Walls

by L. M. Elliott

  Another outing? The boys eyed each other, mutually horrified by the idea.

  Their mothers sighed.

  For about twenty minutes, they circled streets around the Opera House while Cousin Marta pointed out the National Gallery, the Dom, and Berlin University, all still in varying degrees of bomb devastation fifteen years after V-E Day. Then they doubled back to the Brandenburg Gate, turning south on Ebertstraße, a wide boulevard that straddled the East-West border. A white line divided the street down the middle, not for traffic but for politics—one side was in the Russian sector and the other in the British. The Tiergarten was to their right, the rubble of Hitler’s palatial home and his underground bunker to their left.

  Passing what once had been the Nazis’ Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda—now refurbished to house Russian and East German government offices—the Bonneville reached Potsdamer Platz. There, three sectors—British, American, and Russian—collided, like three arrows thrust into a bull’s-eye. On the Eastern rim of the wide circular plaza, a Russian billboard proclaimed, marxism means peace! A loudspeaker brayed, “Ami, go home! East Berliners want a free, demilitarized West Berlin!”

  Just across the street, on American-controlled ground, an illuminated billboard like a Times Square ticker tape display answered the Politburo propaganda with flashing news bulletins from the West. Drew could read: “Premier Khrushchev endangers world peace by threatening leaders at the United Nations,” and “Premiering in beautiful, sun-drenched Hollywood, Spartacus tells the real-life story of a gladiator who led a brave revolt against tyranny.”

  The whole scene was bizarro.

  “Turn left at Zimmerstraße,” said Cousin Marta. “There will be Vopos at the corner, but they know us.” As promised, the two East German guards merely waved at Matthias and gaped at the Bonneville. Two West German border guards—about sixty yards away on the southwest corner—did the same. Marta smiled at both pairs of young men.

  Like Ebertstraße had been, Zimmerstraße was divided down the middle between East and West Berlin, but here there was a string of distinctly American-looking cars parked on the Russian side of the street. Cousin Marta noticed Drew staring with surprise at several Chevys. “West Berliners park on our side of Zimmerstraße all the time without any trouble. In this neighborhood, at least, there is cooperation between the sectors.” Marta pointed at a narrow side street. “Turn left here, please. We are one block up.”

  “I didn’t realize you lived so close to the American line,” Drew’s mom said.

  “Oh yes, a stone’s throw away, as you say.” Marta pointed again, announcing, “Here we are. ”

  Drew gaped again. Before him was what once must have been an elegant three-story building. Stone busts of men in long eighteenth-century wigs were tucked into ornately carved arches along the top floor, still perfectly preserved. But the building’s walls were riddled with machine gun bullet holes. Its plaster facade had peeled away in chunks, revealing ancient, pockmarked bricks. The windows of the ground-floor shop were boarded up. Next door loomed the shell of another vast townhome, its roof gone and grand staircase exposed, its balusters like broken teeth.

  As Matthias pushed open the building’s heavy, paneled, carved-wood front door, an athletic guy about Joyce’s age jogged down the stairs. He was lean and angular, swift and lithe. “Freundschaft!” he bellowed at Matthias as they passed in the dim hallway.

  The loudness of the greeting made Drew jump a little. It sounded like the Heil Hitler salutes Nazis threw around in movies.

  “Freundschaft!” Matthias replied.

  “You say hello by shouting friendship at each other?” Drew asked Matthias, turning to eyeball the guy just as the older teen opened the outside door and a spotlight of sunshine fell on his face. He glanced up at Drew at the very same moment with an obvious frown and look of suspicion. The guy had enormous round eyes—one blue and one brown! He gave Drew the creeps.

  “Yes,” Matthias answered, his own voice suddenly raised. “Not like American capitalists, who exploit the worker. We are a society of friends. Of friendship.” He waved at his neighbor and repeated, this time in a shout, “Freundschaft!”

  The guy nodded and left. Drew heard Matthias take in a deep breath.

  “You have tenants?” Drew’s mom asked Cousin Marta with surprise as they climbed the marble steps. “Mama said the family lived in the entire building.”

