Walls

by L. M. Elliott

  “That’s right!” Linda said. “It’s right here in this picture.” She read the caption aloud: “One of the East German ‘People’s Police’ examines a cable the Americans had tapped into and monitored from the U.S. radar station. Now that the tap is cut, both sides are again equal in the espionage battle.” She looked up and smiled at Matthias.

  Linda hadn’t noticed the way Matthias had said we. But Drew sure had. For one thing, this guy clearly understood English better than he let on. And we meant that Matthias and Cousin Marta came from the Russian sector of the city, from East Berlin. Drew had just assumed they lived on the democratic Western side, where the British, French, and American forces held the line against Soviet incursion.

  What was his mom thinking? This kid might be a card-carrying commie! And here he was at a party swarming with American sergeants. Some of these men had to be intelligence officers. What would they think of Drew’s family being cozy with the enemy?

  “Excuse me a sec.” Furious, Drew wove his way through the party toward his mother. Maybe he could convince her to retreat with Cousin Marta and Matthias across the hall to their own apartment before anyone else figured out what Drew just had.

  But he was too late.

  “Oh, you’re from East Berlin!” one of the moms was saying. “You know, our maid comes from there, too, every day. She has that special work permit. She’s one of those . . . oh . . . what’s the slang word you East Germans use for laborers who go back and forth?”

  “Grenzgänger,” said Marta. Her wary look turned defensive.

  “That’s it. Border-hopper. The term’s rather derogatory, isn’t it? Anyway, my maid says it’s most economical for her to work in West Berlin, where the pay is better and the money more stable, but to live in the city’s eastern sector, where things are so much cheaper.” The woman lowered her voice to a conspiratorial hush. “She smuggles meat back across the line for her children. I know you can’t get fresh meat over there—if you can get meat at all. So awful, the way the Russians plunder East Germany and take most everything good for themselves.”

  The woman tut-tutted as she crossed her arms and concluded, “You know, Mrs. Schneider, there are plenty of military families looking for housekeepers, if you’re interested. We all say the same—of all the help we’ve had in our postings overseas, the best maids are German.”

  Drew stopped in his tracks seeing his mother turn as red as he did when he was mortified.

  “Thank you for the”—Cousin Marta paused and seemed to choose each of her next words very carefully—“kind concern. Everything you say is true. Our life in East Berlin is much harder than it would be here. But I am already employed. I am a nurse at Charité Hospital, where they are training me to be a doctor.”

  “A woman doctor?” The woman stared at her in amazement.

  “Yes,” answered Cousin Marta. “One of the good things about the socialist state is the equality of opportunity. Women who are found capable are trained as readily as men to be doctors. Almost half the doctors delivering babies at Charité are female.”

  Drew’s mother slipped her hand through her cousin’s arm, artfully cutting off the conversation. “Are you hungry, Marta? Your buffet looks wonderful, Mrs. Jones.”

  “Goodness, call me Judy, please.” She gestured to the table as Drew’s mom and Cousin Marta separated themselves from the klatch.

  The other women took their seats, trying in vain to quiet their husbands, who were shouting at the TV, telling Ed Crook how to punch and the ref how to call the match.

  As he turned to follow his cousins to the food, Drew noticed Matthias pocketing cookies and oranges. His mouth dropped open. “Mom,” he whispered, pointing toward the table.

  Appearing out of nowhere, Joyce playfully slapped at Drew’s hand. “No more Rice Krispies treats for you, mister. Save some for the rest of us.”

  “But, Joyce, he—”

  “I know. I saw him.” Joyce kept her voice soft. “I heard an interesting joke tonight from one of the girls. Want to hear it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “What nationality were Adam and Eve? Why, they were Russian, of course. How do you know? Because they were both naked, had only an apple to eat, and thought they were in paradise.”

  Drew turned to face her. “That’s not funny.”

  “No. It’s pitiful. People in the Soviet Bloc and East Germany always seem to be on the verge of starvation while they march and sing about the joys of communism.” Joyce paused. “You better get used to the fact Mom wants us to be friends with these cousins, maybe even convince them to flee the East. You know how she is when she sets her mind to saving someone, even if they have no interest in being saved.”

