Freedom Bridge

by Erika Holzer

  Kiril’s announcement had the clarion call of a trumpet.

  Adrienne Brenner’s expression brightened as she liberated pen and notebook from her shoulder-bag. Even Galya seemed to perk up, Kiril noticed.

  Not Kurt Brenner though. As Kiril made perfunctory introductions to some of the hospital staff, he couldn’t help noticing Brenner’s tepid response—handshakes and glib phrases that seemed to slip automatically out of his mouth.

  An alarm bell went off in Kiril’s head.

  Brenner is just going through the motions.

  Did he dare cut through the man’s preoccupation, even at the risk of being obvious? Luka Rogov spoke almost no English and understood even less. But Galya? he thought uneasily.

  Kiril held off until the five of them were walking through the medical clinic’s long, mostly empty, corridors. Whenever Brenner made some offhand remark about medicine that Kiril could use as a transition, he would jump in with an artful description of nearly a half-century of Soviet medical progress—such as how Soviet medical schools graduated some thirty thousand physicians annually in three years! “I’m forced to admit, however,” he said, “that because of such an attenuated program, our doctors would later have much to learn on the job.” Kiril made a few more not-so-subtle attempts to extoll Soviet medicine, even as he undercut it.

  Adrienne Brenner, as usual, wrote notes at a furious pace.

  Brenner was still along for the ride.

  As their party came to an area marked off-limits to visitors, Kiril ignored the sign with a wave and led them down a narrow hall, explaining that he was eager to show them some modern x-ray equipment he’d learned about only yesterday. They entered a room where a patient lay on a hospital bed, his massive chest covered with a number of black tubular objects, two of which were moving slightly. Brenner’s eyebrow shot up—he knew immediately what he was seeing. Adrienne Brenner was staring at the patient as if memory could substitute for the cameras she’d been obliged to leave at the reception desk.

  Apologizing profusely, Kiril said, “Wrong room. Sadly, leech therapy is a barbaric contrast with the modern x-ray equipment I meant to show you next door. I was told this patient is a Russian soldier wedded to the old ways. Anti-coagulation therapy is still common in some rural areas of my country, even though today’s Soviet doctors can usually clear obstructed veins in a more scientific manner.”

  Their tour of the medical clinic over, Kiril made good use of the time it took to walk to their waiting limousine. He mentioned East German physicians being members of the elite. Not that East Germany’s Ministry of Health was without its own problems. Did Dr. Brenner know that since 1958 many of these physicians had left the Deutsche Demokratische Republik—luckily before the Communist Party had launched a campaign to improve the quality of political and ideological dogma in the medical profession? Did Dr. Brenner know that East German doctors—and Soviet ones as well—experienced an acute medical crisis? That hospitals and medical clinics had been forced to limit their services to emergencies? That, until recently, East German doctors had been forced to rely on inferior medicines produced in Communist bloc countries like the Soviet Union?

  Dr. Brenner did not know. He did not seem to care, either.

  * * *

  As soon as Brenner entered the limousine, he sat back and closed his eyes. He had never felt so out of control… and the questions kept coming.

  Where the hell was Malik? He was, after all, Chancellor of the entire University. Why invite him here in the first place? Despite that charade on their way in from the airport, I couldn’t pry anything specific out of the bastard. And why the empty excuse for not joining me in my hotel suite for a drink?

  Brenner tried to break out of his reverie, but it was as if he was doing a balancing act between two different time zones!

  Which, in a way, he was.

  Back in the limousine, Kiril left the back seat to Galya and the Brenners, again taking the jump seat.

  As the car pulled away from the clinic, Galya leaned back against the limousine’s worn velvet upholstery. The faded Oriental rug under her feet had been beautiful once—a real luxury. She had been bored to distraction during the tour of the medical clinic, only half listening as Kiril went on and on. “I am tired,” she said to no one in particular. “I would so much like to return to the hotel and make ready for dinner.”

  “Good idea,” Brenner chimed in. “I could use a drink. I have a feeling jet lag is just around the corner.”

  “I know of a shortcut back to our hotel,” Kiril said, and gave the driver directions before resuming his seat.

