Walls

by L. M. Elliott

  Drew flopped down at the dining room table. “Fried,” he muttered. Just like he’d be when Bob found out he’d spent an entire day with his “commie cousins.”

  Once they were out in their turquoise Pontiac—fins gleaming, top down, sunbeams spilling into the convertible—Drew had to admit it was a great day to be joyriding. He laid his head back on the dove-colored leather seat and watched Berlin’s main drag slide by.

  The postwar-rebuilt Kurfürstendamm sparkled with storefront after fancy storefront, designer-clad mannequins in the windows. Women emerged, fox stoles dangling about their shoulders, hatboxes and dress bags hanging heavy on their arms. Gilded glass cages along the wide sidewalks displayed smooth leather handbags, cosmetics, radios, and watches. Mercedes and Jaguars lined the streets. Neon signs hawked businesses Drew recognized: IBM, Pan American Airways. He even noticed a Coca-Cola billboard with a bikini-clad girl wearing a Hollywood smile, her hair in braided pigtails, holding up a bottle: mach mal pause . . . trink coca-cola.

  About the only traditional German thing Drew saw was an organ grinder. The guy even had a little monkey holding a tin cup for passersby to drop in coins. A stoplight brought them to a standstill, allowing Drew to examine the brightly painted, big-barreled music box as the man cranked out a tune Drew vaguely recognized.

  “Ooooh! Mozart! The Magic Flute!” Drew’s mom smiled dreamily and glanced over. “Oh. Oh dear. Poor man.” He stood on one leg and a crutch. “A veteran, I guess,” she murmured. A survivor of Allied firepower. Maybe even from his buddies’ fathers. Or Drew’s own dad.

  The light turned green, and they drove on.

  A little unnerved, Drew sat up and spun the dial, searching for Radio Luxembourg—the station most likely to play uninterrupted rock ’n’ roll. Splish-splash, I was taking a bath . . . crackled out of the speakers, then pop-sputtered and disappeared into static. It was hard to pick up that signal clearly until evening.

  “Oh, that’s a shame. Such a fun song.” Catching his doubtful look, Drew’s mother smiled. “What? You think I don’t know Bobby Darin? Try AFN.”

  As he locked on to 935 AM, the very American voice of a Berlin Armed Forces Network DJ announced the “Merely Music” hour. Frank Sinatra’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” filled the air around their blue road yacht with a cloud of big-band crooning.

  Drew cranked the volume.

  On the sidewalk, two German teenagers shouted, “Frankie!” They raised their hands, thumbs pointed upward. “Dufte Auto!”

  Drew gave a thumbs-up back.

  Music changed to news. “Tomorrow, Vice President Nixon and Senator Kennedy will meet again to answer questions posed by four expert newsmen, broadcast live from NBC Studios in Washington, DC. We’ll bring you the highlights.”

  Drew sure wished he could watch that debate. Most of his classmates were rooting for Nixon, vice president to Eisenhower, the commander of American forces in Europe during World War II. A couple of their dads had even met Ike back then. But Drew was all-in for JFK. “Do you think Kennedy has a chance?” he asked.

  “I sure hope so,” his mom answered. “I really like his ideas. Forward thinking. And I love how cosmopolitan his wife is. She’d bring a lot to the position of first lady.” She gestured toward the city. “God knows, with all that’s going on these days, a larger world outlook would be helpful.”

  “Bob says JFK being Catholic disqualifies him, that he might be more loyal to the Pope than to the United States.”

  Drew’s mom laughed. “I’m getting the sense that Bob says a lot of things. You know, honey, in the army, there’s typically only one church building on post that all denominations use. So how someone worships isn’t as big a deal. But stateside, some people still have a problem with Catholics. It’d mean a lot for us if JFK wins.” She added mischievously, “I’m glad Mr. Nixon sweats so much under those studio lights. Makes him look a little shifty. We lady voters don’t like that.”

  She turned the Bonneville into the Tiergarten. Replanted after the war, the park’s trees were still willowy and supple, shimmying in the slight breeze. A sprinkle of golden autumn leaves salted their open car. Drew’s mom pulled over near a spoke of boulevards radiating out from a grassy circle. In its center rose a tall column, topped with a gilded and winged female holding aloft a laurel wreath. Drew shaded his eyes to look up. It had to be as high as the Washington Monument. “What’s this?”