  Yeah, he knew it. Cousin Marta and Matthias were in for a full-on Emily McMahon campaign. But Drew wasn’t so sure he wanted to be drafted into this do-gooder mission of hers—it was already starting to feel like a nightmare.

  “That’s the ticket! Ed-die! Ed-die! Ed-die!”

  The dads jumped out of their seats and raised their glasses in a toast. Ed Crook had just won the middleweight gold medal for America. “First army boxer to win the Olympics,” crowed Sergeant Jones.

  “Hey, what in blue blazes? Look at that.” Drew’s dad motioned to the TV. “The crowd is heckling him!” Drew turned to see people throwing programs and shaking their fists.

  “Are you kidding me?” Sergeant Jones exclaimed. Now the crowd in Rome was stomping in protest. “Bunch of Italian communists and their anti-American bull! Poor Eddie. Look at his face. He fought a clean fight. What gives? Wait . . . shhh . . . shhh . . . he’s stepping up on the podium to get his medal.”

  In Rome, the crowd continued to jeer. But as “The Star-Spangled Banner” began playing, the Berlin Brigade men snapped to attention. Everyone in the apartment rose and sang, drowning out the booing on the TV.

  Everyone except Cousin Marta and Matthias.

  The kitchen phone began to ring. The Joneses ignored it—the national anthem was playing. But it rang again. Sergeant Jones snatched up the receiver. “Sergeant Jones’s quarters, Sergeant Jones speaking. Whoever this is, you better be calling about Eddie winning!”

  His attitude instantly sobered. “Yes, sir. Understood, sir.” He turned to the room. “Sorry, gentlemen. Go home. You’ll be receiving your own calls. It seems the Russians and their GDR lapdogs are shutting down the city’s East-West border for five days, starting in a few hours.”

  “Why?” Mrs. Jones gasped.

  “Why do the Russkies do anything?” he answered curtly. But after letting out a sigh that reeked of impatience with his wife, he added, “According to the Politburo, it’s a precaution against West Berlin”­—he paused to make quote marks in the air­—“ ‘provoking potential unrest’ by hosting a reunion of German POWs and relatives of those still missing in action. So many German POWs died in Soviet work camps before Stalin finally released them; the reunion touched a guilty Russian nerve, I guess. The border closure is a typical Soviet redirect—accusing the West of making trouble to distract from their own inhumane policies.”

  Sergeant Jones retreated to his bedroom, and all the other men left, quickly kissing their wives goodbye before they exited. “Don’t worry,” Drew’s dad said to his mom with a grin. “This is what I came here for!”

  Sergeant Jones reemerged in uniform with a sidearm on his belt. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said to Cousin Marta as he passed. “You better go back across right away if you want to make it home before the border shuts.” He put his hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Help your mother. No screwing around.” Then he was gone.

  Without comment, the women began gathering dishes and cleaning.

  Drew’s mom stared at the door, looking dumbfounded. “How long will they be mobilized?”

  Mrs. Jones shrugged. “Your children are wearing their dog tags, right? And you have an emergency bag packed and your water-steriliz
ing tablets, just in case?” She stopped picking up plates to give Drew’s mom an apologetic smile and a sympathetic pat on the arm. “Welcome to Berlin.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  SEPTEMBER 1960

  “Victory, victory, is our cry!”

  Sitting in the gym of the Berlin Brigade’s American school, Drew was watching cheerleader tryouts and feeling like a dope. He’d been in Germany for almost three weeks. He should have gone to the PX to buy a maroon crewneck or something so he could dress in school colors like everyone else for this September opening assembly—especially since Joyce was out on the floor, auditioning.

  Whenever Drew felt like grumbling over being uprooted again, he reminded himself how much this new deployment stunk for his big sister. She’d been head cheerleader back in the States, the lead in almost every play, and a soloist in all her choral groups. As a senior, she would have totally ruled their old high school, probably even been prom queen. Instead, she was here, starting all over again.

