The Reunion

by Geoff Pridmore

  They were confident that if they left the car within sight of the church, all would be fine, but best to lock it as some of their most precious possessions were on board.

  Outside, they craned their necks staring up at the tower that rose above them, unable to see the very top.

  ‘You’re very welcome to go in, the door is always open,’ a woman invited them, smiling, showing them the way.

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘Should I tell her I’m a communist?’ whispered Heike.

  ‘We’re all communists,’ said Roland; ‘that’s why we’re here.’

  Inside, the interior – vast and splendid as only a truly great cathedral can be – opened up before them.

  ‘It’s so big! Mama, look at the trees up in the roof. Can you see them?’

  ‘They’re not trees, Bruno. Those are columns and they’re holding the ceiling up. They are fashioned to represent palm trees. It’s a feature, maybe?’

  ‘What’s a feature?’

  ‘Those are features,’ Heike pointed to the ceiling; ‘artwork like you do at school.’

  ‘It’s like an old Roman building.’

  ‘It’s classical architecture, Bruno.’

  ‘The pews are so… so white!’

  ‘When did you last enter a church, Heike?’ asked Roland.

  ‘Too long ago, maybe? I don’t know. This is something truly special.’

  Evangelical Lutheran Minister Mathius Beck loved the job of meeting and greeting visitors. Bruno spotted him first: ‘Watch out, here comes a man in a black dress.’ Beck, who had the kindest features of any human being they’d ever seen, was beaming from ear to ear, striding out from where they didn’t know, but with a look of delight that suggested he’d been waiting for them and now they were here – the most important visitors ever. No one was like this in East Germany – this had to be a different place entirely. Had they crossed the Wall without realising it?

  ‘Welcome, my friends! My name is Mathius Beck – I’m a minister here at Nikolaikirche. Would you like to light a candle? Say a prayer?’

  Bruno nodded, though not quite knowing just what was expected of him, so Beck gave him a small, white candle. ‘But I don’t have a match,’ said Bruno.

  ‘This way – you can light it like so…’ He showed Bruno how to light the candle from one already aflame. ‘And then we place it here in the frame – that’s right – and the flame of the candle keeps the prayer going.’

  ‘I’ve never said a prayer before. How do I do it?’ Bruno asked.

  ‘It’s easy. Just think of something you really love.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Anything. Who do you love?’

  ‘Mama and Papa.’

  ‘Then your prayer is for them. Place it in the frame. The flame is your love for them.’

  Bruno was more than satisfied with his candle prayer. Now he could see his love, feel its warmth against his cupped palm as the flame danced and flickered. The minister stepped back and glanced up, Bruno following his gaze.

  ‘If you look behind you – yes, up there – you will see the biggest church organ in the world.’

  ‘Are they silver pipes? I bet they are and I bet they’re loud!’ exclaimed Bruno.

  ‘Would you like to see somewhere that other visitors never see?’

  ‘Oh, yes please!’ said Bruno, thrilled at everything he was witnessing.

  They followed Beck in silence through a small oak door out of the main church into the vestry. Stone steps gave way to a steel staircase that spiralled up and up and up, past the clock mechanism, 189 steps in total, each one counted by Bruno, who would have been quicker if it hadn’t been for his poor, dragging leg. He assured them it didn’t hurt and that he couldn’t wait for whatever was around the corner.

  Finally reaching the top of the ever winding staircase, Beck pushed open a hatch above his head and climbed up and out of the tower into a stiff breeze, turning to help first Bruno, then Heike and Roland. They looked back down in astonishment at the street below where they had stood only half an hour previously craning their necks from street level.

  ‘What do you see?’ asked the pastor.

  ‘That’s where we stood. We can see everything from here.’

  ‘See all the people below? Like ants? On Mondays they gather here at the church and march through the streets…’ – he pointed into the distance – ‘those streets and those streets, too.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bruno.

  ‘Freedom. They march in protest for freedom.’ He turned to Roland. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Roland.

  ‘Then join us.’

  ‘What about the Stasi?’

  ‘The people are too many. There’s nothing the Stasi can do. You see all those cars?’

  ‘They’re like toy cars!’ exclaimed Bruno. ‘And the trams! Look at the trams!’

  ‘On Monday evenings, there are no cars down there, no trams – just people. Hundreds and hundreds of people, and their numbers are growing each week.’

  ‘How can we help?’ asked Roland.

  ‘Just walk with us. It’s a peaceful march of peaceful people.’

  ‘But we’re communists,’ said Heike.

  ‘This won’t stop you from being a communist. You’ll be in good company. They are all like you, but they are marching for a greater freedom.’

  On the way back down, Heike told Pastor Beck their story: Roland’s arrest and Bruno’s shooting. She emphasised the danger that she felt they were in and that to remain in one place for too long could lead to their arrest and, worst of all, Bruno would be taken from them. That, she couldn’t bear.

  Back in the vestry, Beck linked arms with Roland and Heike and explained:

  ‘This is what people do when they march. They march as one – one people, one voice. Come on, Bruno, link arms with us.’ And he did.

