His grin is wide and pleasing. ‘Then let’s celebrate! They have the best gelato here, better than Greenwich Village, though I can’t vouch for the whole of Italy.’
Afterwards, they meander down the Kurf’damm, faces lit by the bright neon, and this time he searches the space for her hand and Jutta doesn’t resist. She glances at men and women similarly linked and, although she is a long way from thinking they are a couple, she’s pleased at the belonging, the sense of sharing the evening with someone. Once it was Karin, but Karin has Otto now. She’s sharing her dreams with him. Perhaps it’s time for Jutta to branch out.
She points out some of the clubs and cafés to go to, and those that are better avoided; they look in the right shop windows and laugh at what he calls the ‘kookier’ displays, mannequins in odd contortions. It’s getting late and both have work in the morning, but neither seems keen to signal the end of the evening.
‘We’ll get a cab and I’ll drop you home,’ Danny says at last. ‘Are you free next Saturday? Afraid I have a reception in the evening, but I’m free all day.’
Inside, she lights up, then remembers Karin. No thanks, Danny, I’ll be risking life and liberty to see my sister, hopping into the communist state next door. How ludicrous does her life sound then?
‘Um, I’ve got a family occasion on Saturday,’ she says, only glad it’s not an outright lie. ‘But any other day after that.’
Ruth and Gerda are still up, pretending they’re clearing out the sewing box instead of waiting up for the merest detail of her evening. Hugo has clearly let slip about Jutta being on a date.
‘Nice evening?’ Gerda mutters, pins splayed between her teeth. Bless her, she’s trying to sound casual, though inside Jutta can see she’s burning with curiosity.
‘Lovely, thanks.’
‘Go anywhere nice?’ Ruth chips in.
‘Hotel am Zoo.’ At which two sets of eyebrows rise up. To them, it means class, and money, if not entirely the best of taste, though she resists the way their expressions are urging her to sit down and tell. ‘I’m very tired though, goodnight.’
Jutta is smiling as she leaves her mother and aunt in the parlour, with eyes like saucers and conjecture bubbling from their lips in low whispers. She slips under the bedcovers, reflecting on a near-perfect evening. There’s only one thing that would make it complete and that’s for her sister to be lying in the bed opposite, her head pushing up from the eiderdown. ‘Come on, Ja-Ja, how was it?’ she would urge in days of old. ‘Tell me everything.’
But there’s no voice from across the room. Only silence.
36
Another Ghost
20th July 1963, East Berlin
The sisters meet again in Alexanderplatz, on the south side this time as arranged, and Karin glides by and takes Jutta’s arm as if they’re in the midst of a usual weekend sojourn back home. Jutta would like to think the journey – from one universe to another, it often feels – had been as seamless, but in reality the thought still makes her tremble and the actual transfer is always hot with anxiety. Each time she goes through, she’s increasing her chances of being caught, of someone seeing and not turning a blind eye. A betting man would not give her good odds.
Today, her heart had sunk at not seeing the mama cat and her brood in the garage-house; they’ve obviously decamped in search of more food than Jutta can bring. A sadder sight is left in their wake – a tiny, furry body curled in the nest, sleeping for eternity, perhaps the runt of the litter and never destined to survive. She’s never been superstitious, but Jutta hopes it’s not an omen for today, or any subsequent trips.
Karin is in a buoyant mood, leading her away from a steady stream of people going to and fro and walking south down the wide, sweeping Karl-Marx-Allee, the GDR’s opulent version of a grand boulevard to rival any capital. The city’s most luxurious shops and apartments are housed in opposing lines of the vast, buttery-beige stone buildings, under box-like balconies and intricate stone façades, the sun glinting off gold-style window frames.
‘Where are we going?’ Jutta asks. ‘I thought we were headed somewhere discreet?’
‘There’s a little gem I want to show you first,’ Karin says proudly. Finally, she stops abruptly at a streetside café, with a huge yellow sign in modern neon lettering: Café Sybille.