  “The Victory Column. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Drew snorted. “A little ironic, don’t you think?”

  “It’s not from Hitler’s time, honey. It was built in eighteen seventy-something to celebrate the Prussian wars that unified the German states into one empire, where arts and philosophy flourished.”

  “Wow, Mom, I never knew you were so proud to be German.” He meant it to be teasing, but his lingering irritation about being on this field trip tainted it toward insolent.

  She turned off the car and faced him. “When my mother immigrated to the United States,” she began, her tone frosty, “she walled off her heritage to blend in. And certainly during World War II, being German was not something to advertise. So I’ve never explored this part of my history. I’d like to now.” Drew’s mom got out of the car. “Marta and Matthias are meeting us here. Please leave your sarcasm in the car.”

  They found Matthias just inside the entrance to the temple-like first floor, leaning against a mosaic depicting an officer atop a massive black horse that was trampling foot soldiers. As slight a figure as Matthias was, he was copping a gigantic attitude. Okay, two could play that game. Drew shoved his hands into the pockets of his old letterman jacket from Arlington and slowed his walk to a strut, meant to convey he was totally unimpressed by both the monument and Matthias.

  His mother and Cousin Marta embraced formally. They turned expectantly to the boys. Drew nodded his greeting. Matthias, too. Neither budged.

  Their mothers sighed.

  “Shall we?” Cousin Marta began explaining what the images depicted—Father Rhine, the defeat of Napoleon when France invaded the Germanic states—as Drew’s mother ooohed appreciatively.

  Rolling his eyes, Matthias peeled himself off the mosaic to follow, muttering, “Dafür verpasse ich mein Fußballspiel?”

  Drew picked his way through the German, feeling insulted by Matthias’s obvious annoyance at the outing, even though he resented the forced encounter just as much. “You had a soccer game?” he asked, more to prove he understood basic German than to engage in conversation.

  Matthias nodded, perhaps slightly impressed. Maybe recognizing he’d been caught being blatantly rude.

  “Well, I’m missing out on making money with my buddies at the commissary.”

  “Ah, ein kapitalistischer Samstag.”

  Drew knew Samstag was Saturday. A capitalistic Saturday. What the heck, man? He bristled.

  But before he could protest aloud, Drew remembered reading that in the Soviet Bloc and East Germany, doing any kind of work on your own initiative or trying to make a bit of extra money—“unauthorized gatherings for commercial purposes”—was illegal. Did this kid really believe that stuff? Or . . . Drew felt a bit of empathy tug at him. Was Matthias simply repeating the party line out of defensiveness? Was he as uneasy about an American Armed Forces cousin being foisted on him as Drew was about having a commie one?

  Maybe Matthias had a Bob in his life, harassing him about spending time with some capitalist pig. The thought stopped Drew from taking his cousin’s bait, and instead, he started planning his response to Bob if he found out where Drew had been that day. It was just one of my mom’s field trips. You know moms. Yeah, that would work.

  As if on cue, Cousin Marta continued playing tour guide. “There is an observation tower at the top that lends a wonderful view of the Brandenburg Gate.”

  “I read that the gate is a replica of the Propylaea, the entrance to
the Acropolis,” Drew’s mom replied. “Isn’t that amazing, Drew?”

  Drew forced an overly bright smile.

  His mom ignored it, but Cousin Marta clearly read his mood. She checked her wristwatch. “We best leave, Emily, if you still wish to see the State Opera House before lunch. Mutter will have it ready for twelve thirty. She will worry if we are late.”

  Lunch, too? Drew turned to his mom with a scowl.

  Abruptly, she took his arm, steering him toward the car. “Just think, this will be the first time I meet my mother’s sister,” she said, overly emphatic. “My aunt. Your great-aunt. And I will see—finally—where my mama grew up. This is special for me, honey.”

  Drew spotted Matthias rolling his eyes again. His sentiments exactly.

  But when they reached the Bonneville, Matthias stopped in his tracks. “This is yours?”

