Karin nods silently, causing two lines of tears to dislodge and roll down her face, nestling on the rim of her lips. She moulds into Jutta and they hug and weep together under the dappling leaves. It isn’t what they’d planned for the day, but perhaps what they need at that moment.
‘Oh, I wish you could meet him right now, Ja-Ja,’ Karin sniffs. ‘You would see why then. I know you would.’
They both know it’s too soon. Poor Otto, to be faced with the shock of his girlfriend’s doppelgänger, no mistaking the likeness up close. People have told them time and again they even sound the same.
‘Soon enough,’ Jutta says, and she feels the tension run through her sister at the challenge she faces.
They pack up at 3.30, Jutta again keen to avoid the work crowds when slipping back into the alleyway. They make an exchange before reaching the streets – Jutta hands over American dollars, worth far more to Karin on the black market than the hollow Ostmarks, and Karin gives out Eastern currency for Jutta to buy train tickets or for use in cafés. The amount is a fraction of the dollars, but it may prove priceless in helping her to blend in.
They part in the narrow streets just north of Alexanderplatz, hugging so tightly it feels as if their bodies are truly blending. It reminds Jutta of the time when one of them would crawl into the other’s bed for comfort, body parts slotting in like puzzle pieces and where Mama would find them in the morning, in exactly the same position.
They decide on twelve days until the next meet, coinciding with Karin’s day off so as not to arouse suspicion among the hospital staff.
‘Keep safe,’ Jutta breathes into Karin’s hair, drawing in her smell, mixed with the pungent ammonia from the cheap hair dye.
‘It’s me who should be saying that,’ Karin replies. ‘Listen, Ja-Ja – don’t compromise yourself, ever. If it looks wrong, walk away. Don’t come. Somehow, I’ll find a way to get a message to you.’ She pulls back from Jutta and a look passes between them. Karin’s is a solid, strong expression. ‘I will survive. I have so far, haven’t I?’
‘I’ve no doubt that you will,’ Jutta says. ‘But I also want you to live.’
34
The Real Thing
8th July 1963, East Berlin
Karin watches Jutta descend the steps into the S-Bahn on Alexanderplatz, having warned her sister to keep aware and put her nose in a book, especially when they stop at stations; the Trapos transport brigade are peppered with Stasi all too adept at spotting potential ‘jumpers’.
Suddenly restless, Karin needs somewhere to direct her energy and thinks of trawling through second-hand shops for cheap material. Strangely, though, she has no appetite for it. Besides, the dollars she has from Jutta are for essentials and shouldn’t be spent on luxuries – although making dresses out of musty old curtains feels anything but luxurious. She’s swilling in her own indecision, exactly how she felt the last time she and Jutta parted. She needs grounding.
Karin makes her way north of Alexanderplatz, snaking through grey streets and past buildings that form a sharp contrast – either dilapidated by the war, or sporting the crisp lines of the new communist style, ordered and functional. Once, it seemed almost like another country to Karin – was another country – but now it’s all too familiar. Should she be worried or comforted that she feels strangely at home in East Berlin now? And for how long?
The building she arrives at is an ornate, pre-communist structure, though made more tolerable to the GDR by the bullet holes pocked into the stone from the 1945 battles, giving it at least a history of struggle alongside the opulent architecture. The GDR flag sits stoutly at the entrance, and Karin tries not to feel cowed by it.
Gingerly, she climbs the steps into the echoey, high-ceilinged reception, not unlike the Charité, though with no odour of the Lysol that’s now so familiar to her. The fierce Frau at the desk tries to ignore her, but in having to square up to the Charité’s own severe receptionist from time to time, Karin is more than a match. She smiles sweetly, draws back her shoulders and pushes forth an air of importance.
‘Otto Kruger. Would you be so kind as to call his office please?’
‘And you are?’
‘A colleague,’ Karin lies. ‘From the Housing Ministry.’
The sentinel looks her up and down, drinking in Karin’s casual shift dress.
‘I’m on my day off,’ she explains. ‘And I’m very short of time. So, if you wouldn’t mind?’