  “A shortcut?” Adrienne Brenner said skeptically. “How is that possible? You arrived only yesterday.”

  Clever lady.

  “I’m good with maps,” he said, which was true enough.

  As their limousine left the Unter den Linden area, the change was swift and dramatic. Starkly modern apartment houses gave way to seedy Stalin-like housing projects and buildings so caked with grime it was difficult to guess at their original color. Empty lots were dusted with crumbling plaster, suggesting the bombed-out ruins of World War II. Half-collapsed structures with sections of sagging walls gave evidence of being occupied. Their limousine attracted furtive, resentful stares.

  Kurt Brenner emerged from his fugue long enough to mumble something about the somber architecture.

  “A great nation’s progress is not always self-evident, Dr. Brenner,” Kiril said evenly. “East Germany has the highest standard of living of any Soviet-bloc country.”

  Adrienne Brenner stared at him.

  Damning with slight praise again, Dr. Andreyev?

  When she commented on the long line of shoppers waiting patiently at a street vendor’s vegetable cart, Kiril said tonelessly, “Waiting in line for basic necessities is a way of life—and not just here. We have queues in my country as well.”

  It suddenly struck him that he felt at home here—almost as if he had never left Moscow. Different streets, yes. Totally different cities. Moscow was pale yellow—washed out. East Berlin was tarnished and gray, with a kind of grittiness in the air, as if the whole place could use a good scrubbing. But the ominous familiarity was in the silence. In the absence of bright lights.

  It was the way people hurried, as if their biggest concern was to get off the streets and out of sight. It was what they wore—the same ill-fitting clothes he had looked on all his life. It was their demeanor—part lethargy, part despair.

  He had to stop himself from looking at Adrienne Brenner as hungrily as Galya had looked at her clothes.

  Except that he had no need to look at her anymore. Unconscious pride—it was in the set of her mouth, the lift of her head. Unstated confidence—it was in the way she moved.

  Adrienne Brenner was living proof that somewhere beyond the limits of his existence was another world. Another universe. He felt the empty ache of longing, followed by a searing impatience that blurred his vision. His whole adult life had been a testament to patience. He had taught himself to suppress his anger. To scoff at his bitterness. To go slowly. To bide his time. It was this that had brought him to the edge of freedom. That had kept him alive.

  Don’t abandon your oldest ally, your best weapon! Don’t fall victim to the sights and sounds of East Germany. Of the Soviet Union. Keep it intact—your vision of those poor pathetic creatures lined up for their vegetables. Of the patience stamped on their faces.

  But even as he listened to his mind, he knew that his emotions were in revolt. After two decades of waiting in line for his freedom, his patience had burned itself out.

  Chapter 27

  On their way back to the hotel, Kurt Brenner turned to his wife and reminded her about a pre-dinner cocktail party being held in their honor on the 38th floor. “We should both make an appearance,” he told her.

  “I guess,” Adrienne Brenner said without enthusiasm. “But we’d better make it an early dinner. We have that field trip tomorrow, remember?”

 
; “Field trip?” he responded with a touch of annoyance.

  She shrugged. “Your host, Chancellor Malik, apparently thinks you could use a day off before the medical proceedings begin on Monday. We’re going for an outing to the ancient town of Waren on Lake Mueritzsee.”

  As the four of them rode up in the hotel elevator, Galya said a silent prayer, pasted a smile on her face, and well before the elevator got to her floor said, “Dr. Brenner, in your rooms this champagne that I taste, I like very much. There is nearly a whole bottle left. Do you mind I have a little before I make ready for early dinner tonight?”

  “Not at all.” He handed her his key. “You’re welcome to the whole bottle. Just be sure to leave the key on the bed and the door unlocked when you leave.”

  Ignoring the question in Kiril’s eyes, Galya rushed to the Brenner suite as soon as the elevator let her off.

  Her hand shook with anticipation—so much so that she had trouble unlocking the door.

