Walls

by L. M. Elliott

  Inspired, Drew went to his locker and retrieved one of his baseballs. When the children were pulling on their coats to leave, Drew knelt by the boy he was escorting and put the ball into his hands. The five-year-old was way too young to really pitch, but Drew showed him how to properly hold the ball, guided by its seams.

  It was like plugging in a Christmas tree, the boy lit up so brightly.

  Suddenly, Drew totally felt the Christmas spirit. Humming “O Tannenbaum,” he waved as the boy got on the bus, and Joyce, Shirley, and all the other Berlin brats helping at the party clumped together to watch the German children drive away.

  “That was fun,” Shirley said.

  “Oh man,” one of the brats shouted as an earsplitting roar came from the east. “Here they come! Look out!” Drew turned to see two Soviet MiGs zooming toward them, way too low, gray contrails steaming after them like dragon tails. He and the others couldn’t help ducking a bit as the jets whooshed by, dipping their wings up and down, a sarcastic salute for sure. The school building shuddered in their wake.

  The brats straightened back up. “Well, at least they waited until Santa was gone this year,” said the boy who’d sounded the alarm.

  Drew had heard the boom of Soviet jets buzzing their end of Berlin before. He knew they did it purely to razz American troops. But during a Christmas party for orphans? C’mon.

  “Peace on earth and goodwill toward men,” Shirley quipped. Then she linked arms with Joyce. They were heading to choir practice. “Merry Christmas, Drew,” she said softly.

  “You too,” he answered, feeling his face flame a little. Joyce tossed him a knowing-big-sister smile as she turned Shirley back toward the school.

  I’ll have a blue Christmas without you. Elvis’s holiday anthem popped into Drew’s head as he turned for home.

  Drew was still humming Elvis as he entered his apartment building and heard what was becoming a familiar sound. Shouts—muffled by cinder block, but clearly angry.

  A door flew open, and a bellowed “What have I told you?” rolled down the stairs like a bowling ball banging along the gutter.

  Feet clattered along the steps, fast and furious.

  Turning his back to the stairwell, Drew opened his family’s mailbox, knowing his mom would have emptied it already this late in the afternoon but figuring it would allow whoever was escaping that argument to save face. Drew was pretty sure he knew who it was. He heard the footfalls slow to fake casual.

  “Hello, Mac.”

  Drew closed the box. “Hi, Bob.”

  He expected Bob to push past him into the cold, but instead, he sat down on the bottom step.

  Drew made himself ask, “You okay, man?”

  “Peachy.” Bob assessed Drew’s face.

  Now, if it’d been Charlie, Drew would’ve let on that he’d heard the rumble, sat down, and really asked if he was all right. But this was Bob.

  “I was talking with my old man,” Bob confided.

  Drew braced himself. Army dads were all demanding—that went with the territory—but given the constant arguments Drew and his family couldn’t help hearing from across the hall, Bob’s clearly crossed the line into harsh.

  “It got me thinking about your commie cousin.”

  Not what Drew expected. “You know, Bob, you’re getting to be a broken record. Don’t you have any other tunes?”

  Humphf. Bob nodded, thoughtful, a self-deprecating smile on his face like the one Drew had spotted when Charlie had teased Bob about his date at Sadie Hawkins. “You seeing him around Christmas?”

  “Yeah. Christmas Eve.” Drew didn’t let on how annoyed he was that his mom was insisting his German cousins be included in their family holiday.

  “I’m starting to think maybe it’s good that you’re all cozy with the guy.” Bob got up. “You can pick up intel, too, if you’re over there in the Russian sector. Isn’t his mom a nurse at a hospital?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Maybe she’ll let drop some info about it, how bad off they might be in terms of medicine. Maybe he’ll let slip the name of the informant the Stasi is sure to have planted on his street. Maybe he’ll mention the time of day when it’s safest for them to tune into AFN or RIAS’s Voice of America broadcasts. Maybe you’ll see some of the garbage they make kids read. You never know what details might be really helpful to our guys to countermand Russian propaganda.”

  He stepped close to Drew, a shadow of desperation on his face. “If you get anything, give it to me, okay?” Nodding more to himself than to Drew, he added, “Then I can give the intel to my dad.” Bob punched him lightly on the shoulder as he headed for the door. “See ya . . . Drew.”