  Joyce was a shoo-in for this squad, though. The other girls were good, too, but Joyce was . . . well, look at her, Drew thought. She’s Joyce. He turned to Bob, who’d announced he was going to be Drew’s designated escort for the first week of classes. “We actually vote on who makes the squad?” he asked.

  “Yup,” grunted Bob. “Although teachers have the deciding vote.” He gestured dismissively toward some of the older teachers standing along the wall of the gym and added, loud enough for everyone around them to hear, “But I bet they don’t remember what makes a guy stand up and cheer.”

  The girls sitting next to them made faces and squirmed as far away as they could get on the crowded bleachers.

  Drew wasn’t so sure Bob was the guy he really wanted as his wingman.

  Clap-clap, clap. “Ber-lin Cubs!”

  The crowd echoed. Clap-clap, clap. Stomp-stomp, stomp. The bleachers swayed.

  Four boys picked their way through all the bodies jammed onto the hard wooden seats to crowd around Bob. Without taking his eyes off the cartwheeling girls, Bob said, “The gang’s all here,” then introduced Drew. “This is Mac.”

  “Drew,” he corrected, shaking hands with interchangeable juniors Larry, Gary, and Steve, plus another named Charlie, who seemed more promising. “Glad to meet you.”

  “Where’d you transfer in from, Mac?”

  “Drew. A tour at the Pentagon. My dad is glad to be back to what he considers real duty.”

  “Mac lives across the stairwell from me . . .” Bob began.

  “Drew.”

  The boys nodded.

  “. . . and according to his dad, Mac is a primo left-handed pitcher.”

  “Drew.”

  The boys nodded again, this time with more interest, saying, “Swell” and “That’ll help us big-time.”

  “Mac’s also got a babe sister, down there . . .” Bob pointed toward Joyce as she gracefully slid into a split.

  The boys nodded with even more enthusiasm.

  “. . . and some commie cousins.”

  The nodding stopped.

  Drew no longer needed a maroon sweater—his face was the color of school spirit. “I do not!” he protested.

  “Don’t they live in the Russian sector?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I rest my case.” Bob smirked. “See, I’m a regular Perry Mason.” He sighed. “Man, I miss watching that show.”

  “Listen, Bob,” Drew started, but everyone suddenly jumped up in a wave of chanting. Ber-lin! Ber-lin! Ber-lin!

  Charlie patted Drew on the back and shouted in his ear, “Don’t let Bob get to you. He razzes everybody. If you take the bait, he gets worse.”

  Yeah, yeah. Drew knew the type. Picking fights to establish pecking order was second nature to some military kids. Swagger first or be swaggered at. Still, he leaned over so Charlie could hear him over the cheering. “I just met my mom’s cousin and her kid for the first time the other night. I had no idea they lived in East Berlin until then. I’m sure not planning on spending a whole lot of time with them.” No matter what his mom might have in mind.

  Charlie shouted back, “Don’t worry. I know two moms who speak German, and the CO seems pretty happy to pull them into events as unofficial translators sometimes. Bet they’ve got family on the other side, too.”

  Drew smiled. Finally, a guy who actually seemed okay.

  “By the way,” Charlie said, “I play catcher. Maybe we can toss a ball around some this weekend?”

  Drew forced himself to stay nonchalant. “Sure, man. That’d be outstanding.” But inside, he was bouncing up and down like the cheerleaders. Maybe the next two years wouldn’t be a complete disaster after all.

  After school, Drew found Linda and then doubled back with her in tow to meet Joyce at her locker. Linda was silent, shadowing her brother to avoid bumping into passing students, until she spotted their big sister.

  “Joyce!” Linda skipped toward her. “You were so good!”

  Slamming her locker hard, Joyce forced a smile. “Hey, cutie. How was your day?”

  Linda shrugged and glanced over her shoulder before whispering, “Okay, I think.” Then she grinned. “The best part was when the other girls heard I was your sister. Boy oh boy, did you do great today!”

  “Thanks.” She took Linda’s hand without smiling and muttered, mostly to herself, “Glad to be of service.”