There’s a huff, followed by the sound of a number being dialled. ‘He’ll be down shortly,’ she grunts dismissively. ‘You can wait over there.’
Karin sits opposite the once grandiose stairway, now moulded into functionality by a dull, metal bannister. She ignores the bodies toing and froing and scouts for one sight only. I’ll know, she thinks to herself. When he comes, I’ll know. If it’s worth the risk.
When he does appear, at the top of the stairway and squinting towards the floor below, Karin is sure. She’s certain because her heart floods with a tidal wave of scarlet lava and, even though she’s sitting down, it flows at breakneck speed, hot and urgent. Firm in her decision.
‘He’s the real thing, Ja-Ja,’ she mutters under her breath.
Otto looks quizzical as he descends the steps and finds Karin at the bottom. ‘Hey, were we supposed to meet, have I forg—?’
‘No, no,’ she reassures. ‘I got off early, that’s all. Thought I’d surprise you. Can you get away now? We could sneak off and see a film.’ She grins, knowing how much he loves her spontaneity.
He’s pleased, clearly, but also torn. Otto takes his timekeeping seriously – in anyone else it might seem servile or geeky, but with him it’s more often about how much he can get done, how much he can achieve for others. And she has to remember, he grew up in the East, in the Soviet zone since the city was divided up in 1945. Then, it was one city, but with boundaries which some were loath to cross, his parents especially. Otto is a child of the East, as much as Karin is a product of the free West. Or was.
‘Listen, I’ve got half an hour’s work to do,’ he says. ‘I’ll meet you in the café on the corner of Lottumstrasse. Thirty minutes, promise.’ He grabs her hand and squeezes, all too aware of the fierce Frau’s beady eye on them both.
The café is one she’s never been to before, populated with office workers and a few old men drinking schnapps. It’s not like her favourite haunt of the Presse Café, alive with student talk and a backdrop of amateur bands and folk singers, painstakingly learning songs from beyond the Iron Curtain. If she’s honest, she likes the Presse because it reminds her most of cafés in the West.
With her mouth still sour from the bitter coffee in the park, Karin orders a Vita Cola and sits looking at the bottle – the GDR’s own, poor substitute for Coca-Cola, although she has become oddly accustomed to its citrusy taste. Or is she kidding herself? Swiftly, she banishes any creeping thoughts of sitting on Kranzler’s top tier, sipping an old-style ‘Coke’ and blissfully people-watching with Jutta, admiring the fashionable women sashaying through Berlin’s vibrant centre. That life is distant – but can she make it return?
Otto is on time, as promised. He’s smiling as he sits down and orders a beer, grasping at her hands across the table and stroking her fingers affectionately. He’s already loosened his tie, and his blond hair is ruffled from a hasty walk. Unlike Jutta, he doesn’t notice the calluses on Karin’s fingers, given that they’re so like his mother’s. They register merely as women’s hands, a proud symbol of equality in East Germany’s working classes.
‘How’s your day been?’ Otto is always eager to hear about her time at the hospital, just as Karin is endlessly fascinated by the work he seems to carry in his head, designing functional but quality homes on the scant budget he has, toiling to make them less like the barren concrete blocks he secretly loathes as an architect.
‘Fine,’ she says. It’s not a lie, since the day was more than fine, just not at work. She tries to push away her guilt. ‘You?’
‘Oh?’ Karin tries not to sound alarmed, even though Otto is smiling.
‘It’s amazing – I’ve been given a large block in Leipzig to design. Four hundred homes. I’ll be the senior architect, my first lead.’
‘That’s great, but Leipzig?’ Karin is mildly panicked since it’s more than 150 kilometres further south. ‘Will you need to leave Berlin?’
He shakes his head. ‘Only for a few days at a time, once or twice. Maybe we can take a trip together. Have you ever been?’
‘No.’
‘It’s very rundown but still nice. Old and quaint. I have an uncle there.’
Now is as good a time as any. ‘Do you think you could ever live anywhere but East Berlin?’ Karin pitches casually.