  * * *

  Adrienne had been uncomfortably aware of her cape all day long to the point where she’d taken to carrying it. But still people stared, even in the “better” part of town. She felt their eyes on her suit. Her jewelry. Her leather shoulder-bag. Sensing that it wasn’t envy, she put the question to Dr. Andreyev on the way to the cocktail party.

  “It’s two things,” he explained. “Fear, and a touch of resentment. Western clothes stand out because of their rich fabrics and stylish lines. And there’s no mistaking the fit—so perfect it couldn’t possibly be some hand-me-down from an aunt or an older sister.”

  “I can understand the resentment,” she said, “but fear?”

  “In East Germany, clothes like yours are the trademark of the privileged—Party people, their friends, their mistresses. It’s no different in the Soviet Union.”

  Adrienne sighed. “I don’t know about you, but I’m in no mood for cocktails and finger food. See you at dinner?”

  He grinned. “You can’t avoid me. We’re at the same table.”

  Adrienne stepped into the elevator. When she got to the suite, the door slid open at her touch. Good. Galya had remembered to leave it unlocked.

  She stepped inside—and stopped short in the foyer.

  A black dress lay like an abandoned dust-rag on the bedroom floor. Her own clothes were spread out on the bed… all except a cream-colored gown. Galya was a vision of loveliness, the gown spilling in an unbroken line from its high virginal neckline to the floor. As she swept about the room, she was graceful elegance in motion—head held high, shoulders straight, arms slightly apart.

  It’s as if Galya doesn’t quite know whether to hold in the wonder of what she’s feeling, or let it take wing.

  The beginnings of a smile pulled irresistibly at the comers of Galya’s mouth. Her eyes had the luminous look of unshed tears. Gliding to a halt in front of a long mirror, she said to an imaginary figure, “Tell me, kind sir, is green gown which is best you like? This one, I think, is the most wonderful. The color is—how you say in America? This one is most sympathetic to me.”

  “It really is,” Adrienne said softly, coming into the sitting room, stopping just short of the bedroom door.

  Galya whirled around, fumbling frantically with the clasp at the back of her neck.

  “Please don’t be embarrassed,” Adrienne said. “With your coloring and your blonde hair, the gown suits you perfectly. Would you allow me to give it to you?”

  “You are too much generous,” Galya said in a voice dipped in starch. “Are all American ladies so generous as you? But I have no need for such a generosity. Quite soon I am having money to buy beautiful gown same like this one.”

  Galya meant to close the bedroom door quietly.

  She ended up slamming it. Her expression changed as rapidly as she changed her clothes—from embarrassment and envy to something darker.

  Chapter 28

  At 8:00 the next morning, the Brenners, Galya, Kiril, and Luka Rogov met for breakfast in the hotel dining room.

  “If this is supposed to be a day off, why did we have to get up so early?” Brenner complained.

  “Not to worry,” Kiril reassured him. “Chancellor Malik chose well for your outing. I’ve read up on Waren—a charming town on Lake Muritzsee.” He took some notes from his pocket. “There are references to the town by an ancient geographer named Claudius as early as 150 A.D. In the centuries that followed, the town was devastated by fires and suffered greatly during the Thirty Years’ War from 1618 to 1648. But in the eighteenth century, canal and railway building created economic growth, and in 1925 electricity came to Waren, followed four years later by a Roman Catholic church.”

  His tone changed. “In 1931 the Nazis were the largest party in the November elections. The following year they took over some political and administrative positions.”

  He saw that Adrienne Brenner, who’d been politely attentive, was now paying close attention. Since her husband didn’t seem the least bit interested, and Galya, eyes closed, had tuned out, Kiril focused only on Adrienne. “During the fascist era,” he continued, “the Nazis followed a familiar pattern. Waren’s Jews were persecuted, then expelled, and ultimately murdered. The Jewish population in the middle 1800s was roughly 150 men, women, and children. By mid-1938—even before deportations had begun in earnest—there were nine. By the end of that year, the Jewish cemetery had been desecrated and destroyed. In 1942, even the nine were gone.”

  Adrienne restrained a shudder. She could picture only too well what Dr. Andreyev was describing.

