The Girl Behind the Wall

by Mandy Robotham

  ‘Oh, my love,’ she murmurs, fingering her daughter’s tear-streamed face. ‘My darling girl, you came back. Karin, you’re back.’

  There are tears then on all sides – of joy at that point. And then, when Gerda has provided coffee and more cake than Karin can contemplate eating, some explanations are needed. Ruth is perplexed and fights hard to hide a deep disappointment about the contact Jutta has been keeping from her.

  ‘But, Mama, if she’d have told you, it would have put us all in danger,’ Karin insists. ‘She had to make sure it was safe before I came. And in all honesty, it’s been my fear delaying this visit, not Jutta’s. She’s the brave one.’

  From the sidelines, Hugo nods, and his own mother shoots him a knowing look that says: I’ll deal with you later, though it’s far from menacing.

  ‘But I’m here now,’ Karin adds.

  ‘Now, we can be a family again,’ Ruth says. ‘A proper family.’

  Karin knows now would be the time to correct her mother, but finds she can’t. Not yet. ‘And look what I’ve brought for your birthday …’ she rattles on instead, pulling out a wrapped parcel containing a handmade bag she’s stitched from her best scraps.

  Later, up on the roof, Karin sits in Jutta’s chair, recovering from Gerda’s swiftly prepared but huge meal. She draws on a rare cigarette of Western quality that doesn’t make her cough violently, noting from the corner of her eye that the third chair in their old circle has been folded flat.

  ‘So?’ Hugo punctures the silence between them.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How is it? Living in the East?’

  She lifts her head and looks at him – cousin Hugo all grown up. ‘What else but tolerable,’ she sighs.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘What do you want me to say, Hugo? It’s like living among a fascist dictatorship where no one can move without state approval?’ Except she says it languidly, almost bored of the question.

  ‘And is it?’

  She laughs then. ‘Yes and no. Life goes on. If you replace fascist for communist, that’s pretty much what it is. But, like I say, people go about their business.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘Why go back now?’ she pre-empts him. ‘I know Jutta’s told you why. Otto. Love. Plain and simple.’ She smiles with resignation, and it’s Hugo’s turn to look on his cousin as older and wiser.

  She takes another drag. ‘Have you a girlfriend, Hugo?’

  ‘One or two so far. Nothing serious.’

  ‘If it does become serious, if it becomes love, then you will know why. I promise.’

  ‘But it’s so much to give up, to sacrifice,’ he says, bending his own head forward earnestly and meeting her gaze.

  ‘And so much to gain too,’ Karin says quietly. ‘Have you ever thought of that? Politicians aside, East Berliners are just Berliners – good people. They have their doubts, but they also have to survive.’ She thinks of Walter and Christel and their steadfast kindness. ‘And they have faults and foibles, like most of the world’s people. Unfortunately, it’s those that get exploited.’

  ‘But can you live like that, when you know there’s an alternative?’ Hugo pitches, his eyes wide with wonder.

  ‘For as long as my love holds out, then I think, yes.’

  Karin sighs again. When she’s with Otto she doesn’t need to convince herself of a life’s direction with him, but being here, it’s harder. She’s left her tiny photograph of him at her flat, for safety, but she yearns to see his face now. For certainty. Ghosting back through the Wall today means no going back on promises, at least until she can win Otto round. For now, she has to convince Mama and Gerda of her choice.

  ‘Hey, time’s getting on,’ she says. ‘I’ll need to head back soon.’

  ‘You’ve got a bit longer – I’ll give you a lift on the bike,’ Hugo offers. Pauses. ‘It’s been great to see you, Karin. But please, be careful.’

  This time she laughs loudly, the wise old cackle of a veteran dodger. ‘I live in the East, Hugo. For us, caution is like breathing.’

  43

  A Close Encounter

  3rd August 1963, East Berlin

  Jutta wakes with a start to shouting out in the street beyond Karin’s window. She’d made herself some tea and lain back on the bed with her book, closed her eyes … in the next moment the noise is causing her heart to bound towards the ceiling. Her eyes snap to her watch as she springs from the bed. How long has she been asleep? It’s only nearing four o’clock, thankfully.