  “We share our home with one other family now,” Cousin Marta answered in a studied, matter-of-fact tone. “A man and his son. They occupy the third floor’s rooms and bath—originally quarters for my grandfather’s maids. It is GDR ordered. Party-led redistribution of wealth makes things more equal. More just.” She unlocked a leaded stained glass door to the second floor, which had been turned into an expansive apartment. “Welcome.”

  Inside, Drew’s mom turned around and around, taking it all in. She seemed ecstatic, oblivious to what shocked Drew—cooking pots on the floor to catch leaks from the ceiling; wallpaper streaked with mildew; cracks in the windows mended with tape. The place stank of burning coal.

  Drew caught Matthias watching him, glowering defensively.

  “Oh, Drew,” his mother murmured, “my mother used to talk about these window seats.” She wandered to the tall, wide, French-door-style windows. “She would read here and . . .” She trailed off, suddenly tearful. “I’m sorry. I still miss her so much.”

  Reaching for Drew’s hand, she said, “I wish you’d known her, honey. She was such a gentle soul. I swear she died of heartache during the war, not knowing if her sister—Cousin Marta’s mother—was still alive. Mama had pleaded with her to leave as Hitler rose to power. But who knows if Aunt Hilde ever received those letters. After Germany declared war on us, there was nothing but silence for years.” She paused, filled with reverence, and whispered, “I can feel Mama here.”

  She sat down on the window seat, bathed in Berlin’s strangely gray sunlight. “Her father—that would be your great-grandfather—had a piano showroom and studio downstairs. Mama told me she would sit here and listen to her father tune his pianos and to customers who would play as they decided which instrument to buy. It was how her love of music began.” She wiped away several tears.

  “My mother, the same,” said Cousin Marta. “A great pianist.”

  “I can hardly believe I am about to meet her, finally.”

  “I will get her. But before you meet her, Emily, my mother . . .” She hesitated. “She has no English. But more important, she . . .”

  “Sie ist ein hoffnungsloser Fall.” Matthias grumbled. A basket case.

  “Zum Schämen.” Cousin Marta shot a dark look at Matthias. “Mutter has changed since the war,” she said simply. Then she retreated down the hallway, calling, “Mutti, Emily und ihr Sohn sind hier.”

  Matthias disappeared as well, leaving Drew and his mom alone. Her face fell. “Oh dear, how shabby this once-grand house is.” She smiled wanly at Drew. “But don’t say anything, honey. We don’t want to offend. So much of East Berlin is like this.”

  Drew meandered. He perused a bookshelf stuffed with well-worn sheet music. There was no piano to be seen, though. Next, he examined framed pictures on the fireplace mantel. Drew was staring at two spitting images of Matthias when his cousin walked back into the room, now wearing a bulky turtleneck sweater. The apartment was colder than the air outside.

  “My brothers. Twins,” Matthias explained, noticing Drew looking at the photos. “I never knew them. My mother was pregnant with me when your Allied bombing killed them.” His antagonistic tone changed a bit as he turned to a portrait of a dapper-looking man, his face kind, his smile amused, his hair thirties-style parted and slicked. “My father. I was born after he died, too. My mother calls me his last and best gift to her. She loved him very much.”

  He offered nothing more, and the boys lingered in awkward silence until Cousin M
arta reentered, holding her mother’s hand. The tiny woman, her white hair swept up in a wispy French twist, had the same enormous teal-colored eyes as Drew’s mom, Cousin Marta, and Matthias, made even more vivid by her ghostly coloring and hair.

  “Mutti, das ist deine Nichte, Emily.”

  “Aunt Hilde!” With a childlike peal of jubilation, Drew’s mother darted forward to catch her aunt up in a hug. But Aunt Hilde recoiled.

  Seeing his mom’s face pucker in disappointment, Drew winced for her.

  “I . . . I am thrilled to meet you.” She reached out again, slowly this time. But again, Aunt Hilde retreated.

  A deep sadness shrouded Cousin Marta’s face. Drew stole a glance at Matthias, who was studiously picking lint off his sweater. Damn, was this guy made of stone? But Drew had to admit he recognized the look on Matthias’s face—that universal embarrassment at an older relative’s behavior. The expansive room suddenly felt crowded with untold tragedies.

