure you realize.”
Drew doubted that, considering the obvious lack of Air Tunnels over the United States, but she kept her silence along with the Peabodys, as the man moved forward and handed them their precious passports.
“Now”—he paused, walking toward a side door and turning the knob—“two members of our people’s police are waiting to take you to the American Checkpoint Charlie. Your bags are in the car.” He stepped back and opened the door. “Good day to you.”
Relief rushed over Drew as they were escorted from the building by the two uniformed Vopo. They were actually on their way to the American sector of Berlin—and freedom!
Once in the assigned Volga police car, the driver turned toward his passengers, and offered in the now familiar guttural cadence of English spoken by a German, “I will give you an explanation of our wonderful East Berlin.”
More propaganda, Drew sighed to herself as the car was pulled slowly out onto the snow-cleared road. An icy mist had begun to trickle down, and the police officer flicked on the wipers. “We will be passing through Alexanderplatz. I
t is the forty-block center of East Berlin. You can see the clock tower which is our city hall.”
Drew absently looked out of the foggy window in the direction he gestured, not really interested in the scene before her. Instead, her mind’s eye centered on a dark, brooding face with brown, gold-flecked eyes, eyes that could reach deep within her and pull her out of herself beyond her will into his own. Her heart increased its tempo, and an odd lump formed in her throat as she thought of the man, Rolf Erhardt, and wondered for the first time what dangers he really might encounter in his bid for liberty. She was jarringly brought back to reality by the pain in her lower lip, realizing that she had bitten down hard on it, drawing blood.
“And you will notice the needle-shaped tower, the Fernsehturm. That ball, near the top, houses our television broadcast studio and a restaurant.” There was obvious pride in the policeman’s voice as he continued, “It is three hundred and sixty-five meters tall, and the view is spectacular.”
Drew licked at her lip as she peered skyward into the freezing mist. A dim outline of the tower disappeared into the low clouds, with the ball barely visible near its top. An awkward silence had fallen over the occupants of the car, broken finally when Reverend Peabody commented, “Most impressive. Your city is most impressive.”
Both policemen straightened noticeably, and Drew had to smile at the minister’s gesture of friendship.
“As we pass across the Unter Des Linden, you will look to your right to see the Brandenburger Tor, Berlin’s triumphal eighteenth-century entryway.” The silent policeman on the driver’s right cleared the window of frost, and they all squinted into the distance along the wide principal avenue of the prewar capital.
The Brandenburg Gate was an impressive structure, its six Doric columns forming part of the stone arch walls supporting an antique-style coping. The driver explained that the gate, inspired by the Propylaea of the Parthenon, was surmounted by a reconstruction of the Victory Quadriga, a victory chariot drawn by four prancing horses.
Drew was saddened by the fact that now the gate, though historically inspiring, was a symbol of the divided Germany, a stark reminder of the tragedy of an imprisoned people. For it was permanently blocked off to all traffic by the Wall, which ran only a few yards beyond it, enclosing it on the extreme edge of Communist East Berlin.
“Checkpoint Charlie is just ahead.” The talkative policeman was now more businesslike, dropping the casual tour-guide facade. “We will depart the car and walk across.”
The police car was pulled to a halt and both Vopo stepped out, pulling the bags from the trunk and placing themselves on either side of the four charges. “Your bags will be checked and forwarded to the checkpoint by guards in a few moments.”
As they walked the fifty yards, Drew noticed three brick barriers across the road which required auto traffic to weave slowly and carefully between them, preventing a vehicular dash for freedom.
A tall fence separated the road they walked from the actual “death strip” along the East side of the Wall. To reach the safety of the West, a refugee would have to run a gauntlet of tank traps, which looked like giant jacks from a child’s game, strung end to end; but the sinister weapons would never have been mistaken for an innocent toy. Next there were mine trip-wires, police dogs, and guarded watchtowers with orders to shoot to kill.
As they silently walked, Mrs. Peabody nudged Drew and whispered, “Look at that!”
A small Volvo leaving the East was being checked out by armed border guards in their traditional jack-booted uniforms. One guard was rolling a wheeled mirror under the car while the other was checking under the hood.
The two occupants were standing outside as a uniformed woman checked their papers.
Drew knew, as she turned away from the scene, that this vivid picture of the East German side of Checkpoint Charlie was forever branded in her mind, a symbol of the almost unbelievable reality of totalitarian control of life behind the Iron Curtain; a life, not really your own, but the property of an unfeeling state.
She chewed the inside of her cheek, realizing for the first time that if Rolf had not been at her interrogation to handle her slip of the tongue, the military would have checked the name “McKenna,” and discovered her identity. Her fate would have been much worse than this.