  “I take it that Chancellor Malik would be offended if I begged off this jaunt to Lake Muritzsee,” Kurt Brenner interjected.

  “Apparently so,” Kiril said. “But the lake is especially beautiful this time of year, the weather is warm enough for boating and swimming, and the ancient town buzzes with activity. Lake Muritz is the second-largest lake in the GDR—the only one that fits entirely within its own borders.”

  “Let’s get on with it then,” Brenner said, thinking that the sooner they left, the sooner they’d get back. “We’ll meet out front at the limo after we collect our stuff.”

  “Let’s meet in the lobby,” Kiril suggested. “In about twenty minutes?”

  Twenty minutes later, the Brenners stepped out of the elevator carrying large American beach bags. Galya had a Soviet version that Aleksei had provided, but smaller and less full. Kiril swung over his shoulder a mesh shopping bag he’d picked up at some flea market in Moscow. Luka Rogov wore his military uniform and carried nothing.

  Except a 7.62 Nagant revolver.

  “Follow me,” Kiril said, and led them to one of the elevators.

  “We can’t get to the beach in an elevator,” Brenner said caustically.

  “You’ll see,” Kiril grinned as he pushed the button for the top floor.

  The elevator had more than adequate space for five adults, yet Dr. Brenner seemed agitated—but why? Kiril wondered. Brenner had begun to perspire the moment the doors closed.

  “Where the hell are we going, Dr. Andreyev?”

  “To the roof,” he told Brenner. “We’ll be flying to the lake in a helicopter,” he announced with a touch of pride just as they reached the top floor.

  The elevator doors opened. Chivalry aside, Kiril thought drily, Dr. Brenner was the first one out.

  “Look,” Brenner said with a show of calm as they climbed the stairs to the roof, “I can’t do this. I’m still jet-lagged. There’s no way I can sit for hours in a chopper.”

  “Not hours. Waren and Lake Muritzsee are roughly 60 miles from Berlin.”

  “Which means the limousine could have us there in what, an hour?”

  “Actually, I suggested that. But Chancellor Malik was very keen that Herr Doctor Professor Brenner see the town and the entire panorama of Lake Muritzsee from the air.”

  Brenner got the message.

  A Soviet helicopter was parked on the roof. The main body stood about ten feet high, its length roughly twe
lve feet. The bottom half of the body was painted orange, the top blue.

  Adrienne stifled a laugh. The paint job made her think of a swollen sausage.

  Above the body of the vehicle sat the flight deck, also orange. Orange paint ran from behind the front of the body toward the aircraft’s rear and continued for another twenty feet where the three-blade tail rotor rested. The four-blade main rotor was attached to the roof of the flight deck, with four large front and side windows.

  Brenner took one look at the helicopter’s size and almost recoiled in fright. Approaching two men in flight suits who stood next to the aircraft, he walked up to the pilots and asked in German, “Is this your airplane?” The pilots looked at each other, confused. The one with the most gold braid on his shoulder—the captain?—cracked a smile.

  “No. It is the property of the People of the German Democratic Republic.”

  Terrific.

  Brenner suppressed the urge to ask if the People’s property was safe.

  As Kiril approached, the East German Air Force officer said, “Captain Rolf Gruner at your service, and you must be Dr. Kiril Andreyev.”

  “I am.” They shook hands.

  The captain introduced his co-pilot, a lieutenant.

  “Our orders are to put ourselves and this aircraft at your disposal from now until sunset when, I was told, you have a dinner appointment with Chancellor Dmitri Malik,” the captain said. “I’m responsible for flying this bird,” he continued, “but as to anything else, I take my orders from you. May I ask who are the other members of your party?”

  “Yes, of course. Honored guests of the DDR, Dr. and Mrs. Kurt Brenner. Galina Barkova, my assistant.” Then, nodding at Luka, Kiril added, “This man is with me.”

  Both pilots understood immediately.

  While Gruner did a last-minute walk-around check of the aircraft, Kiril, noticing Brenner’s discomfort, turned to his wife. “If your husband thinks East German helicopters are inferior or in some way unsafe compared to American ones,” he said, “I’d be happy to reassure him.”