  During lunch, Drew made himself swallow the bratwurst and red cabbage Cousin Marta put on chipped bone china plates and wipe his mouth properly with a faded linen napkin embroidered with an ornate B for Becker, Aunt Hilde’s maiden name. He watched his mom watch her aunt.

  Finally, Cousin Marta served the coffee that Drew’s mom had brought as a gift. It was only then that Aunt Hilde brightened, sipping the brew with delight.

  Noting the change, Drew’s mom cautiously slipped off her chair and knelt by her aunt. “Aunt Hilde,” she said gently.

  The tiny lady turned slightly, still drinking, shyly looking over her teacup.

  “Oh,” Drew’s mom gasped. “You look so much like my Mutti.” She cleared her throat. “Aunt Hilde, I am Elsa’s daughter.” She repeated herself in German.

  “Elsa?” Aunt Hilde looked worried.

  “Yes.”

  “Elsa ist nicht hier.” She put her cup down, her eyes anxiously searching the room. “Nicht hier.”

  “She is here, Aunt Hilde.” Drew’s mother took her aunt’s hand reassuringly and placed it on her heart. “Here—in my heart. I am her daughter. Feel my heartbeat? It is hers.”

  For the first time, Aunt Hilde looked directly at Drew’s mom.

  “One of my first memories is Mama singing me a song you taught her when she was young. My Mutti. Your little sister, Elsa. She said you always protected her from danger.”

  As abruptly as if she’d been slapped, Cousin Marta turned her face away, frowning with a sadness Drew could see but not understand.

  “The only things I have,” Drew’s mom continued, “that my mama, my Mutti, Elsa, carried with her to the United States are wooden puppets—puppets you gave her.”

  A glimmer of recognition sparked in Aunt Hilde’s teal-colored eyes. “Kasper und Gretel.”

  “Yes!” Drew’s mother smiled. “Mutti would pretend the puppets were singing to me.” Nodding on each beat, just as she’d done with Drew when she’d tried to teach him to play the piano, she began softly singing, “Can’t you see, I love you, please don’t break my heart in two. That’s not hard to do, ’cause I don’t have a wooden heart.” She stopped, a catch in her voice. “Remember? Erinnerst du dich?”

  Aunt Hilde nodded ever so slightly.

  Mesmerized, Drew leaned forward as he saw a smile—a tiny, tentative splash of joy—slowly light up Aunt Hilde’s pale, gaunt face as she whispered the words along with his mom. “Muss i’ denn, muss i’ denn, zum Städtele hinaus, Städtele hinaus . . .” She paused. “Elsa’s Emily? Du bist Emily?”

  “Yes!” Drew’s mother kissed her aunt’s hand as tears slipped down her cheeks. “Yes. Elsa’s Emily. Your niece.”

  “Oh,” Aunt Hilde murmured. “Ich habe so lange auf dich gewartet, Kind.”

  “I have waited so long to meet you, too, Aunt. Too, too long.”

  Aunt Hilde held open her arms, and Drew’s mom melted into them.

  Tears stung Drew’s eyes. Embarrassed, he looked down and rubbed them away. He could swear he heard his seemingly coldhearted commie cousin sniffle, too.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  NOVEMBER 1960

  “I can’t believe Mom made you ask him to the Sadie Hawkins dance.” Drew and Joyce were setting the table, watching Matthias talk with Linda in the living room.

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” Joyce answered. “It seemed so important to Mom, especially after you two met Aunt Hilde last month. And”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“it’s not as if I’m looking to date someone at school. You know the class I’m taking at Free University to fill that requirement?”

  Drew nodded.

  “There’s a really interesting guy in it.”

  Drew stopped laying out silverware and turned to look at her.

  “His father is a literature professor—one of the founders of the university, actually. He left his post at Berlin University for the American sector so he could keep teaching Goethe, Mann, and Hesse without any communist restrictions banning so-called petty bourgeoisie writers.”

  “He’s German?”

  “Fritz? Of course, silly.” Joyce laughed.

  “Dad’s not going to like your dating a foreigner. Or a college guy, you know.” Maybe Drew didn’t approve, either.