  Squinting through Karin’s thin veil of curtain she scans for anything suspicious, soldiers perhaps, but there are two women in view scrapping like cats outside the building opposite, neighbours beginning to swarm at the suburban spectacle, some goading, some trying to pull them apart. Jutta breathes relief: normal life happens everywhere – love, hate, acrimony and affection. Wall or no Wall.

  She refreshes herself in the cramped bathroom, irons out the imprint of Karin’s pillow on her cheek and practises a smile in the mirror. Keep going – the charade is nearly over.

  Karin has little in her cupboards and Jutta is loath to use up the precious supplies. Besides, she needs to be visible as Karin again before heading for the rabbit hole. She leaves the oranges she’s carried from home and a little note – Thank you – with an inadequate drawing of a little stick woman in a triangular dress, knowing Karin will understand its meaning and smile at her sister’s poor excuse for a cartoon. She’s back in Karin’s dress, the new creation neatly tucked inside her bag.

  Jutta bangs the front door shut and, as expected, feels the subtle suck of air as Frau Lupke’s door opens a few centimetres as she descends to the ground floor. Good old Frau – she doesn’t realise what an asset her snooping might yet prove.

  It’s cooler outside and the sun is disappearing westwards, as if drawing her home. Somehow, Jutta feels slightly more relaxed – the sleep has done her good, after a relatively unsettled night. But she’s thirsty again, needs coffee to propel her towards the day’s last hurdle, and yet the Presse Café twice in one day may be too obvious. Suddenly, Jutta thinks of Karin’s other favourite haunt: Café Sybille. She can walk south-east to Karl-Marx-Allee and then take a bus or a U-Bahn to meet Karin. Perfect.

  The streets are well populated, allowing Jutta to melt into the general shoal of bodies as she skirts Alexanderplatz and heads down the faux Parisian boulevard. Jutta quickens her pace, her mind blinkered to reaching the smell of good coffee and perhaps even a pastry.

  ‘Karin … Karin!’ A voice cuts through her invisible barrier. In an instant, she assesses the threat: it’s a sharp tone, though not challenging. A Vopo? Or worse? One temptation is to stop, turn and acknowledge, show the identity card of Karin’s that’s in her bag. Prove that she is Karin Voigt. ‘Look at the picture,’ she’ll gesture to the face in a uniform. ‘That’s me.’

  But everything else screams. Keep going, pretend you didn’t hear, try to shake it off. Only don’t walk any faster. It’s Karin who told her that unequivocally: ‘Don’t ever run, Jutta. It’s incriminating, and they have guns. They will use them.’

  ‘Karin … KARIN!’ The voice is closer, almost pleading her to stop, footsteps quicker and closing in. Turn and face up. Smile.

  Jutta spins and scans in quick succession. No uniform she can see, but a casual, collared T-shirt, close-cropped blond hair. More importantly, a friendly expression. And thankfully, one she recognises, if only from a static image.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Otto pants as he reaches her. ‘I’ve been calling your name for ages.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry – in a world of my own,’ Jutta manages. Oh Christ, how to play this?

  ‘I went to the flat, but you weren’t there,’ he says breathlessly, falling into step as she continues walking. He links his hand with hers and she has to remember instantly not to pull away. For a split second, it’s Danny who springs to mind, the two of them walking down the Kurf’damm. If only she were there now, with him.

&nb
sp; ‘Uh, no …’ Think Jutta. THINK. ‘I’ve been with Walter, choosing a present,’ she says. It’s the only name that pops into her head, but what the hell is his wife’s name? Karin has spoken of them often enough. Why won’t it come?

  ‘For Christel?’ Otto offers helpfully.

  ‘Yes, Christel – it’s some kind of anniversary. But it’s all hush-hush, he wants it to be a surprise, so don’t mention it if you see them.’ Jutta is thankful they’re walking, avoiding any need to look him in the eye while she’s unashamedly lying.

  ‘My lips are sealed,’ and he gives her hand a friendly tug. ‘So, no need to ask where you’re heading. How about coffee and cake at Sybille, on me?’

