Several of Danny’s work colleagues are already waiting in the lavish lobby of the Staatsoper and they make general chit-chat; only one of the officers’ dates is German, the other French, but Jutta’s English has improved in Danny’s company and she follows the conversation with ease. She’s beginning to relax a little, though the sight of military uniforms from both sides reminds her to be on alert, so too the thought of Stasi mingling among them in everyday clothes, an invisible vapour curling around their ankles.
Danny’s enthusiasm, however, steadies her mood. He looks handsome and charming in his evening dress, and his face is glowing with expectancy as the curtain opens up in the grandiose theatre. At the interval, they collect as a group in the bar for a drink and she breaks away to the bathroom, eyes down as she’s accustomed to doing in the East.
‘Hello, what a surprise to see you here.’ She daren’t look up. The male voice is undoubtedly directed towards her; it’s a sound that strokes at her memory, and her brain strives to identify it. The tone is too mature for the boy Vopo, but who else does she know? Surely one of Axel’s contacts wouldn’t dare approach her?
When she finally raises her gaze, it’s into the face of Dr Simms, smart and smiling in his black suit.
‘Oh, hello.’ Her eyes move left to right in quick succession.
‘It’s all right – your secret’s safe with me.’ His own eyes light and Jutta feels quickly reassured. There’s something about his even features and a smattering of crow’s feet that makes him seem trustworthy, even without the knowledge that he saved her sister, both from death and an uncertain future.
They pause awkwardly. ‘Have you seen her lately?’ Jutta says at last.
He nods. ‘Yesterday. We had dinner.’ He nods again. ‘She told us, my wife and I.’
Jutta’s eyebrows rise. ‘And how is she?’
‘She looks better. More colour in her cheeks. I’ll make sure she’s looked after.’
‘Thank you. Again.’ She wants to ask if Karin has told Otto, to hear of his reaction and their plans, but she senses that Walter too is aware of the vapour, bodies sidling by, wall lamps that could so easily be listening devices.
He turns and leans into her, as if they are close acquaintances. ‘She needs to be careful,’ he mutters in a low voice. ‘Now more than ever.’ He says it with no hint of a threat, only concern.
‘I know, and I would never …’ Jutta begins.
‘I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ he cuts in, and it’s his turn to scan for any eyes levelled at them, dropping his voice again. ‘Not intentionally. But you have to realise that they will not take account of a woman’s condition. Humanity will not get in the way of their pursuit.’
‘They’ does not need qualifying. And Jutta already knows that the Stasi’s motto perfectly encompasses the pursuit he talks of: ‘To know everything.’
‘I’ll be careful, I promise, but with her and I … it’s hard to explain,’ Jutta attempts.
‘I can see that,’ he says, laying a hand on her elbow. His touch is warm, considered. ‘It’s clear to me the love between you is, well … I can’t begin to imagine. But she also loves Otto. And he is a good man.’ He shapes his lips into an apologetic smile. ‘One day, she may have to decide.’ And with that, he peels away.
The lurch inside her is barely controlled as Jutta reaches the bathroom. Staring into the mirror at a face that looks increasingly strained, she knows the truth of what Walter Simms says. He’s a clever, sensible man. With a heart. But he’s a doctor and a veteran of the GDR – he knows all about sacrifice too.
‘All fine?’ Danny says as she rejoins the group. ‘Enjoying yourself?’
‘Yes,’ she lies again, and he feels for her hand while her heart hardens like the concrete on the Wall. Danny doesn’t deserve this, she thinks. I don’t deserve him. And yet the realisation of not having him, warm and solid next to her, is like the instant clearing of a mist; in that split second, she understands Karin and her dilemma. The love that can tear you apart and lead you at the same time, and she prays to never have to make that choice. One Voigt sister with a life ripped apart is enough.
The journey back into West Berlin is quick and uneventful, with no border delays, and Jutta is silent in appreciating the neon lights of the West. For the first time in hours, her body feels at ease, though her eyes droop with the strain of being on constant watch.