‘Hmm, possibly. There are some lovely places further East. Perfect for a young couple like you and …’ There’s a playful glint in his eye then. ‘But hey, don’t say you’re thinking of leaving me already?’
She dismisses his blithe suggestion with a firm shake of her head, mouth firmly closed to hide the deceit, and Otto rambles on about Leipzig and family holidays, while Karin’s mind feels static against her task. Already, she feels herself drained of hope.
‘Karin?’ Otto’s voice cuts through. ‘What’s wrong? You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’
‘Nothing.’ Nothing that a new life – a new world – won’t fix.
35
The History Man
14th July 1963, West Berlin
The very chic bar at the Hotel am Zoo has a younger crowd than the Hilton, which makes Jutta feel a little less jittery, but she’s never been at ease waiting in such places. She’s early though, and slips behind a corner table nestled in the shadows, filling the time by squinting through stylish but not very effective lighting. As she scans the crowd, her eyes are drawn to the fashionable women with lean bodies and stiffly sculpted beehives, making them appear like walking lollipops. She watches as they bat huge kohl-lined eyes at stocky East German businessmen who have somehow ghosted through the Wall on a whim – Jutta is damn sure they don’t scrabble through their own dusty rabbit hole to reach the West. Money speaks, clearly, if you know which border guards to bribe on a regular basis.
‘Hello there.’ Right on time, Danny slides into the seat next to her, wearing a look of concern. ‘Am I late?’ He smooths down his dark brown hair, perhaps as a way of centring himself and checking his flushed face doesn’t sport any sweat. He flicks his fingers at the bartender and orders Martinis.
‘No, it was me, I was hopelessly early.’ Jutta is pleased to see he’s not wearing uniform this time – a neat blue suit, expensively and expertly cut (tell-tale signs that she’s picked up from Karin), and which shows off more of his broad shoulders and honed body. The tone matches his eyes, still a glowing blue despite the shadowy lighting.
‘You look lovely,’ he smiles.
‘You too,’ she counters, and finds she means it.
‘Oh, this old rag,’ he jokes back. ‘And there’s me thinking I didn’t have a thing to wear.’
His humour breaks the ice perfectly, and Jutta eases into the conversation and the evening. Danny had suggested they meet on calling her at the library two days before – she’d hesitated for a few seconds on the end of the receiver, then quickly recalled how ungenerous her spirit had been towards him. He’s just being nice, for goodness sake.
‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ she’d said finally.
On the phone, they planned on drinks only, but neither has eaten and they walk from the Am Zoo to a small Italian restaurant just a few streets away. ‘Every guy at the base craves Italian food,’ Danny says as he leads the way. Once or twice, she feels his fingers make fleeting contact with hers, then the air as his whip away into the space between them.
The house special carbonara is delicious, preventing Jutta’s head from spinning with the white wine Danny orders.
‘So, tell me about your family,’ he smiles, expertly twirling and forking the pasta strands. Those eyes are on her as she swallows to hide a sudden, heavy pulse in her chest. Is this when I deny my sister’s existence entirely?
‘Um, I live with my mother in Schöneberg, and my aunt and uncle, and their son, though he’s more of a brother to me really.’ Jutta pushes it all out in one, swift sentence. Not forgetting my twin sister who is a prisoner of the GDR and it’s breaking my heart.
‘And your father?’
‘Killed in the war, the Battle of Berlin,’ she says quickly.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ There’s a downturn to his mouth, as if he alone shoulders the guilt of his country.
‘It was a long time ago.’ She smiles, eyes alight under her dark fringe. ‘I promise – we don’t hold grudges.’
‘Phew, that’s a relief.’
His family is from small-town Connecticut, he tells her, which is why he’s been drawn to the excitement of Berlin, with its easy access to the rest of Europe – Paris, London and Rome. ‘I figured if I was going to travel, then this would be the best posting.’
‘And your job, isn’t that a good enough reason?’ Jutta asks, though stops short of probing any more. From experience, she knows it’s pointless to enquire precisely what anyone in the military does for the mighty United States of America.
