The Reunion

by Geoff Pridmore

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t want to stay in West Berlin. All the wonderful shops and bright lights. I’d like to go there.’

  ‘It’s full of fascists. Not a nice place; it isn’t what it appears to be. That sign proves my point. Hitler loved Mercedes. It’s all still in place – the whole rotten structure. This is the true Berlin – the true Germany.’

  She meant it, but felt guilty when he offered no response. Glancing across the chasm, he even looked quite crestfallen, as if she’d ruined his evening.

  Only she could break the moody silence that followed.

  ‘We could have spoken in my apartment, you know.’

  ‘Are you crazy? Walls have ears!’ he snapped.

  ‘Not my walls,’ she insisted.

  He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out an envelope. He passed it to her as if handing her a birthday card. ‘Open it,’ he said, smiling. Inside was a newspaper cutting: his piece on Heike’s defection.

  Bavarian Girl Finds Home in the East

  Fräulein Heike Savers, a twenty-year-old unemployed former waitress, has sought sanctuary with the authorities in East Berlin after having become disillusioned with life in the West. Fräulein Savers gave herself up to Border Police last month having travelled to West Berlin from her home in Bavaria. She has told our security correspondent that she is keen to settle in the GDR and make a new life for herself. It is understood she has no close relatives resident in the GDR.

  ‘That’s it?’ she asked. ‘After all I told you about my motives?’

  ‘Do you like the photo I took?’

  ‘What sort of journalist are you?’

  ‘One who reports what he is told to report. I wrote more, including much of what you told me, but my editor cut it. I have no other say in it.’

  Embarrassment flooding his cheeks, he looked away at the star on the Europa building.

  ‘There is more.’ He took out another press cutting and gave it to her to unfold.

  ‘This is from a paper in the Western sector.’

  Suspicions over recent defection

  A twenty-year-old Bavarian woman who defected to the GDR last month is most likely a Red Army Faction (RAF) member, says West Berlin Security Chief.

  Fräulein Heike Savers, the daughter of a US serviceman, worked as a waitress before leaving her job and family home to defect to the East.

  ‘My God! Mama will never forgive me!’

  ‘She doesn’t know?’

  ‘What have I done?’

  ‘I suspect you’ve done more than you realise.’

  Fifty metres away, snuggled tightly into the womb-like branches of a sweet chestnut tree, a sniper squeezed his trigger and shot off a round that hit Heike squarely in the chest. He yells: ‘That one’s from GI Joe Savers – just so’s you know!’

  She spun around on her heels, its velocity so great that only Roland could catch her before she hit the pavement. That was the first time he held her.

  ‘I think I’d better find you a chair. Come! Come!’

  Just metres away, a dirty café would do for now. He pushed open the door and lowered her down into the moulded orange plastic of the bucket chair.

  ‘Can I get you something?’ asked the female proprietor.

  ‘Two coffees, please!’ Roland gasped, before adding: ‘And a cigarette. Get me a packet of cigarettes.’

  ‘Sure. Any brand?’

  ‘Any brand, I don’t care.’

  Devoid of any discernible circulation, Heike leant across the table and shook for all the world as if she were haemorrhaging life like a punctured balloon.

  ‘Why would they write such a thing?’ she sobbed.

  ‘Is it true? Is that why you came here?’

  ‘They think I’m part of Baader-Meinhof? Who would think such a thing?!’

  Roland was loath to offer an answer. Better to appear pious, stay quiet; wait for the coffee and cigarettes.

  ‘You’re one clever man, I’ll give you that!’ she spat like a wounded cat.

  ‘I don’t understand. How do you mean, clever?’

  ‘You’re secret police. This week you play the good cop. Next week you play the bad cop. That is what they did to me last month in jail. Good cop, bad cop. You know how it works. I know how it works. Well, Mr Policeman, you got your story out and ruined any chance I have of ever going to my mother. She will never speak to me again; the family will ostracise her and – and – and…! I don’t know! I don’t know!’

  ‘I’m not a cop. I’m a journalist – that’s all. I did what I am employed to do, nothing more.’

  He wanted to reassure her by covering her trembling hand with his, but such a gesture wasn’t going to do it for Heike.

  ‘It isn’t just the family who will ostracise her – the whole neighbourhood will shun her and all because I wanted to be East German.’

  He fought retaliation. It’s not so great, he wanted to say, but East Germans born and raised know better than to be anything but discreet, so he kept his opinion tightly closed as he had been brought up to do.

  Sure enough, news of Heike’s defection reached home and, yes, the neighbours did shun Kirsten – in Landshagen, not Oberwinkel. Somebody just happened to spot the article and the surname. Savers? Wasn’t there an American sergeant with that name? Used to keep himself to himself? Anti-social! Didn’t he marry a local woman? They had two kids? A girl and a boy – younger brother – you know? It’s the girl – she’s the one who defected! Can you imagine?

  Oberwinkel was different. Perhaps no one recognised the surname. Or maybe no one bothered to read any papers that day, so word never made it to Oma or anybody else in the Mauer circle. International papers did pick it up, but nothing “front page”, just a few bylines under International News on page 18. Not many people read those pages.