‘Opera’s not really your thing, is it?’ Danny teases, pulling up outside the apartment.
‘Always good to experience new things,’ she says, kissing him full on the lips. Oh for God’s sake, Jutta – stop lying.
‘I promise, no more wailing women,’ he smiles. ‘See you Sunday? At mine?’
‘Yes, and I’ll have a belated birthday present all ready and wrapped.’ She winks in a way that makes his eyebrows arch.
‘And I do love opening presents,’ he says.
62
Much Too Close
29th October 1963, East Berlin
Jutta pulls one foot up and rubs it against her calf, hoping to create some blood flow in her toes, since she daren’t risk the noise of stamping to create warmth. It’s eerily quiet from her position in the corner where two buildings meet. And freezing. The winter in Berlin is closing in and it’s no time to be alone in an old brewery in the dusk, waiting for someone she doesn’t know to crawl out of an equally dark corner. But here she is, at Axel’s bidding.
It came out of the blue, a visit from him in the library just the day before, after a month during which she’d been required to cross with messages only twice, neither with enough notice to see Karin, only time to leave a note in the cleft of the brickwork and collect a letter for Mama, which contained no mention of the baby or her progress. Jutta is impatient to discover Karin’s plan, but equally knows she needs time to work on Otto, with the added pressure of the pregnancy. It’s just fortunate that newborns take time to nurture.
‘I need a message moved across tomorrow,’ Axel had said when they met on campus, pinching at his cigarette butt and throwing it down with force.
‘Tomorrow!’ Jutta couldn’t disguise her indignation.
‘Yes. Sorry, but it is urgent.’ He did sound genuinely apologetic. ‘And I don’t have anyone else at such short notice.’
She knows from conversations at the refectory table that the group often call in messengers from outside Berlin – West Germans who can be issued with day visas – but that inevitably takes time.
‘I’ll need some Eastern money,’ she told him firmly. ‘I’ve run out, and I’m not risking changing any.’
He reached into his pocket and handed over a sheaf of Ostmarks, enough for use on the U-Bahn rather than the endless walk north. The drop, he said, was in the northern Prenzlauer Berg district and would be straightforward – no waiting, but it couldn’t be made until six in the evening. It meant there was no reason to cry off work for the day, and little point in leaving a message for Karin to meet, though Jutta was desperate to see her, hug her sister’s burgeoning body. She felt as if it would be another wasted visit, in missing out on Karin. Much like so many who are earning their illicit passage across the Wall with favours, she had to view it as useful in banking some credit with Axel, a valuable currency should she need to trade later.
Jutta had imagined the drop point of the Eastside brewery would still be busy at six, with different shifts overlapping, but it was almost deserted as she took up her place in the cleft of two adjoining buildings. The red-brick walls loom large over a cobbled courtyard, casting long dark shadows, and there’s a gentle rattle of glass bottles that comes in a wave when the wind whips through the yard, stirring up the stale odour of yeast and sulphur. Still, it makes her thirsty.
She rubs at her arms through her coat and checks her watch. One minute past six. She’s been told to stay hidden and simply wait for a signal: the sound of an owl hooting, which almost made her choke with laughter when Axel told her, as if an owl in the middle of a city counts as a normal o
ccurrence. But who is she to question?
Two minutes past. Her eyes adjust to the gloom, but still she squints past the corner of the brickwork and into the yard. The air is sliced by a whistling of a tune across the way and the form of a body cuts across her vision, the clatter of crates being transported fading as the form disappears. Then nothing. It’s ten past when she looks at her watch again; in five more minutes she has grounds to abandon, and part of her is willing the hand to move faster. Something about this doesn’t feel right. Her heart is always fluttering during a delivery, but today her guts are grinding relentlessly. Two days ago she was happy and warm in the crook of Danny’s arm in his flat, flirting and laughing and loving. The memories of it make her current whereabouts all the more precarious. She would even rather be at home suffering Mama’s constant enquiries about Karin – when will they see her again? Why can’t she have more than the letters Jutta occasionally brings? – than be here right now, cold and alone. Exposed, despite nature’s dark and starless curtain.