  ‘Stay and march with us on Monday. We are expecting many thousands of people. It will be an historic occasion. Then you will make your way to Hungary and the Austrian border.

  ‘As a minister whose church is at the centre of the protest movement, I am a man frequently in fear of arrest and so I’ve distanced myself from some in my congregation who seek my counsel on a near hourly basis as if checking the weather. “Is it safe to go outside, pastor?” they ask.

  ‘For such occasions, I have prepared a little speech that I give in all sincerity and it is this: The time is right for the people to make their voices heard and this is going to happen. But you should be aware that although Gorbachev will put pressure on Honecker – in this the 40th anniversary year – there are hardliners in the Politburo who are vehemently against Gorbachev. If those forces destroy Gorbachev, the Iron Curtain will tighten so much it will strangle us all.

  ‘And don’t think there will be any encouragement from the West. Western leaders like Thatcher, Mitterrand and Bush fear a unified Germany and might do anything to keep the status quo, despite what they say in public.

  ‘Word is the Hungarians are dismantling the border fence with Austria – now. That’s your route out. It may only be the brief opening of a window, so if you have any sense you’ll take it.’

  *

  “If you have any sense, you’ll take it.” Heike remembered the sentence word for word, coupled with the deadly earnest expression of Pastor Beck.

  If I have any sense, I’ll drive home now, thought Heike; but the urge to see Hanne was too strong. She desperately wanted to see her cousin more now than at any time in their relationship. She wanted to unburden herself as if always the good Catholic she had to make a confession. The next reunion might not be the right time for either of them. Hanne might not be able to make it – she’d attended very few over the course of a lifetime – or Heike might not be able to make it. Who could predict what the
coming years would bring? No, it had to be now. She would bring the car up and wait for Hanne to return.

  *

  The Nikolaikirche was full every day – full to brimming. People came and went for services as always, but even Martin Luther – whose church this was – would have been astonished by the comings and goings of the proletariat.

  Roland in particular couldn’t contain his excitement. Here was the epicentre of the movement he’d been writing for, risking his liberty for. The memory of capture, interrogation and imprisonment was all too fresh in his mind, but his doubts were vanishing quickly. The “war” may not be over yet, but the allied camp had been found, and if the numbers of people here at the Nikolaikirche were anything to go by, then victory was just around the corner.

  On Sunday evening, always the journalist, he sat down in their room in a hostel and wrote the following in longhand:

  This is indeed the most exciting time for all East Germans. Leipzig is alive with the most delightful unrest this reporter has ever witnessed. It’s not just the city, it’s all of Saxony and maybe the entire Eastern bloc, and there is only one name on people’s lips – Gorbachev (or “Gorbi” as so many people call him).The protest movement here is entirely democratic and peaceful, and has been gathering pace since its beginnings in 1983.As I write, the city is holding its breath in anticipation of tomorrow’s march through its historic centre. The “Monday Marches”, as they have been known since they began, are gathering in strength. Tomorrow, it is expected that the demonstrators will number in their tens of thousands, though no one is sure just how many will turn up or what the reaction of the authorities will be. The unrest felt by many East Germans, particularly those under fifty years of age, as the state celebrates forty years of containment: its people seek new horizons for themselves, their children and future generations. East Germans have become disillusioned with one-party politics. It is possible that the authorities will use force to break up the march. In the last few weeks alone, some demonstrators have been arrested, but due to the peaceful nature of the protests the police have so far held off taking action. Since September, not one shop window has been broken and the only casualty has been the traffic, which is now diverted on Monday evenings. No one knows for sure exactly what the outcome is going to be, but the people of Leipzig feel empowered for the first time.

  ‘Tomorrow – what are we going to do, Roland?’ asked Heike with heavy heart.

  ‘We’ll march, of course!’

  ‘You sound very confident.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be? The people want change, Heike. This isn’t just a small group of agitators meeting in a pokey little shed up an alley, this is thousands and thousands of East Germans and we need to be among them.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’ve done your bit?’

  ‘There’s more to do…’

  ‘And I’ve done my bit. Picking my child up off the road, mopping his blood from his face, trying to get you out of jail! I’ve done my bit, too! Don’t forget, we’re also here to see the doctor. Let him examine Bruno and then let’s be gone.’

  ‘Okay, Heike, that pain is mine also. But if we drive away without having marched with our fellow citizens, then we will never feel at home in a united Germany. In years to come – maybe next year – someone will say, “Were you in Leipzig when they were marching for Germany’s freedom?”

  ‘Yes, we were in Leipzig, but no, we didn’t march with our fellow citizens, because we felt we’d done our bit. So we drove on!

  ‘Heike, everyone here, everyone who will be on the streets tomorrow night, will have done their bit also. They will have picked their loved ones up off the road; they will have family or friends incarcerated in a prison cell somewhere. They all have their stories – often much worse than ours! How can we be so selfish?

  ‘Isn’t this what communism is supposed to be about? People working together for a common aim? This is the real communism! Not spying and secret police and interrogation, shooting, blocking people in with walls and fences, mines and booby traps! That’s not communism, that’s totalitarianism. That’s all we’ve ever had – totalitarianism – and we’ve been fooled not once, but twice!’

