Walls

by L. M. Elliott

  “Naw. She’s concentrating on her music. She just started taking singing lessons with some opera diva in town. I think Joyce is already completely focused on next year and college. You know”—he made himself sound as offhand as possible to avoid embarrassing his friend—“she’s dating some guy at Free University.”

  Charlie straightened up abruptly, like Drew had jabbed him with a stick. “Lucky fella,” he said, lost in thought for a few beats. “Hey, I thought you were thinking of trying soccer.”

  “God, no way.” Drew laughed ruefully. “I’m a total doofus with my feet.”

  “Isn’t Matthias some soccer wunderkind? Bet he could teach you some skills.”

  “Oh man, you shoulda seen him—” Drew started to tell Charlie about Matthias schooling Bob, but he broke off again as he noticed Shirley sitting near the diving platforms.

  Charlie grinned at him. “And you think I’m the pity case?” He dropped back into the water. “I’m going to swim some more laps to improve my butterfly—it stinks. Good luck, buddy.” Charlie plunged forward, struggling with the double over-the-head strokes and undulation needed for the butterfly. Charlie was right about his technique. Some people might have mistaken it for an overly enthusiastic dog paddle—or a guy drowning.

  As nonchalantly as he could in a crowded pool—which wasn’t very, he knew—Drew breaststroked his way over to Shirley. She was swishing her legs in the water, watching Joyce climb the five-meter platform and swan dive into the deep end, yet again with hardly a ripple. Finally bobbing beside her, Drew asked, “Aren’t you coming in? The water’s great. ”

  “I will in a minute.” Shirley fluttered her feet in the water some more. “Talking about those statues out front just set me to thinking.”

  Drew threw his arm up to hang on to the tile along the pool’s rim, submerged from his chest down, feeling too wet and goose-bumpy to sit beside her. “A Pfennig for your thoughts,” he joked, then flushed, knowing he sounded totally lame.

  Turning her gaze from Joyce to him, Shirley said, “I don’t want to unload on you.”

  “I don’t mind.” He shrugged, loosening his hold on the wall so he slipped and dunked himself. So suave. Drew resurfaced, shook his head of water, and wiped his eyes to see her brushing off the droplets he’d splattered on her.

  Shirley laughed—she really was a good sport. “Okay, you asked for it. I’ll give you a whole Deutsche Mark’s worth.” She sobered. “Those statues by the entrance—they’re so . . . such idealizations of the human form.”

  Idealization. Shirley was the A-plus kind of smart, sure to be a National Honor Society kid next year. Drew really liked that about her, how she stretched his brain. He nodded, encouraging her to go on.

  “But whose ideal is it? Certainly not mine. It’s the Aryan ideal. It’s so weird here in Berlin, how we just walk around in places where so many people were murdered, in the ruins of Nazism. Swimming in a pool Hitler built to train Third Reich athletes to dominate the Olympics and eventually the world . . .” She reflexively yanked her legs out of the tainted water and wrapped her arms around her knees.

  “These people . . .” She closed her eyes and shuddered slightly. “Nearly half a million American men and women died fighting in World War II. A lot of them to stop Nazis from slaughtering Jews and other ethnic groups they considered a scourge on their lily-white, blue-eyed Aryan ideal . . . And here we are now, our dads protecting the freedoms of the very people who killed millions and millions of souls. And doubly ironic, there are people back home in the States waving swastikas and spewing Hitler-worthy hatred about American Blacks and Jews.” Agitated, Shirley chewed on a fingernail. “You know my nana?”

  Drew nodded.

  “She’s Jewish. The people who carved those statues—they’d have gleefully gassed her. And guess what? According to the Nazis, Nana’s heritage would make me a ‘quarter Jew,’ which would have been enough for the SS to label me a ‘mischling of the second degree.’ A human ‘mongrel.’ I would have been prevented from attending schools or marrying a German so I wouldn’t sully the purity of his Aryan bloodline. And I might have been sent to a concentration camp, too.”

  Drew felt a wave of nausea at the idea. Without thinking, he put his hand on her knee protectively.