A sudden noise demands Jutta’s attention. Not the owl, but a constant scuffling, and she wonders if it’s a stray dog nosing for food. She peeks around the brickwork again and sees shadows – possibly a person, or an animal, or her mind playing tricks. She ventures one foot forward. The contact is late; perhaps they’ve forgotten the signal? They will want to be out of here as much as she does.
Then, a sound someway between a whistle and a bird noise. Possibly a bad impression of an owl? She’s not so sure, but it’s enough that Jutta’s impatience makes her forsake the refuge of the shadows and step nimbly towards it. In the same second, the moon – previously couched behind a cloud – escapes its own cover and shines luminous over the cobbles, trapping Jutta in a virtual spotlight. The sound is easily distinguished then: a man’s anguished cry. ‘Run! RUN!’ The words that follow are corrupted and mangled in his throat, clearly by force.
Jutta’s shock acts like a kick-start to her frozen terror, pumping her legs not towards the imposing archway where she entered but further into the darkest corners where she’s noted an outer stairway into one of the buildings. Over her own heavy breath she can sense and hear footfall behind her, closer, though no shouts. If only they would cry: ‘Achtung! Halt!’ like in the films, then she could gauge some distance or direction. But this is no script playing out.
She reaches the foot of the wooden stairs and strides up, yanking on the handle and feeling relief when the door to the building opens, going from outer gloom to a double-height darkness, lit only by a weak bulb on the ground floor. She stops to listen, a wild animal sniffing out danger, nostrils flaring. The air is still, no wind here to jangle the glass, only packing cases piled high.
Jutta steps gingerly to the ground floor, skirting the warehouse walls and paddling with her hands for signs of a door. It’s then she hears the whisperings on the other side of the thin divide, a jumble of partial words. There’s no doubt of the intent though: not the cheery talk of brewery workers, or innocents passing through. That insidious vapour is evident, focused on infiltrating her space, finding her. Her throat tightens and she scans wildly for an escape.
Sheltering behind a packing case, heart crashing against her ribs, Jutta forces back the shrill sound inside her own ears, reaching for breath. She wills herself to conjure Karin, Mama, Danny, Gerda. Their softness. Anything but the sharp whine of a Barkas engine and the clanging of a cell door. Be still and think.
A door creaks open, a sliver of moonlight pushing into the darkness, the sour scent of bodies weaving into the room, and she can almost hear them signalling to each other. Like a game of childish hide and seek, she tracks their footsteps and moves stealthily back into the space they have vacated; the view from above is of two predators stalking each other in a maze. Two feet from the door, she makes a decision – and a break. Not since high school has Jutta run so fast. The scrabbling of bodies she hears, the stomp of their good shoes on cobbles, but she is already in the shadows, under the brewery arch and away, running, running, running, as if life and liberty depends on it. Which it does.
She is at least a kilometre away before she slows to a half-skip and then a walk, cooling her burning lungs before sliding into the dingiest kneipe she can find, partly for cover, and partly to order a brandy with the money Axel has given her. The shock of it hitting the back of her throat in one gulp stops her hands from shaking, and the barflies stare at her with curiosity and admiration. She’s gone before they have a chance to ask any questions. Jutta is tempted to walk the entire way back to the portal, avoiding any stations where there are Vopos patrolling, but she knows time is of the essence.
Moving back through the portal is relatively easy, though she’s ever careful to assess any movement around the industrial units, with no legitimate reason to be there under darkness. Once through the East side of the membrane and in the abandoned garage, Jutta feels a huge wave of relief, as if she’s already home, when in the past it’s always seemed a precarious limbo. Scrabbling out into the West, the full force of the danger she faced slams hard into her and she has to slow her pace to calm a recurring shake in her legs. That perpetual question rears again, knocking hard at her judgement: What on earth are you doing, Jutta?