‘It’s okay – for now,’ he shrugs. ‘But paper-pushing isn’t my forte. I’m far more of a people person.’ He looks up. ‘Though that’s for other people to decide, I guess.’
‘So what is in your heart then? Where will you end up after your wanderlust?’
He glances up, looks at her as if she’s enquired into the well of his soul and sits back in his chair. ‘You might be disappointed,’ he says.
‘Maybe I won’t.’
‘Well, when I say people, I mean dead people.’ He laughs. ‘And no, I’m not a pathologist, or some strange guy who hangs about in mortuaries. It’s history, though not your dry dates kind. I’m fascinated by the way everyone in the past lived, ate, made babies, died. What I believe the Brits generally call the “nitty gritty”.’
‘Isn’t there a good deal of paper-pushing in that?’ Jutta pitches. ‘Quite dry and dusty paper?’
‘Ah,’ he says, elbows on the table and hunching his shoulders forward. The light in his eyes flickers. ‘That’s where everyone is wrong. If you rummage around for the right documents, then the people come alive, they pop out from the page.’
Jutta can see it there in his face – a lifelong passion. ‘And so where would you do this living history, your rummaging?’ She’s humouring him, enjoying his zeal. Being bookish herself, she finds it wholly appealing.
‘I’ve got my eye on a fellowship at Columbia,’ he says. ‘Entirely selfish – I get to live amid the buzz of New York, bury my head in books, and teach a few students when I feel the need to be with living, breathing people.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ she says. ‘Just the military to get over first.’
He shrugs again. ‘Uh, I can wait,’ he says. ‘Being here is more than enough reward. It’s not many places where you get to see history being made in front of your eyes.’ He holds back then as Jutta’s eyebrows twitch, wary he’s made the same mistake as on the aborted date at the Hilton. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean … Christ, I’m not being very articulate, am I?’
Jutta cocks her head, though, seeing this side of him, she isn’t offended. In fact, he’s becoming more attractive by the minute. Tell me more, her gesture says.
‘It’s what I was talking about: a living history,’ he goes on. ‘I love witnessing how people get by day to day, in the middle of war or unease, when their cities are under siege – how they find stuff to eat, feed their children, socialise. Keep whole.’
They don’t always, Jutta thinks.
‘Do you really think that Berliners are under siege?’ she says instead.
‘Yes and no,’ he replies. ‘Coming from where I do, I wonder how p
eople live in a relatively small space, like a limb out in an ocean. And yet, from what I can see, people here don’t seem constrained. I detect there’s anger at the Wall, but not a sense of frustration in their own portion of the city. Quite the opposite.’
‘You learn to live within your confines,’ Jutta tells him plainly. ‘I’ve always lived on this island.’ She considers telling him she’s only ever been outside of Berlin once in her twenty-six years, to Frankfurt to see a distant relative; the sensation of driving down the autobahn connecting Berlin to West Germany, and feeling … how does she remember it? Exposed. ‘I’m sure I speak for a lot of West Berliners – we’re not living in a fishbowl, desperate to swim out.’
His shoulders slump. ‘I hope I’ve not offended you again. Because I really don’t mean to. And I don’t want to study you, either.’
This time she doesn’t curb her laughter. ‘Well, that’s good, because I’d be a very poor subject.’
‘But I would like to get to know you. If you’ll allow me.’ He puts down his fork and pushes his hands across the table, making a fleeting connection with her skin. He doesn’t grasp, clasp or grab. He just makes human contact and, inside, Jutta starts. Surprises herself at how welcome it is, how much in her constant state of unease that she needs it. Friendship. There is no hope of confiding in Danny about Karin, or her furtive slipping through the Wall. But to have something in her life, aside from what feels like a suspended existence on one side and ghosting briefly to another … it’s enough.
‘I’d like that too,’ she says.
‘Then I promise, hand on heart, that I will not put you under my historian’s microscope, or scratch you into my dusty books.’
‘That’s a deal, as you Americans say.’ She puts down her fork and inches her fingers towards his. Another touch, to seal their understanding.
The Girl Behind the Wall Page 15