  “See, I told you that you didn’t want to hear what was rolling around in my head.” Shirley smiled wanly. “I . . . I just don’t understand how people have so much hate in them. I mean, I know intellectually that it comes from fear and ignorance. Looking for scapegoats. But . . .” She trailed off.

  “It’s beaten into them, I guess,” Drew muttered. He repeated part of what his mom had said about Matthias and his Hitler Youth brothers: “It gets stuffed into their heads through the lies and conspiracy theories and prejudices their political leaders spit out.”

  Shirley looked down at him. “You’re thinking of your cousin, aren’t you?”

  Frowning, Drew nodded.

  They were silent for a few moments, and then Shirley spoke again, softly. “You know the thing about Karl Marx? What he wrote in his socialist manifesto is so . . . so . . . idealized, to keep using that word. But it’s really humane, too. He proposed making the world better by making it more equal, by offering the same opportunities to everyone, regardless of class. But today’s communists twist Marx’s concept, making it about repression, censorship, retribution, and painting democracy as evil. I can see how a smart guy like Matthias might cling to the original ideals, though.”

  She shrugged. “You know, my nana always says if you stand in someone else’s shoes for a while, you can understand their walk better. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to help that person pick another pair.”

  Drew laughed. “A wise woman.” His hand was still on Shirley’s knee. He smiled up at her. “I hope I get to meet her someday.”

  Shirley met his gaze, then looked away, suddenly shy. “Me too,” she murmured. Then she stood up abruptly. “Race you to the end of the lane!” she cried, and dove over him, leaving Drew in a blinding splash and a wake of churned-up bubbles.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MARCH

  1961

  Drew rounded a landing in his apartment building’s stairwell, heading to the laundry room on the top floor. He paused to look out the big window toward the parking lot, just to make sure what he’d seen earlier that day was true. Yes! No VW bus. Thank God, he thought. The MP bodyguards—or the totally unfair surveillance of his dad—were finally gone after five weeks and six days. All clear.

  Shifting the empty basket to his hip, Drew took in the sight of purple crocuses blooming along the sidewalks. He saluted the early-spring flowers, a sign of new beginnings. Maybe now he could stop looking over his shoulder constantly. A hymn his mom was teaching Linda to play in anticipation of Easter leapt into his mind: Welcome, happy morning! Age to age shall say . . . He climbed the last few steps humming its melody.

  His mom was at Marienfelde for the day—again—and she’d asked him to do his own wash. She seemed to be gone more than she was at home these days. But Drew easily shook off the little flare of resentment he felt. His mom’s work at Marienfelde was for the greater good, after all. That’s what Shirley would say, he bet.

  Drew smiled at the thought of Shirley and pushed the door open to a burst of heat scented with detergent. Leaning over to drag his dry underwear and T-shirts into the basket, he started singing aloud, “Hell today is vanquished, heav’n is won today. Lo, the dead— Jeez Louise!” Drew about jumped out of his skin.

  Bob was sitting on the floor, leaning up against the back of the machines.

  “What the hell are you doing down there?” Drew demanded. Mortified that he’d been caught singing—a hymn!—and doing laundry like a housewife, Drew went all swagger. “Waiting for someone? Kind of early in the day to be necking up here, isn’t it? Or, wait—did you get stood up?”

  Sl
owly, Bob turned his head to look up at him. Drew’s antagonism dissolved instantly—Bob’s right eye was swollen and bruised. “Good grief! What happened?”

  “A mean left hook.” Bob looked back down, muttering, “Really mean.” Pushing himself up off the floor, he brushed himself off, his back to Drew. “Was doing a little sparring practice. Didn’t lift my arm fast enough to block the blow.” He took a deep breath. “My own damn fault.” Bob turned to face Drew, a fake smile on his face.

  Given the scene at Bob’s the previous month, Drew was pretty sure it was Sergeant Jones who’d landed the punch. Suddenly, he felt bad for Bob. Coaching your kid was one thing—most military dads did that in all manner of ways—but actually nailing your own son? That was plain wrong. But all he said aloud was, “You should put some ice on that.”

  “Yeah.” Squinting a bit, Bob assessed Drew’s expression. “It’s not like this usually, Drew. This is the first time that—” He stopped. “My dad just wants me to be the best I can be.”