  But Drew heard her. “What’s wrong?” he mouthed.

  Joyce just shook her head. “Let’s go home, okay?”

  The trio walked to their apartment in a shoal of other students, all clutching shiny-clean notebooks and wearing loafers with brand new pennies in the slots. As the other kids reached their own apartment buildings, they darted away, calling out, “See ya later, alligator,” until Drew and his sisters were alone. Only Bob and one other guy trailed behind them. Their apartments were in the last building on Flanaganstraße, the outer rim of the American post housing, bordering the vast Grunewald Forest and not far from where the British sector began. Drew started to ask again what was bugging Joyce, but she looked so stone-faced that he left it alone.

  Stomping up the steps to their third-floor unit, she turned the doorknob. It was locked.

  “Where’s Mom?” Linda’s eyes welled up with tears. “She’s always here waiting for us after school.”

  “Marooned?” Bob had climbed the stairs and stood looking up at Joyce from a few steps below. “I’d be happy to entertain you for a while,” he offered, leaning against the stair rail, attempting to look all James Dean cool.

  Drew tried to find some clever comeback but was totally flummoxed. He couldn’t remember his mom ever not being at home after school.

  “Relax. I’m sure she hasn’t been kidnapped or anything,” Bob said.

  Drew knew Bob was kidding, but Linda slipped behind him and peeked out. She’d always been painfully shy, but this move to Berlin without Blarney had left her even more apprehensive than usual.

  “Oh, you just want to be careful in the Grunewald, if you go there to play,” Bob said awkwardly to Linda, seeming to think that would somehow reassure her. “That’s all. There have been some cases of American personnel or their kids getting nabbed by Russian agents.”

  “What?” Drew blurted.

  Bob blundered on. “Yeah. About two hundred and fifty since the occupation started. But don’t worry, most times we’ve gotten them back pretty quick, and just as many kidnapping attempts have totally failed! Damn commies.” Bob paused to sidle up to Joyce. “Still, you need a strong man—someone like yours truly—if you go to the jazz clubs in the Russian sector, ’cause the Stasi looooove to pick up us brats and hold us overnight to shake up our dads and—”

  “Bob!” Joyce interrupted sharply to shut him up as Linda’s mouth dropped open. She smoothed her voice and continued, “Is your mother home? M
aybe Mom left word for us or a key with her?”

  As if by magic—or maybe because she’d heard Joyce’s raised voice—Mrs. Jones pulled open her door, totally disrupting Bob’s not-so-suave moves. “There you are, dears. Come in, come in! Your mom left a key for you. And I’ve got butterscotch brownies ready to come out of the oven.”

  If looks could kill, Bob’s glare might have knocked his poor mother down dead—Drew made note of it. If Bob insisted on being his uninvited escort, Drew was going to make a mental dossier on the guy for self-protection.

  As Drew bit into a chewy brownie, sucking in air to keep from scorching his tongue, Mrs. Jones explained, “Your mom’s gone to Marienfelde to help out. Close to a thousand refugees managed to get past the border this week, and the usual translators were swamped.” She passed them napkins.

  “I’ve volunteered at the camp myself,” she went on, “helping in the cafeteria or showing families to their bunks. But what the camp really needs is people who speak German, like your Mom. There are intellectuals and professionals among the refugees, of course, who speak better English than I do.” She laughed self-consciously. “But many of them don’t, especially the farmers who’ve fled because the state confiscated their land for collective agriculture. The poor lambs—they are terrified.

  “The Russians have laid so many land mines along the border between West and East Germany, they call it the death strip. So the only real way to freedom is through West Berlin. We’re the only porthole left inside a prison ship. Like that wardrobe to Narnia in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.”

  Mrs. Jones paused, thoughtful, as she poured four glasses of milk.

  “If only it were that easy, though—open the door and step out,” she continued. “After having to make the awful choice to just up and leave everything, they have to do it all in secret, since their own neighbors might report them. Scurrying through the night like frightened mice, faking their way into a city they’ve never seen before.” She stopped, looking at Drew. “Can you imagine?”

  No, he couldn’t, really. He shook his head.