  Then Bob left the building, disappearing into the twilight.

  Hark! The herald angels sing. Glory to the newborn king . . . Nat King Cole’s smooth jazz voice filled Drew’s living room.

  Singing along, her voice as honeyed as Cole’s, Joyce sat with Drew at the table, wrapping presents for Matthias and Marta. Sweaters, marmalade, oranges, silk stockings, light bulbs, flashlight batteries, safety pins, Nescafé, nail polish. A copy of Little Women and women’s magazines for Cousin Marta, and a new novel called My Side of the Mountain for Matthias. Drew secured shiny red paper around a copy of George Orwell’s Animal Farm.

  “You know,” Joyce began gently, her forehead furrowed, “Cousin Marta and Matthias could get in a lot of trouble if the Vopos find that Orwell book on them, Drew. Fritz told me his dad’s entire library was confiscated.” She pointed to another gift awaiting ribbons: a two-sided 45, Presley’s last release during his time in the U.S. Army, “A Big Hunk of Love,” with “My Wish Come True” on its flip side. “And that’s really a thoughtful gift, too. I could see how much Matthias was enjoying our ‘wiggle-hip’ music.” She and Drew laughed in bemused sympathy at their cousin being denied the music and dancing they so loved. “But,” she added, “he could also get busted for that.”

  Drew had picked out the record himself in a Kurfürstendamm store—Matthias had seemed like such a Presley fan at Sadie Hawkins. But Drew couldn’t say for sure whether he was motivated by generosity or whether he had ungenerously wanted to remind a guy who had signed a pledge to shoot at NATO soldiers that he secretly loved this American singer. As if to prove Drew’s point, Elvis was pictured on the jacket in his army uniform, leaning against a building in Friedberg, Germany, where he was stationed.

  Or had Drew subconsciously thought the 45 might work as a bribe to pull Matthias into Bob’s minor-league cloak-and-dagger business? Did Drew imagine he could actually turn Matthias like some kind of CIA recruit?

  “I suppose the paperbacks will fit into a deep coat pocket,” Joyce said, pulling Drew back into the moment.

  “The record will, too,” Drew said defensively. It was only seven inches in diameter.

  Joyce nodded “True. And hopefully, the sector guards won’t be paying as much attention on Christmas.” Another thought hit her. “Does he have a record player? Did you see one in his apartment?”

  Drew only knew that Matthias had heard Elvis somehow—because of his friend who smuggled 45s into the Russian sector. So Drew had just assumed he did. But then again, he hadn’t seen Matthias’s room. Unlike Matthias, who’d obviously been snooping around in Drew’s!

  While he and Joyce wrapped at the table, their mom was opening Christmas cards that had arrived in one big shipment from the States and handing them off to Linda to tape on their door. “Oh, look, honey,” their mom said carefully, “it’s a picture of Blarney. That was sweet of them to send.” With an encouraging smile, she handed the photo to Linda.

  Before they’d left Arlington for Berlin, Linda had chosen a dog-loving neighbor to adopt Blarney. She’d bravely marched him across the street to his new family, hugged him, and managed to walk away as Blarney howled. That was the beginning of Linda’s deep retreat into shyness.r />
  Biting her lip, Linda looked long and hard at the photograph. “He . . . he looks happy,” she forced out. Then she lovingly tucked the photo into the Christmas tree’s branches at her eye level, so the collie could gaze out at her.

  Their dad stopped fussing with the lights to give her a hug. “I’m proud of you, soldier.”

  Nodding stoically, Linda retreated to her room, her face puckered, fighting tears.

  Joyce got up to follow.

  Watching her daughters, Drew’s mom stood and shook out her skirt. “I’m going to check on the girls and then change,” she said quietly. “Time for you boys to get ready, too. Marta and Matthias will be here in an hour.”

  The Christmas tree was glowing in their front bay window by the time Cousin Marta knocked on the door. Drew’s mom threw it open with a jolly “Merry Christmas!” Then her voice caught, and she exclaimed, “Oh! How wonderful!”