  Drew made himself smile back with military-brat nonchalance. “Don’t they all?”

  “Listen.” Bob’s voice stayed sincere—vulnerable, even. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me up here, okay?”

  “Sure. No problem,” Drew answered.

  Bob’s gaze stayed fixed on him.

  “Seriously, man.” Drew lowered his voice. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  Satisfied, Bob pivoted and faked a playful punch at Drew. “You ought to come up here with Shirley one night.”

  “W-what?”

  “Aw, c’mon. I know you’re sweet on her. Everybody does.” He threw his arm around Drew’s shoulders. “You know, a bunch of us are going to see Spartacus tonight at the Outpost. Charlie’s even asking Betty the cheerleader, his old flame. You should come with Shirley.”

  “Can’t. I . . . I’m going to a Brecht play with Joyce and Matthias.”

  Bob’s eyebrows shot up. “A commie play . . . at the commie-run Berliner Ensemble theater . . . with your commie cousin? Are you—” Bob broke off and shook his head slightly as he looked Drew over carefully. Finally, he said quietly, “Another night, then.”

  He patted Drew on the chest and grinned, wincing a bit as his smile stretched and pushed up against his bruised eye. “I heard Shirley talking in the hall yesterday. She was telling her friends how nice you are. Gotta change that nice thing, Drew. Bo-ring. That’s the kiss of death with dames. If you wanna get the girl, take my advice—they go for the bad boys. Believe me, I know.” He stepped back and pointed at the basket. “First off, don’t let anybody else catch you doing laundry for your mom.”

  Bob made for the door, squaring his shoulders. As he opened it, he glanced back at Drew and winked with his good eye. “See ya, Mac.”

  For hours, Drew stewed over the fact that he was missing an opportunity to ask Shirley out on a sort-of date. Going to the movies as a group was a safe first move, like practice for the real thing. And he loved Kirk Douglas, the lead in Spartacus. It was an important film, too, a cultural event—Drew could milk that with his mom. Douglas had braved hiring a screenwriter, Dalton Trumbo, who’d been blacklisted for being some kind of communist. JFK had made a big deal about going to see the film, crossing a picket line of American Legion members who were boycotting it, holding signs accusing it of being un-American and Douglas of being a Red.

  Drew paced, ready to pounce on his mom the instant she walked through the door. He was going to ask to be excused from the play. After all, Matthias had stood him up last month, and Drew really wasn’t interested in some opera by Brecht.

  But it wasn’t until an hour before Drew and Joyce were scheduled to leave—first to meet Fritz and then Matthias—that his mom made it home, looking exhausted. As she hung up her lavender swing coat and pulled off her white gloves, she called to Drew, “I want to talk to you for a few minutes, please, honey.”

  She sat on the piano bench and patted it, indicating that he should sit down next to her. “Tomorrow, could you please see if there are a few things in your closet that you wouldn’t mind donating to the refugees? We’ve been flooded with people this whole month. Twice as many have made it through as in February. The warmer spring temperatures make it easier for them to move through the forests at night by moonlight.”

  She reached out and brushed back Drew’s hair a bit. “There was boy about your size at Marienfelde today who had nothing but the clothes on his back. Maybe you can find a sweater and a pair of pants you’ve outgrown?”

  “Sure, Mom.”

  She nodded and smiled. “Thank you, sweetheart.” She laid her head on his shoulder for just a moment.

  Drew saw his opening. “Mom, do I really have to go tonight? Joyce has that guy Fritz to take her. I’m not interested in some opera by Brecht. And why do I have to spend my Saturday night in East Berlin? Charlie and”—he felt his face flush a little—“and the gang are going to see Spartacus. I’d much rather see that and be with them.”

  His mom stiffened and sat upright. “Won’t you be glad to see Matthias?”

  Would he? The last time they’d been together, back in January, he’d really enjoyed Matthias’s company. He’d even started to feel like his cousin could be a friend to count on, given how he’d schooled Bob in soccer when Bob was harassing Drew. But then the envelope had happened, and he was still worried that Matthias could be involved with it somehow, wittingly or not. And then Matthias hadn’t shown up to swim, giving no explanation. What had that been about?