  It was in a few English language broadsheets aboard the early morning paper train – tightly bound news bundles thrown out unceremoniously onto the platform at Penzance for the vendors to pick up at the very moment Hugo was standing waiting patiently to load early daffodils for Covent Garden. Often, he would pick up a paper to read then save for fire lighting. That particular morning, he didn’t bother.

  *

  The New Plan

  The new plan involved more lies, including:

  “Dearest Mama, Initially, I did move to West Berlin, but I met this wonderful East German journalist called Roland… I have fallen in love and moved with him to East Berlin. Hopefully I will be able to come and see you soon…”

  Not that Roland was aware of his amour at this time, especially as she gave not the slightest clue of any interest whatsoever. The nearest they’d come to dating was the walk to the café where she’d collapsed.

  This time, however, the letter was posted; only it landed on the floor of an unoccupied address. Kirsten had already left for Xanten, leaving most of her furniture behind in the rush to get away. The letter was not forwarded but returned to sender by the letting agent.

  Why Xanten? It was a long way from Bavaria and Hugo had mentioned it once and made it sound fascinating because the Romans had been there.

  *

  The List

  Heike made a list of ten people she would invite to dinner. These were in numerical order:

  1.Simon Wiesenthal

  2.Karl Marx

  3.Friedrich Engels

  4.Horst Buchholz

  5.John Lennon

  6.George Harrison

  7.(left blank as a space to be filled. M. Delon was an ‘8’ not a ‘7’.)

  8.Alain Delon

  9.Serge Gainsboro (or Jacques Cousteau, depending on availability)

  10.Hardy Krüger

  The idea was to invite all of them together, providing dates didn’t clash, and simply provide them with an opportunity to talk, talk and talk
. Lennon and Harrison would improvise with a musical interlude every now and then, Serge Gainsboro would sing and read poetry (Harrison strumming an accompaniment), and it would all be interspersed with much laughter.

  Heike’s regret was that in coming to East Berlin she had probably turned her back on the chance of bumping into Horst Buchholz doing his shopping in West Berlin. Never mind. However, it did intrigue her to think that he might have read about her in the newspaper and wondered just who she was. He might even make a cutting of it and encourage someone influential, creative and connected to turn her story into a play or film.

  Her story, of course, was still very much in the making.

  When all her guests had turned up and were enjoying themselves, glass of wine in hand (or beer for some), smoking pot and pipes and cigarillos, Roland would turn up unexpectedly. She would invite him in through the smoke and the perfume of wine with the proviso that he behave himself and that he take plenty of photos of the group for posterity. She would title them the ’73 Group, after the year. The ’74 Group might be different for whatever reason depending on who could attend.

  When everyone had left come the early hours, she would encourage him to stay a little longer – not too long though.

  *

  This list was bound to amuse Hanne! Maybe she had a list, too?

  *

  Odd to think that there had been a time when she’d wondered how best to meet Roland again. She hadn’t exactly endeared herself to him, as she didn’t really know who or even what he was. If only she could be sure that he was a real journalist and not just a Stasi information officer.

  Not that she held any grudges against the Stasi. They were doing a difficult job – in her opinion. So what if he was Stasi? He would be ordered to be a certain way by someone, and that’s okay because if it protected the state from those that would do it harm – fascists – then what’s the gripe? They’re simply doing an impossible job and most likely with limited resources.

  Heike’s choices had been hers and hers alone. No one invited her to come. Who can blame them for being suspicious? On a positive note, the sun was shining in East Germany and it was warm and energising!

  *

  Would Hanne really understand this?

  *

  It was the little things that were beginning to mount up: the odd pen or pencil that had been put away so securely; a pencil sharpener and so much else that seemed to walk whenever she turned her back. No one asked to borrow anything. They could have done, but no one ever did.

  Sheets of paper that were pristine in her handling became marked and creased if she left her desk unattended. Manuscripts would be returned from other departments with the complaint that the sheets were out of order or that there were pages missing.

  Her chair had a mind of its own: sometimes too high, sometimes too low; frequently loose in its construction, it would sometimes collapse, much to the amusement of those around her.

  Typewriter ribbon would quickly fade and the miserly storeman would berate her for wasting valuable state resources. He’d always been so quiet. At least he was speaking to her. Many didn’t.

  From the toilet cubicle (which was only slightly smaller than her work place), she would hear exchanges such as: ‘What’s that awful smell?’

  ‘Don’t you know? It’s a terrorist!’

  She thought now would be a good time to buckle under and surrender, but most strange of all was GI Joe’s voice calling from way down the long corridor: ‘Don’t let them get the better of you, kid! Damn Krauts! Show ’em what you’re made of!’

  *

  Crime and Punishment

  People were not easily engaged. However hard she tried smiling and saying hello to anyone passing or stood within earshot, the result on the streets or in the office was always the same: a look of shock followed by a scurry to safer ground.

  Maybe, she thought, it is because Berlin is a city and city folk are like this the world over: London, New York, Paris. Every capital is like this because there are just too many people, so don’t take it to heart.