  This had never been asked of her: What would you do, child, if the state were to be challenged from within? No one had thought to ask it all those years ago when she arrived, suitcase in hand – the willing defector.

  Heike glanced across at Bruno, sleeping. Sitting down on the edge of his single bed, stroking his head, she glanced around the tiny room at its cell-like dimensions, harsh white walls, steel-framed windows. Already, there were hundreds of voices outside somewhere, and it wasn’t even Monday.

  ‘Are we marching, Mama?’

  ‘I thought you were sleeping?’

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘We’ll see the doctor tomorrow and if he’s happy with your progress we’ll march in the evening.’

  Herr Doctor Wolfgang Luft was the son of a legendary Austrian surgeon – Professor Arnold Luft, a man noted in the annals of twentieth-century European history not only for his skills in the operating theatre but for his determination to keep the politics of National Socialism out of his hospital.

  Arnold Luft’s maternal heritage was Jewish, a fact that remained undiscovered by the Nazis. He had no concern for the religion of any man; a communist by politics, reluctantly tolerated by those who would otherwise have melted his body in the flaming ovens of Auschwitz.

  Saved by his brilliance as a surgeon, he was responsible for repairing the shattered bodies of fighting men who would otherwise have died of their injuries. No respecter of flags or salutes, he would literally turn his back on those who openly displayed their support of Hitler and the Nazis.

  It was the immediate period following war’s end that was to have its most dramatic effect on Luft and his family. Having returned to his native Austria to continue his work, he was expelled in 1956 for his communist membership, his beloved clinic shut down and refitted as a hotel.

  He never recovered from the irony of having been tolerated by the Nazis, only to be exiled by his own Austrian government. He settled in East Germany with his wife Annette and only son, ten-year-old Wolfgang.

  Wolfgang grew up in Leipzig, and after training as a medical practitioner he continued his father’s pioneering work as a surgeon, inheriting not only brilliance and carefully constructed notes but also that stubborn and determined disregard for authority of any kind.

  By 1989, aged forty-five, he was an eminent surgeon and a legend in his own right with a particular fascination in gunshot wounds to the head. Bruno was yet another case study.

  ‘Sad business,’ he said, on meeting Bruno for the first time. ‘You were running wild, were you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bruno. ‘I love running wild. You ought to see the place where I live – it’s a wild place.’

  Heike immediately admonished him. ‘Bruno! Don’t be silly! We live in Berlin, Herr Doctor.’

  ‘They tell me Berlin is a wild place, Frau Bermann, and your son has just confirmed it. Why did they shoot you, Bruno?’

  ‘I don’t know why. He was a madman – really mad. Shouting at me. I kept on running. So would you!’

  ‘Of course I would. When is your birthday?’

  ‘It’s… it’s…’ Bruno sighed as the date eluded him. ‘When is it, Mama? My birthday?’

  ‘October 21st.’

  ‘What year?’ asked the doctor. Heike was about to answer, but Luft stopped her. ‘Not you, Mama – Bruno. Tell me what year you were born?’

  Bruno glanced at Heike – initial panic; then fixed on the doctor with steely determination to get this bit right.

  ‘1922.’

  ‘1922, eh? My! You are older than you look!’

  Bruno grinned; he liked the idea of looking more mature than his fifteen years.

  ‘How old are you, Herr Doctor?’
asked Bruno with no sense of audacious audacity whatsoever.

  ‘Younger than you,’ replied Luft.

  ‘That’s alright, then!’ chuckled Bruno.

  Luft turned to Heike and Roland. ‘I’d like to keep him here for a couple of days, for observation.’

  ‘How long, Herr Doctor?’

  ‘I don’t know. I would just like to find out a bit more about his wound. From what I can see now, he’s a lucky young man. Were you there? Was there much bleeding?’

  ‘I arrived shortly after the shooting – maybe five or ten minutes. He was bleeding profusely. I tried to stem the blood. I thought I’d lost him.’

  ‘Neurological recovery can take a long time – months, years. Bruno has youth on his side and the bullet has skimmed his skull and in doing so will have taken with it some tissue. I need to work out the trajectory of the bullet, which is why I want to keep him for a day or so. And I understand there was a bullet in his shoulder, but they removed that, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he getting fits? Epilepsy?’

  ‘No, only nightmares.’ ‘What does he see in the nightmares?’

  ‘He doesn’t see anything. He tells me that he’s in total blackness and that there’s an evil presence, so he growls at whatever is scaring him, and I can hear him growling like a dog, but he says it is a place without light.’

  ‘And this nightmare recurs often?’

  ‘Not every night, but it makes him afraid of sleeping. He tries to keep himself awake and then he’s mentally and physically tired a lot of the time. When he does sleep he sleeps half a day given the chance.’

  ‘And do you give him the chance?’

  ‘If it’s not a school day, then it’s fine.’

  Luft offered his hand to Bruno by way of a handshake. ‘Shake my hand, Bruno.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just shake my hand. Cement our new friendship.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Luft took the boy’s hand, shook it and then held it gently for a moment.