  A trembling, shell-shocked Aunt Hilde was with them, Cousin Marta’s arm around her waist. “Mutti wanted to come,” Cousin Marta said. She leaned forward and added, “It is a miracle, Emily. As I told you, she has not stepped out of our home for years.”

  “Welcome,” Drew’s dad boomed.

  “Jimmy.” Drew’s mom held up her hand to quiet his we’re-all-buddies-here effusiveness, but it was too late. Aunt Hilde backpedaled toward the stairs with such alarm that Joyce instinctively stepped forward to reach for the elderly woman’s hand.

  “It’s all right.” Drew’s mother took Aunt Hilde’s other hand to stop her. “Es ist alles in Ordnung. This is Elsa’s granddaughter, Joyce.” She gestured toward Joyce and then motioned for Linda to come over. “Und mein baby girl, Linda.” She nodded toward Drew. “Du erinnerst dich an meinen Sohn.”

  A faint smile of recognition glimmered on Aunt Hilde’s pale face upon seeing Drew, but she did not step inside. She glanced furtively at Drew’s dad. Seeing her fear, he inched back, hands up slightly, to make it clear he meant no harm.

  Only then did Aunt Hilde gaze into the apartment, at its candlelit Advent wreath, the sweet-smelling traditional German fruitcake Drew’s mom had just pulled from the oven, and the piles of presents by the tree. Then she spotted the piano. “Klavier,” she murmured. “Ist das dein Klavier?”

  “Yes, that is my piano. Please . . .” Drew’s mom held out her hand in invitation. Ever so cautiously, Aunt Hilde tiptoed inside to touch the keyboard, as reverent as the magi approaching the manger, thought Drew.

  Cousin Marta followed, and then Matthias, looking slightly defiant, slightly annoyed, and totally out of whack with the situation, as always. When he spotted Linda, though, Matthias’s attitude completely changed. “We have brought you something,” he announced.

  Drew realized Matthias was holding something wrapped in a shawl—and the bundle was squirming!

  Matthias knelt. Linda approached tentatively, her eyes still red and slightly swollen from crying about Blarney.

  “My mother tended to a man on our street,” Matthias began. “He died two days ago. Now Heidi needs a new home. A person who can take care of her in old age—like a veterinarian.” Ever so carefully, Matthias pulled open the bundle to reveal an ancient dachshund, her little snout rimmed with gray, a red ribbon around her neck.

  “Oh!” Linda scooped her up. “Oh!” She buried her face in the dog’s fur.

  Matthias sat back on his heels, looking up at his mother with a pleased smile.

  Heidi’s plumy tail wagged, thrashing Linda’s head. “Oh!” Linda giggled. She didn’t lift her face, and for a moment, it was hard to tell where her strawberry-blond curls ended and the dog’s chestnut waves began. “She’s the best present ever!”

  Drew’s mom engulfed Cousin Marta in a hug and held on tight until her German cousin softened and wrapped her arms around her as well.

  Watching, Drew needed a handkerchief. Maybe his mom was right. Maybe behind that terrifying pledge and that wall of commie dogma, there was a boy Drew could truly like.

  After dinner, they exchanged the remaining presents. Linda radiated as much holiday light as the Christmas tree as she rocked the old dachshund like a baby. The dog seemed just as happy with the snuggle. Next to Linda, tucked safely in the corner, Aunt Hilde sat with her gaze fixed on the piano.

  Cousin Marta oohed over the silk stockings, looking embarrassed to need them but grateful to have them. Drew’s mother teared up over little wooden Christmas angels that were clearly Becker family treasures, probably hidden away for safekeeping for years. Matthias seemed dumbfounded when Drew handed him the Elvis 45. And Drew tried to look interested when Matthias presented him with a scuffed-up soccer ball.

  “I don’t know how to play,” he blurted, then immediately regretted it. Drew felt his mother watching him. Given the night’s aura of Christmas goodwill, he knew the best gift he could give his mom would be to accept Matthias’s gesture. “Will you show me how?”

  Matthias looked him up and down. “I will try.”

  Say what? Drew felt himself getting indignant until Matthias’s expression made him realize his cousin was joking. The commie could wisecrack! Drew laughed at himself.

  Matthias laughed, too.

  “Then I’ll try to show you how pitch a baseball.” Drew smiled.

  Matthias grinned.