No matter what Rolf’s reasons had been for keeping her secret, he had kept his word, and she was now being freed. A choke blocked her throat, and she coughed, masking the desolate sound as she thought of her husband. Feeling a sudden, overwhelming surge of gratitude to him, Drew wished for just one more moment alone with him. . .to tell him. . .to thank him for her freedom. For, once almost lost, it had become very precious to her, and Rolf Erhardt had helped her regain it.
She sighed heavily. Looking back over the past week, Drew realized that the price he had asked had not been extreme.
Drew’s thoughts were interrupted when suddenly two border guards appeared from behind the final brick blockade in the street, confronting them. “We have to check your passports.”
The two East German policeman halted. “And we must leave you now.” Their expressions were official as they saluted the guards and turned in unison, beginning their walk back.
“You will turn over your passports.” One gravel-voiced guard put out his gloved hand. Reverend Peabody complied, laying his passport in the taller man’s hand.
After opening it, scanning its contents, and looking from the picture to the minister’s face, the guard handed it back. The identical procedure was followed with Mrs. Peabody and Sarah. Then, it was Drew’s turn. She I handed over her passport. “You will remove your hood!”
Remove the hood? Panic restricted Drew’s chest. “What?” It was a weak question.
“You must remove your hood, Fraulein.” He paused to look down at the passport. “Frau Pollard. It obstructs your face.”
Drew’s lips opened in a soundless “oh” as she lowered her hood to her shoulders.
The guard scanned her picture, nodding. “Good, you may pass.” He gestured toward the remaining fifteen yards to the American entrance.
Ahead of them stood the complete opposite of what they had just passed through. There was a small, windowed booth housing one American soldier.
Across the Checkpoint entrance was a lowered barrier, if you could call it a barrier at all. For it was no more than a single wooden plank, painted with alternating black and white stripes. The soldier lifted the small barrier and stepped out, extending a welcoming hand.
“Well, well,” he beamed, his face young, friendly. . .and refreshingly American. “Welcome, folks. Let me shake your hands. We’ve been waitin’ for you!” He cocked his head toward a long black limousine with small American flags flapping from the front bumpers.
Standing in restless groups around the car were a number of people, some with cameras, some with tape recorders.
The soldier spoke again: “You’ve been anxiously expected for nearly a week now. Hope you’re up to the press.” His smile broadened. “You folks may not know it, but you’re pretty famous now!”
Drew’s thoughts tumbled back to Rolf’s words: “Mrs. James Pollard will, no doubt, be an instant celebrity when released.”
She mused sadly, that the really important story could not be told.
Chapter Seven
Drew sat alone in the quaint Oberammergau weinstube toying absently with a delicate goblet. Her father had been called away to greet the Canadian delegation that had just arrived for the fusion conference.
She nibbled on a pretzel, not tasting it, as her mind traveled back a month, to the day she and the Peabodys had been released into West Berlin from Checkpoint Charlie.
The furor had been unbelievable—a whirlwind of photographers and interviews, their faces splashed across front pages of newspapers around the free world.
Fortunately, the story of Drew’s seeming indiscretion in living with Rolf never came out. She was not sure if it was because the others aboard the plane did n
ot want to distract attention from their own stories or if the United States government had kept it quiet. But whatever the reason, she was grateful.
The story of the marriage hadn’t been told publicly, for any leak about that might have jeopardized Rolf’s escape attempt. However after presenting the marriage document to the American authorities in West Berlin, Drew and the Peabodys were flown to Washington, where they testified before government big guns.
Drew remembered her conversation with Lieutenant General John Standish after the he had heard the evidence. He was most solicitous and as reassuring as a governmental agency representative could afford to be. But no promises had been made.
She took a sip of her wine and she relived his remarks. . . . “My dear Mrs. Erhardt”—he paused, picking up a gold pen and weaving it between his fingers—“your testimony, along with the marriage certificate, has given our government all the ammunition we require to make Dr. Erhardt eligible for our most diligent efforts to remove him from the Communist East.”
Drew sat back, relaxing a bit as he went on, “Now that he is a citizen of the United States by marriage, we can claim him as such.” He cleared his throat, his jowly features clouding: “However, I’m afraid in this case, gaining your husband’s release will be much more dangerous than if he were an ordinary citizen.”
She sat back up, erect, expectant, breathing the question, “What do you mean, more dangerous?”
Dropping the pen to the top of the expansive rosewood desk, he leaned back and moved his hands to the arms of his chair, grasping the pliant black leather.
“Your husband, Mrs. Erhardt, is a very valuable man. . . to both sides. The truth is, the Communists will not voluntarily allow him to leave. Therefore when the escape attempt is made, they will react with the same brutal methods they use to block any escapes to the West.”