‘Should we?’ her sister queries. It doesn’t seem as private as the Presse Café near the hospital, and much less of a student hang-out. ‘I mean, what if someone spots us?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Karin says, and pulls at the band tying Jutta’s ponytail, leaving her thick dark hair to fall each side of her face and mask the outline of her jaw. With Karin’s shock of blonde bob and a coating of pale pink lipstick, anyone would have to stare hard to pick out anything more than a family resemblance. ‘There – you could easily be my cousin,’ Karin adds. ‘Come on, the coffee is too good to miss.’
Jutta can see immediately that it’s Karin’s place – a light, high-ceilinged café behind carved stone columns, with designer furniture and quirky hand-painted images on the walls. What’s more, it’s populated by lean, chic men and women in fashions often seen in West Berlin. Karin is wearing one of her own creations, a shift dress with sharp lines in her distinctive style, and she looks stunning. By contrast, Jutta feels dowdy in a dark, plain tunic nipped at the waist, having purposely taken steps to avoid standing out.
‘They named the café after the magazine,’ Karin says breathlessly after ordering coffee, and points to a stack of Sybille copies on the side. ‘It’s the bible for anyone who loves fashion. Well, it’s become my bible, really.’
Jutta picks up a copy of the glossy periodical and leafs through. The content is modern and the articles clearly not entirely in line with the austerity of socialism; the ethos is challenging and she wonders how difficult it must be for them to publish in such a climate. And how long it might last.
‘They have fabulous patterns,’ Karin goes on. ‘It’s the only way to stay up to date.’ She flushes with excitement and delves into her large shoulder bag. ‘Here, I made you this – it’s from a Sybille pattern.’ She pulls out something folded, which, when she holds it up, unfurls to reveal a short raincoat fashioned from clear plastic. In any other design, the material might be something a maiden aunt would wear, but the pattern is modish and the patch pockets expertly sewn in black thread, with a plastic zip running up the front and two outsize buttons on the wide collar. It’s what Jutta has glimpsed on the front pages of the latest fashion magazines in West Berlin, and reminds her of one designer that she mentioned to Karin in passing at their last meeting.
‘Oh Karin!’ Jutta cries. ‘It’s amazing – how did you …?’
‘I caught one of the porters throwing out a load of plastic at the hospital, and I nabbed it. It’s not real Mary Quant, I know, but …’
‘But it’s beautiful,’ Jutta says. ‘If it wasn’t so hot today, I’d put it on now.’ She fingers the perfect stitching against the unforgiving plastic and can only imagine how frustrating it must have been to push it through any sewing machine. ‘I hope you made one for yourself?’
‘Of course, I had oodles of the stuff left.’ Karin’s eyes go left to right, and she lowers her voice. ‘We’ll just have to be careful not to wear it on the same days.’
‘You’re a genius, Karin. You know that?’
‘Hardly, but I have gotten more careful with my material. You know some women here even make clothes out of nappies and shower curtains?’
A pitying look flashes across Jutta’s face before she can control it.
‘It’s fine, Ja-Ja,’ Karin counters, only half-forcing a smile. ‘In the end, I will be a better seamstress and make my name, if not my fortune, from a collection entirely of scraps. You never know, I may even get some of my designs in Sybille.’
‘Well, they’d be fools to turn you down.’
Karin is entirely right about the coffee – the best they’ve tasted in a long time – and they linger over the p
astries. Jutta watches Karin handing over her precious Ostmarks to pay, likely the equivalent of a day’s wages, and she’s glad to have brought more American dollars for her, to at least lessen the cash burden of their meets. She hasn’t dared change up any currency herself, to avoid any suspicion.
Outside, they hop on a bus, a short ride that leaves behind the splendour of Karl-Marx-Allee, through increasingly dour residential streets and on to where the houses and factories space out, arriving on the edge of the Rummelsburger Lake. In the open, grassy spaces, Jutta studies families enjoying the sunshine, carefree and laughing against the glittering water: is everyone here trying to forget the misery of their daily lives? Or is this ‘misery’ only what the West imagines, a construct to create heroes and villains in the politicians’ Cold War? And then she thinks of the Wall-jumpers and the helpers, and those who risk their lives to go over and under the Wall – men, women and children. That people are prepared to die for it. There must be something to escape from, she thinks, and a sight from their bus ride sidles into her brain: a wall graffitied in bold, scrawled in either Greek or Latin: ‘TYRANNOS’. But the meaning is obvious: Tyranny.