  His mom sighed. Cousin Marta sighed. This time, they were pleased.

  Suddenly, their moms froze and clasped hands. Drew’s held her index finger to her lips and then pointed behind Drew. He turned to see Aunt Hilde creeping toward the piano.

  Hushed, they all watched as the frail, skittish woman sat on the instrument’s bench and touched her forehead to its empty music rack as if in prayer. Then she began to play, entranced. Drew recognized Schumann’s Kinderszenen, “Scenes from Childhood,” from his own mother’s playing.

  Soft and hesitant at first, but quickly gathering joy and confidence, Aunt Hilde drew out notes and chords from her memory as if pulling the sublime down from heaven, her fingers pirouetting gracefully along the keys. The air around her became poetry. With each passing melodic phrase, the tiny woman seemed to shed her earthly fears altogether, to stretch up noble and tall, like an angel unfurling its wings, preparing to ascend. It took Drew’s breath away.

  When she finished the Schumann, Aunt Hilde immediately began another piece—a Chopin nocturne. Then Beethoven’s “Für Elise.” A sonata by Schubert.

  Nobody moved. They were all captivated by the metamorphosis unfolding before them.

  “When was the last time she touched a piano?” Drew’s mom whispered, awestruck.

  “Before Matthias was born,” Cousin Marta answered, her voice raspy.

  “That’s astounding. To play so fluidly, without missing a note, after so many years.”

  Cousin Marta nodded.

  Keeping her eyes on Aunt Hilde, Drew’s mom asked, keeping her voice low, “What happened to her piano?”

  At this question, tears welled in Cousin Marta’s eyes and slipped down her face—a startling show of emotion from a woman who maintained such disciplined composure. “It . . . it was after the Red Army invaded, when the city was defended by the few German soldiers left alive. Old men, the wounded, the handicapped, and boys . . . some of them no more than ten years old.” She seemed to choke on the last words.

  Aunt Hilde switched to the contemplative delicacy of Debussy’s “Claire de Lune.”

  “This was one of her favorite pieces,” Cousin Marta murmured. She listened for a few more translucent measures before continuing, “Throughout the war, Mutti turned to her piano when things were . . . the most awful. Even when bombs fell like the wrath of God. It was her way to hang on to sanity.”

  Playing on, Aunt Hilde was completely enthralled, her eyes closed, seeming not to hear her daughter.

  “When the Russians captured Berlin, after the Führer killed himself, when the house
-by-house attacks began, day after day . . . still Mutti played. Even after . . . after four of them . . . broke down our door and . . .”

  Cousin Marta swallowed hard. “She played, even after that—perhaps even more so. Desperate to find some shard of beauty in all that cruelty. But her music called attention to us . . . which was . . . dangerous.

  “One day, right after I begged her to stop, an officer suddenly banged on our door. We were terrified. He pointed to the piano. He had been standing outside, listening. He demanded that she keep playing. Oh, how Mutti’s hands shook . . . but she did. He arrived unannounced for three weeks. Eventually, he softened. He asked rather than demanded. He even played himself.”

  Once more, Cousin Marta paused and collected her thoughts, seemingly relieved to have reached this part of the story. “Eventually, the Russian command ordered him to Leipzig. He wanted Mutti’s piano with him there. He could have just taken it. They took everything else, the Russians. But he offered to buy it. We were starving. Matthias would be born within a few days. So she gave up her piano.” She looked meaningfully at Matthias. “To feed us.”

  Cousin Marta glanced back to Aunt Hilde. “It is a night of miracles,” she murmured as they all listened, swaddled in the rapture coming from the piano.

  Aunt Hilde switched from classical pieces to carols, beginning with “Silent Night.” Tremulous, in the quietest of voices, she started to sing: “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, Alles schläft; einsam wacht.”

  On the second verse, Joyce joined in with the English words, then Drew’s mom and dad, Linda and Drew, and finally Cousin Marta, dredging up lyrics long buried inside her. German and English harmonizing.

  Only Matthias refused to join, sitting rigid, frowning.

  When she came to the end of the Christmas carol, Aunt Hilde stood. Slowly and gently, she closed the piano lid, caressing it. “Darf ich zur Mitternachtsmesse gehen?”