  ‘Oh, and what’s the occasion?’ Jutta asks playfully, trying to imagine how Karin would be with him, and yet finding herself not knowing. For the first time in all their years, Karin seems totally out of reach. She feels their thread pull and stretch. Intact but under intense pressure.

  ‘No occasion, only that I love you,’ Otto says, and leans in to kiss her cheek. It’s fleeting enough that Jutta doesn’t have time to recoil, and it’s a blessing. But he smells fresh, and his kiss is loaded with affection. That much she can tell. And that Otto seems nice. No wonder her sister has fallen for him.

  Café Sybille is busier than on her last visit, and Jutta is grateful to know the layout. Her heart is still on double time, though. What is it that Karin likes most and had when they were last here? The choice of coffee is easy, but the cake? Her memory is a vortex, churning and twisting, sucking everything down and offering up nothing.

  ‘Your usual, then?’ Otto asks, eyeing the menu as they sit.

  ‘Oh yes, my usual,’ she says with relief. Otto is blindly guiding her, almost as if he knows. Does he? He can’t, surely. His expression shows nothing but contentment. And love. And Jutta has to do the same.

  Once she is furnished with coffee and a slice of plum torte, he dives hungrily into his own pastry.

  ‘So, are you finished with being Walter’s shopping expert now?’ He looks up, pale blue eyes directly on her. ‘Can I poach you to come and see a film with me?’

  Jutta’s brain spins again. Oh Lord, another excuse. ‘Um, maybe later, this evening perhaps. I said I’d go and help out a girl from work with her wedding dress at six. Some alterations.’ She dredges it from somewhere deep in her psyche and forces a smile as she chews the cake that has developed a sour taste. ‘But only for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Well, I can hardly deny the woman your expertise, can I?’ Otto says. ‘She’s lucky to have your skill at hand.’ He pulls at her wrist affectionately, runs his fingers over hers and squeezes her flesh gently.

  Perhaps because of the injection of caffeine into her system, Jutta is galvanised to play more of a part – it’s not enough, she reasons, to sit and nod and smile. It’s clearly not what Karin would do. His Karin. Otto has to be convinced or this double life cannot continue, though she doesn’t relish any more encounters.

  ‘Hey, I was at Presse earlier and the barman says there’ll be some more music next week,’ she offers, laying some groundwork to the lie.

  ‘Oh yes, did he say which band?’

  ‘No, nothing certain, but he’ll get word to you.’

  ‘Oh, great.’ He swallows the last of his coffee. ‘Was that Dirk?’

  Jutta hides a blank look behind another forkful of cake.

  ‘Behind the bar, I mean?’ Otto nudges.

  Is he testing me? Or just making conversation? ‘I think so,’ she lies. ‘He might be new. He recognised me anyway.’

  Otto nods, seems satisfied, and Jutta’s cake is finally able to slide down. She needs to move the conversation on, focus on him. ‘So what have you been up to today?’

  ‘Oh, Mama nabbed me to run an errand – she’d heard they were selling bananas from a stall up in Pankow and made me hotfoot it over there.’

  ‘And did you find any?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No, a very long queue but not a banana in sight. But it was a good walk and I spied some beautiful buildings tucked away, parts of old Berlin left standing. Makes me certain we can build it back up again, a great place for people to live. And breathe.’

  He smiles into the table, half of his mind elsewhere, perhaps in some layout he’s already drafting in his head. Jutta looks closely at him, thinks that he seems genuine, and she realises then how her sister has nurtured a love for this principled, honest man. Why she cannot bear to leave him, and what huge sacrifices Karin is prepared to make. And as her sister, how proud that makes Jutta feel. And how sad.

  At the back of Jutta’s mind, though, a nagging doubt endures: how on earth is Karin to persuade Otto that life in the West can be better, to shed his lifelong principles? Will their love survive that particular divide?

  ‘Oh, look at the time!’ Jutta’s eyes stray over her watch, the same one she and Karin had been careful to swap at the changeover – and mercifully so. ‘Otto, I’ve got to go. Where shall we meet later?’