They settle in the shade of a tree again, laying out a thin blanket on the bumpy grass. Jutta has brought more of Gerda’s cake, dodging her aunt’s surprise at how quickly the loaf has been devoured and her dark frown at Oskar, who could only shrug his shoulders in innocence. She pulls one more slim parcel from her bag and hands it to Karin. At Café Sybille she’d been dying to reciprocate her sister’s gift, but thought it easily recognisable as an item from the West, and best given in private. Karin’s reaction is worth the good half of the weekly wage it’s cost Jutta; the bright bold colours in a block Matisse-style, printed onto a length of thick silk.
‘Jutta!’ she squeals. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Hmm, I happened to pass by KaDeWe one lunchtime,’ she teases. She hadn’t, of course – it was a special trip to Berlin’s most expensive department store, where she’d made a beeline for the haberdashery. ‘I thought you might be able to whizz up a dress for yourself, and perhaps one to show to a design house.’ Anything to help realise your dream.
‘Oh Ja-Ja, it’s perfect,’ Karin breathes, hugging the fabric to her chest. ‘It’s exactly what I would have chosen.’
‘Well, isn’t that the advantage of being twins?’
With their feet dangling in the cool water, they talk about the week or so gone by and details of their days, about Otto’s new housing project, and in turn Jutta is pumped for every detail of her second date with Danny. They don’t venture into the near future and how long these days might go on for. This summer seems endless, the sun is beating down and it’s too nice for life-changing decisions or disagreements. Just being together is enough. For now.
Karin, though, in her new-found flush of confidence, has one more surprise to reveal. ‘I’ve decided,’ she says firmly. Defiantly. ‘I want to come through.’
A gasp escapes Jutta’s lips; the words she’s dreamed of hearing since their reunion. Her sister has seen the sense in not waiting for six long months.
Before it can magnify, though, Jutta’s optimism is quickly tempered. ‘Just for one day though – a surprise for Mama’s birthday,’ Karin adds quickly. ‘What do you think? Is it possible?’
Jutta nods slowly, shock and disappointment combined. It’s feasible, with the keyhole they’ve created. The question is: can it be wise, for Mama? Though even if it isn’t, has she the right to deny her sister the opportunity?
Karin, it seems, has been thinking long and hard over it. ‘It’s not for two weeks, so plenty of time for us to plan,’ she runs on enthusiastically.
‘Plan what?’ Jutta says. For her, it’s a simple case of drawing a map in guiding Karin to the entrance in East Berlin, where Jutta will be waiting to take her back home. Together, they will face Mama’s shock, then delight, followed by inevitable and crushing distress as Jutta leads her back to the rabbit-hole entrance at the end of the day, until she can make the break for good – with or without Otto.
‘I don’t think we should do it together,’ Karin says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘That I can’t chance being missed in East Berlin.’ She waits for Jutta’s reasoning to catch up with hers.
‘You mean you want us to swap?’ Jutta is almost laughing at the sheer idiocy of the suggestion.
‘Yes,’ says Karin, as if it’s the most obvious solution. ‘We’ve done it before – do you remember when you pretended to be me all the way through the school Christmas play?’
‘We were eight, Karin!’ She checks the volume of her voice as a couple glance over, lowers it almost to a whisper. ‘Why can’t you just disappear for a day? People do, all the time. They visit friends and relatives.’
‘Not me and not here,’ Karin says gravely. ‘My neighbours hear everything; the woman downstairs especially – she rarely goes out and she knows what everyone is doing. She’s our block monitor and almost certainly spying for the Stasi.’
Karin is probably right. Jutta knows there are thousands of informants across Berlin, largely in the East, but some in the West too; civilians who act as the eyes and the ears of the notorious secret police, snuffling out potential Wall-breakers and dissidents. Some do it out of a genuine belief in the GDR, others purely for money, but a good many are forced by blackmail, and a fear for their own families, to turn the tables on their own countrymen. It makes the Stasi one of the most successful surveillance organisations in the world, and gives them a formidable reputation. The beady eye on East Berliners has forced Karin to be wary. And while Jutta imagines that Karin could easily disappear for a few hours, she knows her sister’s plan is driven by a well-founded paranoia.