  “When you and Cousin Marta had lunch and she invited Joyce and me to go with Matthias to Brecht’s Threepenny Opera,” Drew began cautiously, “did she say why Matthias didn’t come last month to go swimming?”

  “No.” His mom paused. “She didn’t know he hadn’t.”

  “What?” Drew jumped to his feet. “Doesn’t that sound pretty suspicious to you, Mom?”

  “Suspicious how?” His mom smiled. “It may have just slipped his mind. Goodness knows you’ve done that yourself a few times. You boys.” She stood up as well, switching into her music teacher mode. “I want to hear all about the operetta when you get home, honey. Honestly, you are in for a real cultural treat. Brecht is such an influential playwright, and Weill’s music has totally changed musical theater. Matthias seems quite interested in Brecht—remember how he pointed out the theater to us when we did that tour of East Berlin back in October? This will be a nice thing for him to share with you.”

  “But Mom . . .” Drew looked around, as if others were watching, and lowered his voice. “What about that envelope? What if someone tries to plant something on Joyce or me?”

  For a moment, his mom paled. “I thought of that,” she said slowly, “but the brass thinks there’s nothing for us to worry about now. They didn’t turn up a connection to a known KGB network. Nothing. It may be that someone in the East decided to jerk your dad’s chain just for the heck of it, to see what he’d do. Or maybe someone over there needed to get the Stasi off their back and agreed to plant the envelope.” She paused. “I feel better about you going tonight, knowing that boy Fritz will be coming along as Joyce’s date. His father had trouble with the Stasi before they emigrated to the West—Fritz is alert to such things.”

  Laughing lightly, she kissed Drew’s cheek. “That’s how I convinced your dad to let Joyce go out with a college boy.”

  With that, she headed into the kitchen.

  Clack-clack. Clack-clack.

  The S-Bahn shook and rattled its way through Berlin to the Friedrichsstraße station. Sitting next to the window, Drew focused on the city passing by and tried to ignore Joyce snuggling up to Fritz. His big sister had had boyfriends before—he’d seen her holding hands with them in the hallways at school or wearing some guy’s oversized letterman jacket. But her past boyfriends seemed like little more than idolizing puppies.

  This guy had a slight edge to him. Tall and sinewy,
Fritz had a tousle of thick honey-brown curls sweeping over his forehead like those radical beatniks back home in the U.S. His jawline was sharp. And while his gray eyes snapped with a boyish sense of adventure, there was nothing wide-eyed or innocent about Fritz. The way Joyce rested her head on his shoulder—grown up, serious, intimate—was a harsh reminder that she’d be leaving for college in a few months. Drew would be losing his best war buddy.

  The elevated train crossed the Spree River, dancing merrily with light that spilled into its waters from the buildings and streetlamps. But as the train passed into the ill-lit streets of the Soviet sector, the same currents turned inky dark. With a screech of wheels echoing off the station’s vaulted steel-and-glass walls, they pulled into East Berlin.

  “Here we are,” Joyce warbled, fluttering off the wooden bench and pulling Fritz to his feet. She reached for Drew as well. Swinging their hands playfully, she started singing softly, “Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear, and it shows them, pearly white . . .”

  She twirled and smiled up at Fritz, who looked completely entranced but a bit puzzled by the song. “It’s the English translation of the Threepenny Opera’s signature song, ‘Mack the Knife,’ ” she explained. “Just think—a number-one hit in the United States is from an East German satire written by a communist. And tonight we get to hear the original in the playhouse where Brecht wrote it!” She turned to Drew with a dimpled grin. “It’s going to be like one of Mom’s cultural field trips on steroids!”

  Still holding both her brother and her boyfriend by the hand, Joyce sashayed them off the train, Fritz beaming as Joyce sang, “Just a jackknife has old Macheath, babe, and he keeps it, ah, out of sight . . .”

  Passersby smiled. A young man with a ducktail hair sweep snapped his fingers along with the song’s swing beat. A couple in black tie and evening gown did a slow spin and dip. And, hanging his cane on his arm, a gray-haired, stooped man actually attempted a moment of soft-shoe tap.