  She shrugged. “I’m banking on Mom’s help. Fritz is an amazing musician, a pianist. She’ll like that.”

  “Aha! That’s why you invited Matthias when she asked!”

  “There’s always a method to my madness, brother mine.” Joyce broke into a full-dimpled grin. “Besides, look how sweet he’s being with Linda. I’ve haven’t seen her talk this much all fall, ever since coming to Berlin, have you?”

  Joyce was right. Linda wasn’t exactly daring to look Matthias in the eye, keeping her gaze focused on the apron she was stitching for home ec class, but she was chatting. A lot, in fact. What if he was filling her head with commie nonsense?

  Drew hurried over to the couch. “We’ll be eating in a few minutes, when Shirley gets here,” he announced. “The bathroom is by my room, if you want to wash up.”

  Matthias stood and retreated down the hallway.

  Drew plopped down beside Linda. She was glowing. “What were you two talking about?” he asked.

  “All sorts of things! Matthias said he was surprised that an American school was teaching something as useful as home economics,” she explained. “I told him it’s very practical and all, but I don’t plan to join the Future Homemakers of America.” Her freckles flared as she whispered, “What I really want to be is a veterinarian.”

  “Really, sis? I didn’t know that.”

  She nodded solemnly. “Then I told Matthias about Blarney. How much I missed him. And that if I were a vet, I could have taken care of him so that he could have crossed the Atlantic with us, even though he’s old. Then he’d be here now.” Linda paused, her eyes welling up with tears that she blinked back quickly. “Matthias reminded me that Cousin Marta is training to be a doctor! So if I want to be a doctor for animals, he said, I have every right to. As long as I’m smart enough. I think I am, don’t you?”

  “For sure!” Drew answered. “If anybody tries to tell you that you aren’t, you send him to me, okay?”

  “Okay!” She leaned against Drew as he put his arm around her shoulders. “I asked our vet about it before we left.”

  “Dr. Gallagher?”

  She nodded again, not looking up. “But he said he wasn’t so sure that was a good idea. He said I could be a receptionist and say hello to all the animals as they came through the door, and that would be a good job for me before I get married.”

  Drew sucked in his breath. He knew Dr. Gallagher had only said what most people would say to a girl about what dreams she should have, but now that it was being applied to his sister, he didn’t like it. Of the three of them, Linda was definitely the smartest academically. She’d gotten straight As la
st year. Anybody with a brain like that who was as animal-crazy as Linda was would make a great vet.

  Drew pulled away a bit so he could look into Linda’s face as he said, “You can do anything you put your mind to, sis.”

  Linda smiled. She thought a moment and added, “Matthias asked me if I had to join an official youth group to be allowed to go to university. I don’t, do I?”

  “Nope. Just study real hard.”

  Pleased, Linda went back to her sewing.

  Drew watched her meticulous stitching for a moment before getting up to look for Matthias. He should thank him for encouraging Linda. Cousin Marta had probably read Matthias the riot act about getting along with Drew, like his mom had him. Or maybe Drew had misjudged the guy.

  He found Matthias standing a few feet inside his bedroom. What the heck? “Looking for something?” he asked.

  “You have a poster of your new president.” Matthias pointed.

  The subject of JFK distracted Drew from Matthias’s trespassing. “Yes—I’m stoked he won!”

  Matthias frowned. “Was heißt ‘stoked’?”

  “Excited.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “Chairman Khrushchev, too.”

  Drew frowned. “Why? Because JFK is smart and more of a peacemaker?”

  “Because he is unerfahren. Mmmm . . .has no experience.” Matthias shrugged. “It is what Khrushchev said.” He meandered back to the living room.

  Misjudged? Maybe not.

  A knock on the apartment door announced Shirley’s arrival.

  “You answer, honey,” Drew’s mom called from the kitchen. “She’s your date!”

  “Don’t get excited—we’re only buddies, Mom,” he tossed back lightly as he went to the door. But as Drew opened it, he had the wind punched out of him, and not by the November cold streaking up the stairwell. Standing in front of him was not the Shirley he was accustomed to seeing around school in bobby socks and corduroy skirts.