  ‘The Kosmos, in the lobby? There’s a showing at eight.’ She nods, committing it to memory and the lengthening list of things she needs to tell Karin.

  ‘I love you,’ Otto says as they part outside the café.

  ‘I love you too,’ she says automatically, though it sticks on her tongue. It’s clear he’s hovering, expectant. She turns her face upwards as he proffers his cheek, and she plants a light peck on it. His skin is soft and a minute wisp of something – taste perhaps – is left on her lips. He kisses her hand and is gone, his long legs striding in the opposite direction, head up and scrutinising the mock splendour of Karl-Marx-Allee.

  Jutta almost crumples with relief, something she can ill-afford to do as she needs to walk quickly towards the U-Bahn, in preparation for another encounter in the belly of the Wall.

  When will this day end?

  44

  Return to Life

  3rd August 1963, the Wall

  This time it’s Jutta who’s late in reaching the inner sanctum, having misread the changes on the U-Bahn, though she’s loath to hurry too fast towards the workshops, careful to slow her steps and almost loitering as she gauges any activity. There’s an uncomfortable feeling hovering inside her that she can’t shake off – one more to add to the day’s tally – that it’s been too easy so far. The day has been a series of challenges for sure, but nothing dangerous or threatening. Yet. She can’t help feeling it’s like picking at the petals of a daisy; pretty soon there won’t be any more left to protect the stem.

  Sensing the way is clear, Jutta strides towards the alleyways, head slightly down but eyes everywhere. Still nothing amiss. She reaches the window and, with the benefit of practice, pushes herself up and into the opening. Her eyes scout for Karin, but there’s no sign. Wary of crying out, she scrabbles up and into the corridor leading to the kitchen, willing her sister’s form to appear and yet only inching forward, braced against her first sight being a Vopo and his gun, Karin in his clutches and looking terrified. A siren screams from behind her, on the East side, and she is static until it fades into the distance. But there’s only silence from within the cavity of the Wall.

  It’s ten past six and there’s virtually no sound as Jutta hovers in the empty kitchen near the wooden cabinet, wanting – needing – to recognise the sounds of Karin pushing against the tarpaulin. They’ve both agreed that if either doesn’t show by 6.30 to carry on back to their own side. And yes, a large part of her hopes Karin will have undergone a dramatic U-turn and decided to stay at home today, for good. Strangely though, Jutta finds herself torn; she has none of her sister’s passion or allegiance towards Otto, but she hopes his loyalty and love won’t be crushed by loss. Having met him, even briefly, she feels he doesn’t deserve that.

  Why oh why does this inert, hostile blockade have to divide and rule their lives like a concrete cosh?

  She sits in the armchair, twitching. One eye is on the hands of Karin’s watch ticking slowly, the other on the rab
bit hole. 6.14 … 6.15. It’s her ears that prick first, alarm running through her veins. She’s up and out of the chair, looking for something substantial to hit out at any Vopo who comes near. But Karin’s head appears and the rest of her wriggles through quickly, twisting sharply and replacing the tarpaulin. There’s a large grin on her face as she stands to face Jutta.

  ‘All right?’ Karin pants.

  Jutta releases a large breath. ‘Fine. You?’

  ‘Yes, good.’

  Jutta frames the inevitable question. ‘How was it, with Mama?’

  Karin nods repeatedly towards the floor and Jutta knows it’s to stop her emotion breaking free. ‘It was lovely.’ She swallows and smiles with the recent memory. ‘You should have seen her face! It was a picture. And she didn’t keel over from the shock, so you know, the best we could hope for. And I’m stuffed with Gerda’s cooking.’

  Karin pats her slim belly, which is only slightly distended, then busies herself to swap clothes again, but Jutta won’t let her cloud the issue.

  ‘And the goodbye?’

  ‘As you’d expect,’ Karin mumbles, head still to the floor.

  ‘Is she angry? Disappointed?’

  Karin looks up then, faces her sister, lips stretched thin. ‘Both. And at both of us, although me mainly. She doesn’t understand why I have to go back for a man.’ She shrugs. ‘Our mother, who would have followed our father to the ends of the earth if she’d had the chance.’