‘Something to eat, a mug of hot chocolate?’ Gerda sings out from the kitchen when she hears Jutta come through the door. She forces herself to sit with her mother and aunt and to hear of their day, compelled to spout more fiction as to where she’s been.
‘With your man again?’ Mama prods. ‘When are we going to meet him?’ She smiles with satisfaction; Jutta is pleased to be the cause of Mama’s delight, then guilt-ridden that while Danny is no figment, the rest of her life in that moment presents as a dirty lie.
63
The Door Slams Shut
30th October 1963, West Berlin
Axel is apologetic and unusually contrite when Jutta finds him the next day, signalling with the stern look in her eye that he needs to tear himself away from the adoration of Bibi lookalikes and explain to her just what the hell went wrong.
‘I’ll admit it was rushed,’ he says as they move through the campus. ‘But we had no one else.’
‘So it’s okay to sacrifice me for some half-baked plan?’ She’s seething as she walks, her voice only just kept under wraps.
‘No. And I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘It bloody well won’t. Because that’s the last time, Axel. I won’t – I can’t – risk it. For my family’s sake.’
He slows and turns to her, irritation washing across his face. ‘Clearly, you know the price of that.’
‘Haven’t I done enough?’ she demands with fervour. ‘You’ve said yourself, the opening will be compromised soon enough. It can’t have much value for you.’
He continues walking, face angled at the ground, but his voice morphs to cold and unfeeling. ‘Surely you’re not that naive, Jutta? Your opening is gold dust to us as a group. Yes, it will be compromised eventually, but not before we’re able to move scores of people across. In one day alone. You can’t possibly imagine we’d just hand it back to you after you’ve done us a few favours?’
His fleeting look is almost pitying, and it stokes her anger even more.
‘It’s no one’s claim,’ she hisses. ‘And I’d say having the Stasi hot on my tail is more than a few favours.’ She’s not unwise and knows that any access is prized, but still Jutta retains hope that, somewhere deep inside, Axel’s humanity will push through.
He stops and lights a cigarette, draws on it heavily. ‘You’ve done well for us, but it’s not my decision.’
‘Then whose is it?’
‘The group as a whole. I’m simply a handler.’
‘I’m not some fucking spy, Axel!’ She feels her anger ricochet off the pavement below, and has to stop herself yanking at his sleeve.
‘Aren’t you?’ But by the look on his face, he understands her fury all too well. ‘Look, this has been coming for some time, a
nyway. There are those in the group not happy about us having good access, one without the need for an expensive tunnel, which is not being used to its full potential.’
Its full potential. How can they possibly know what it means to her and Karin? The entire family. Their life and hope?
‘You have one more week,’ he says flatly, scuffing the ground with his foot as a way of not having to look at her directly. ‘We’re already planning something after that, through your “rabbit hole”. So if I were you, I’d persuade your sister which side of Berlin holds the best promise, bring her through and then steer well clear – for good.’
There’s no point arguing, she knows. Axel is one face of the force that is ardent, some say arrogant, in its pursuit of freedom for Easterners. She daren’t think of what this means for her and Karin, Otto, the finality of it. That’s for her to grieve later, in private.
‘You promise I have one more week – without interruptions?’ Her plea forces him to look up.
‘You have my word.’ He throws down his cigarette and looks sideways, where the spectre of skinny Bibi is hovering like a perpetual shadow.
Jutta peels away. ‘Thanks, Axel,’ she says.
He goes to smile.
‘Thanks for nothing,’ she spits, turning her back on his falling face.
Jutta knows she has to act – and fast. There’s an urgency inside to reach Karin and pull her out before their precious fissure closes over for good. At the same time, her actions have to appear as normal as possible, never mind that her insides are being squeezed in a mangle night and day, combined with the exhaustion of not sleeping, tossing and turning for an entire night after the encounter with Axel.
She works through lunch and leaves the library an hour early, taking the tram to Harzer Strasse and hovering longer than usual before approaching the portal through the day’s constant drizzle. Now more than ever, she cannot be caught. Not before she reaches Karin.
The Girl Behind the Wall Page 27