  “Sweet, right?”

  “Typisch angebender Amerikaner.”

  Show-off American? Okay, the smidgeon of sympathy Drew had felt for Matthias a few minutes before evaporated. “You can walk, you know.”

  But Matthias didn’t seem to hear Drew as he ran his hand along the car to the door handle, admiration in his eyes no matter what he had said. He even smiled slightly as he clambered in.

  They roared onto Unter den Linden and were joined by a fleet of Volkswagen Beetles that could have fit in the Bonneville’s back seat. As they neared the Brandenburg Gate, Drew counted a dozen American and British soldiers strategically posted along its wide plaza. Watchful. Standing at that unwavering military attention that Drew and all brats knew meant the men were coiled and ready to spring into action if ordered. Reassuring and alarming both.

  His mom slowed to a halt beside the first American MP, who held a paddle-sized stop sign. “On the other side of the Gate, you can keep moving, ma’am,” he said. “The Russian sector border guards have no right to stop you—not with your car’s Occupying Forces license tag. They should just wave you through.” Stepping back, he let the Bonneville motor on.

  Drew felt a surge of uneasiness as they passed the final American soldier, intently monitoring the gate through enormous binoculars. A stark sign warned: achtung! sie verlassen jetzt west berlin. Attention! You are leaving West Berlin.

  “Look how magnificent, Drew!” his mom gasped as the shadow cast by the behemoth structure washed over them, cool and dim. She gazed up at the wide, seven-­story-high gate, at the reliefs and sculptures carved into its marble. Four enormous bronze horses, pulling the chariot of another goddess of victory, peeped over the edge of the gate’s crown as their car slid through the massive Doric columns into East Berlin.

  “Mom! Look out!”

  A young Vopo had stepped into the lane—right in the Bonneville’s path!

  “Oh my goodness!” She slammed on the brakes, barely missing the teen guard. “He’s not supposed to do that, is he?” she whispered to Cousin Marta, whose expression had turned apprehensive.

  “Ausweis!” shouted the guard.

  Flustered, Drew’s mother shook her head.

  “Reisepass!” the Vopo barked louder, putting a hand on the gun at his side while motioning for another guard to join him. An older German officer clad in the same green paramilitary uniform approached slowly, hands clasped behind his back.

  Her voice shaking slightly, Drew’s mom explained—in German—that she was the wife of an Occupying Forces NCO, so she did not need to show them her passport. She looked to Marta. “Sorry. We’re told to do this—to remind the Russians that the Potsdam Agreement gives us just as much access to this part of the city as they have.”

  Matthias shrank in his seat, putting his elbow on the edge of the open window to shield his face with his hand.

  “Sie!” The Vopo pointed to Cousin Marta. “Sie sind schon mal durchgekommen.”

  Yes, she had come through the gate earlier.

  “Steigen Sie bitte aus dem Auto.”

  Drew’s mom put her hand over her cousin’s.

  “It’s all right,” Cousin Marta murmured. “Just checking for black market items, I’m sure.” She got out of the car. The young Vopo, his authority now bolstered by the older officer’s presence, grabbed her black plastic purse and rifled through it, tossing pencils, a hairbrush, and a handkerchief to the cracked pavement.

  When he found a lipstick, he triumphantly waggled it in front of Cousin Marta’s face like some moralizing preacher. “Sie verhuren sich mit westlicher Kosmetik!”

  Without flinching, Cousin Marta stood tall in silent forbearance as the young Vopo berated her about “corrupting herself” with Western cosmetics.

  Drew had witnessed teachers back home dressing down girls for their makeup, but it was nothing like this gun-­toting teenage guard doing it—and to a grown woman! It was intimidating as hell. Drew fidgeted in his seat.

  Matthias didn’t move, didn’t say a thing, didn’t even look.

  Drew watched his cousin out of the corner of his eye, looking for some reaction to what was happening to his mother. But Matthias had shut down and was holding his breath, submissive, like Drew had seen brainiac boys do to survive repeated barrages of insults from playground bullies. Clearly, Matthias had been through this scenario before and knew the safe response.