  She called them “hermit crabs” because their scurrying reminded her of the little crustaceans. There were rare exceptions – very rare and not always welcome.

  Her walk home from work had always been uneventful, until one evening she responded to a young man’s voice calling: ‘Fräulein? Please come! My friend has hurt himself. Please come!’

  Willingly, full of enthusiasm, even though it was dark and devoid of others in that very narrow street. Problems happen and in a good socialist society people help one another.

  ‘Of course!’

  She ran towards two young men clearly with a problem. There, on the wet, shiny pavement, was a man lying on his back gasping for air, his companion kneeling beside him and deeply concerned. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ she asked.

  ‘Here, fräulein! Can’t you see?’

  ‘See what?’ She crouched down and peered hard through the darkness at the desperate youth whose eyes longed for assistance.

  ‘I can’t see anything.’

  ‘My friend has fallen on his knife and cut himself badly.’

  ‘Knife?’ Her eyes searched the darkness for the glint of a knife but could see nothing untoward. Satisfied that he held her full attention, the prostrate man arched the small of his back as if tensing, his laboured breath now subsiding, his pained expression easing into a grin. If he was about to die, there was nothing she could do.

  Turning to his companion she cried: ‘Get an ambulance – quickly!’

  ‘No need for an ambulance, fräulein.’

  Raising himself like Lazarus, the prostrate youth reached out and grabbed her hair with one hand, pulling her tight towards him. His accomplice pushed the point of a small knife into the nape of her neck. Two hermit crabs had overpowered their prey.

  The larger of the two clapped a fat hand over her mouth whilst the knife’s point pressed deeper against her flesh. Instinctively, she surrendered to her fate.

  ‘Take off your jeans!’ ordered the kneeling companion in hushed tones.

  She hesitated then struggled, until the crab tightened his grip.

  ‘DO IT!’ he demanded.

  She unbuttoned the waistband, pushing the jeans down to below her trembling knees.

  ‘All the way! Take them right off!’

  She obediently did as she was told, slipping off her shoes and jeans.

  ‘Hand them over – NOW!’

  It was the shout that turned her. The demand was too much. Dropping the jeans to the floor, she suddenly became aware of some greater presence – aware that she was the great-granddaughter of the man who would not give way on the bridge leading into Oberwinkel.

  From out of the darkness he stepped forward, taking her hand in his and clenching it tight. ‘Now hit him, child! Hit him hard!’

  She hit her assailant with a force that came direct from her ancestor. She could feel his strength and resolve pumping through her muscles.

  A punch to the eye, then a knuckle against his nose, then to his ear, followed by a storm of fists lashing out at a speed that the youths had not expected and could no longer handle. She was hitting out at them, she was hitting out at GI Joe, she was hitting out at the Stasi; she was hitting out at all those colleagues who shunned her, stole from her and called her a terrorist. Within seconds she had all of them against the ropes; she had them on the run.

  ‘We only wanted your jeans, you bitch!’

  ‘Don’t think we wanted you! You’re not worth anything, slag!’

  They retreated, fading into the darkness, as did her great-grandfather. He was no longer needed, but she thanked him nonetheless.

  The walk home to safety and sanity was at first quick and easy as Heike the fighter revelled in victory, her stride swift and determined; but soon the glow of the elevated vict
ory walk turned to agony as the adrenalin wore off to reveal painful wounds.

  By the time Uncle Frederick happened by her apartment that evening, she was in a state of shock – pale and shivering, she had limped the last 200 metres home.

  At least his easy company soothed her. ‘I’ll make us both some coffee.’ He glanced back at her shaking head. ‘You don’t want some? But you must! I insist! My coffee is the best you will taste.’

  ‘But it’s my coffee!’

  ‘It’s not just the coffee, it’s the way it’s made. Sweet biscuits, too – very important.’

  She tried to stand, but he motioned her to be still. ‘Sit back and relax. I’ll take care of you.’

  She showed uncle the puncture wound to her neck. He agreed that it was very nasty – very nasty indeed. ‘Not as nasty as that swine’s broken nose.’

  ‘Where did you learn to fight off attackers?’ he asked.

  ‘You mean like a cat? That’s easy! I have a brother and I grew up with boys – German and American. Some of them were big tough kids, you know.’

  ‘You’ll be more careful next time. Avoid walking in the shadows and the quiet places.’

  ‘I hadn’t considered…’

  ‘What? Considered the possibility of crime here in East Berlin? You must be careful of foreign workers. They come here from across the world to take advantage of our industry and our education, but their habits die hard.’

  ‘Uncle – these men were German!’

  ‘How can you be sure? Didn’t you tell me it was dark? That you couldn’t see their faces clearly?’

  ‘Yes, but their voices were German – Berliners.’

  ‘Come now, child. All our citizens are provided for and have no need to steal. People with psychiatric needs are helped throughout their recovery, so why would you have been attacked by Germans?’

  ‘They were after taking my denim jeans. There is a black market for Western clothes, isn’t there?’