Jutta pulls up a strand of her hair and gestures at Karin’s white-blonde bob. ‘But we look nothing like each other now,’ she points out.
‘But I could dye my hair back to your colour and you could …’ Karin leaves the most obvious suggestion hanging.
‘And if I agree to this – if – what am I going to do for a whole day being you?’ Jutta can’t believe she’s even considering it. ‘I can’t work at the hospital. I wouldn’t know what to do and I’m bound to be found out.’
‘We’ll do it on my day off,’ Karin says. ‘Mama’s birthday is on the Sunday. If we make the swap on a Saturday, I would be off work, and you get to spend a day with her too.’ She takes a breath, eyes shining, the most excited Jutta has seen her since their reunion. Karin has briefly thrown off her pasty complexion, and she looks alive. ‘Think of it, Ja-Ja. Mama gets to see both her daughters. What better birthday present could we give her?’
Karin swishes the water into an eddy with her feet and grins, a look of certainty on her face, the one she always has when she’s confident of winning her sister over. That expression has worked with Gerda almost every time, and more often than not with Jutta. As it does now. Karin has tugged on her sister’s heartstrings and they have given way entirely.
‘That still doesn’t resolve the matter of what I will do?’ Jutta sighs.
‘Just hang around at my place,’ Karin says. ‘Go in and out a few times, bang the door hard so Frau Lupke gets to have a good nose, perhaps go to the café where I drink. Maybe the cinema – then you can appreciate what dire offerings we have.’
‘And what about Otto?’ Jutta is aware she’s simply trying to invent excuses now. Being in the East feels relatively safe alongside Karin, but on her own …
‘I’ll tell him I’m busy for the day and he won’t come by on a whim.’
Jutta turns and looks back to the grassy banks of the lake, families clearly having a good time, children squealing with delight on a makeshift swing. Think of it as just another place, she tells herself. After all, it was my city once. I’m not an alien – merely a trespasser.
She never says a definite yes, but there’s no need, since her sister’s longing has won out. And Jutta knows that between now and the appo
inted day, Karin’s enthusiasm will have to do battle with her own deep-seated fears about capture and imprisonment. She will need to face them down even to reach the portal. Mama’s birthday present will cost her sister a good deal.
37
Staying Power
24th July 1963, East Berlin
Karin has had four days to get used to the idea of her own proposal; during the day, busy with her broom and cleaning cart, her mind focuses on the clear advantages – the sight of Mama, and the shock on her face at her daughter’s arrival. More of a nice surprise, she hopes. At night, though, the darkness brings murkier imaginings, often latching onto her dreams: the screech of a windowless Barkas van as it comes to an abrupt halt and she is plucked from the pavement and thrust into one of the iron-grille cells in the back, barely enough room to sit, let alone move. She recalls snippets of a conversation overheard in the Presse Café one evening, a released prisoner painting a painful picture: ‘They barely touch you, although it’s damn near freezing in the cell,’ he’d said. ‘It’s the mind games that crush you – the same, endless questions and the months of solitude. They don’t need violence, because it’s your own mind that breaks you.’
She’d hesitated a little when Otto suggested the Presse this evening, it being on the Stasi radar, but it’s among his favourite haunts, and there’s a band playing. It’s likely to be only cover songs and the delivery quite rough, but rumour has it they might chance playing some British and American tunes, some Elvis and perhaps even The Beatles.
‘I’ll just have time to change quickly after work,’ Otto had said. ‘Can you drop by my flat and we’ll walk from there?’
By ‘his’ flat, he means his parents’, and while Karin doesn’t actively dislike Herr and Frau Kruger, she always feels uncomfortable in their company. It’s abundantly clear they think she’s not good enough for their son, since being good socialists doesn’t mean throwing off prejudice entirely. So time spent at Otto’s place is always best kept to a minimum.
The Girl Behind the Wall Page 16