  His cousin’s passive stance made Drew feel sick to his stomach—but what exactly would he do if these Russian-backed East Germans started hassling his mom? What was he allowed to do without causing some international incident with a nuclear-armed foe, the kind of ruckus he and his classmates had all been warned against upon penalty of their dads being shipped home, pronto?

  “Genug!” The older Vopo finally brushed the younger one aside. He scooped up Cousin Marta’s things and handed them back as he opened the car door for her. “Verzeihen Sie die Umstände,” he said, apologizing for the trouble. He bowed slightly as he closed the door after her, saying in a low voice, “Er hofft, unsere sowjetischen Freunde beeindrucken zu können.” He nodded toward two Russian colonels standing near the guardhouse, whom the young Vopo had hoped to impress.

  “I will be reporting this to our CO,” Drew’s mother said, regaining her voice.

  “I would think so, madam,” the older officer answered, stepping back.

  Drew’s mom gunned the engine as the young Vopo switched to haranguing a pair of bicyclists, squeezing their tires, checking for Western contraband embedded in the rubber.

  “What the heck, Mom?” Drew exploded. “Why—” But his question stuck in his throat as their hopeful-blue Bonneville plunged into a world of gray. Before them stretched a wasteland of weeds and rubble, scorched brick and burned-out skeletons of once-grand government buildings. This had been ground zero of Hitler’s regime and of the Allied bombing.

  The buildings that were restored had bloodred banners with the Soviet hammer-and-sickle emblem slashing down their faces. Gargantuan photos of the Soviet leader, Khrushchev, framed with flower garlands, loomed everywhere. Russia’s Big Brother, straight out of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four. Jeez Louise.

  Ahead of them, a huge painted slogan wreathed the brow of a reconstructed block-long building. Drew waded through translating it: berlin youth fight for friendship and the victory of socialism in the gdr. Underneath that was a two-story-tall Russian bear pushing away a NATO soldier lugging two missiles under his arm. Wow, Drew thought, what a heavy-handed depiction of the Russians’ favorite assertion: that East Berliners needed Soviet protection from Westerners, who were all warmongers.

  In previous weeks, the other Berlin brats had told him how tense the standoff was between the city’s halves, but seeing such Orwellian newspeak firsthand made it real. Suddenly, Drew felt pretty darn threatened. He glanced over at Matthias with some alarm.

  Matthias, on the other hand, had finally straightened up and was saying with noticeable pride, “That is the FDJ headquarters where the Free German Yo
uth attend programs about our just new society.”

  Drew felt a shiver run up his spine. “Have you ever read Animal Farm?” he muttered.

  “What?” Matthias asked.

  “Nothing,” Drew mumbled, catching his mom’s eye and the slight warning shake of her head in the rearview mirror.

  She gestured abruptly out the window, like she always did to stop sibling squabbles on family road trips, and pointed to one of the few palatial buildings left intact. “Look, it’s the State Opera House, all rebuilt. Isn’t it gorgeous, honey?”

  But it was Matthias who leaned forward to respond. “Brecht’s Berliner Ensemble theater is not far from here. Near Mutter’s hospital.”

  Brecht. Wasn’t he some agitating Marxist who’d had to leave the United States after being called in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee? Again, Drew tried to catch his mom’s eye, but she was watching her cousin, who had not spoken since the Brandenburg Gate.

  “That’s Charité Hospital, Marta?”

  “Yes.”

  “At Marienfelde, I recently met several doctors who shared some harrowing stories . . . events that pushed them to seek a . . . a freer life in the West. They said it was easy to cross over, since the hospital is only a few hundred yards from the British sector.” She glanced hopefully at her cousin.

  Cousin Marta stared out her window. “Yes. I know one of them. His sister is imprisoned now for at least a year. They say she helped him betray our nation by fleeing—Republikflucht. She will undergo reeducation.” She changed the topic. “Matthias loves theater.”

  Matthias nodded.

  Rebuffed, Drew’s mom shifted to a polite, singsong voice, but he caught an undertone of disappointment in it. “Drew, too. He loved Damn Yankees. Of course, it’s all about baseball. Right up his alley! Maybe the musical will come to Berlin. We could all go together!”