Walls

by L. M. Elliott

  CHAPTER NINE

  APRIL

  1961

  Linda stopped bouncing the soccer ball Matthias had given Drew to say to Joyce, “You look soooo pretty.” She’d been watching her big sister sweep mascara on her eyelashes in front of the bathroom mirror while she juggled off her knees—left, right, left. Heidi the dachshund barked as if in agreement. “You silly old dog.” Linda laughed and dropped the ball to the floor. “See if you can catch me!” She took off dribbling down the hall, Heidi giving chase.

  “She’s getting pretty good with that thing,” Drew murmured.

  “Shhhh. Don’t move. I don’t want to choke you.” His father was knotting Drew’s tie for him as Drew held his chin up in his bedroom doorway, beside the bathroom.

  His mom was also crowding the hallway, waiting with her Polaroid to capture the moment when Drew and Joyce were ready to leave for the Plänterwald Jazz Café. She’d lent Joyce a cobalt-blue dress that complemented her ginger hair and cornflower-blue eyes. His mom called it a pencil dress—it had a short turtleneck and a long straight skirt, cinched at the waist with a wide belt. “Oh, you look as sophisticated as Audrey Hepburn,” his mom had cooed. That’s when she’d gone for the camera, saying with a catch in her voice, “I won’t be able to take pictures of you next year when you’re off at college, you know.”

  Of course, the photo would also memorialize Drew looking about as dopey as possible. He’d managed to scrape his face shaving, so a rash was quickly spreading through his minefield of freckles. A great look for his first real date with Shirley.

  Just as Fritz had promised in March when they’d gone to the Brecht play with Matthias, he was taking them to a “hot” jazz club. Fritz would be playing the piano as the opening act for the featured combo. Joyce was bursting with pride about that part of the evening.

  Their mom posed them by the bay window. “You look handsome, honey,” she tried to reassure Drew. “Smile!”

  Pop! His mom counted to sixty, then opened the back of the camera and peeled the black-and-white photo off the film negative inside. Even blinded by the flash, Drew could see his cringe-worthy grimace.

  “Let’s go,” his sister whispered, tugging on his sleeve. “You look fine. Don’t worry. Shirley is all excited about going to the café. It’s going to be a great night.”

  Amid a barrage of Enjoy! Be careful! Watch out for each other!, the two exited hastily, nearly slamming the apartment door in their parents’ faces to prevent them from following.

  “Good grief!” Drew rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, we should be glad they love us so much.” Joyce laughed again. “I’m sure I’ll miss their fussing next year.” She’d been accepted to Vassar College and to the Royal Academy of Music in London. Drew was rooting for London; that way, he’d have more of a shot at seeing Joyce once in awhile. She took his arm, “Shall we?”

  A few steps down, they were drawn up short by sounds coming from Bob’s apartment. A shout. Something being overturned. The anxious tremolo of Mrs. Jones’s voice.

  Then, “What have I told you?” from Sergeant Jones.

  “About what, Dad?” Bob’s voice—loud, needling, asking for trouble.

  “Are you sassing me, boy?”

  A thump.

  “Answer me. I’m talking to you, soldier.”

  Maybe it was the army’s mantra of “Leave no man behind,” or maybe it was the memory of Bob’s bruised face in the laundry room, but Drew knew he had to do something. “Come on,” he said, grabbing Joyce’s hand and hurrying back up the steps to the Joneses’ door. He took a deep breath and knocked.

  Sudden silence. The door flew open. Sergeant Jones loomed in the entrance. Behind him, Mrs. Jones blew her nose and tried to smile. Bob leaned against the living room wall, his hands shoved in his pockets.

  Sergeant Jones gave Drew a hard look. “Need something, son?”

  “Here for Bob,” Drew answered, speaking the truth.

  “Excuse me?” Sergeant Jones barked.

  Drew could see a flash of dread on Bob’s face. Joyce must have seen it, too. “You haven’t forgotten, have you, Bob?” She smiled sweetly. “You wouldn’t stand up a girl, would you?”

  Bob just gaped at her.

  But Mrs. Jones picked up on the ruse. “Oh my, of course not, dear. He’s been talking about this for days.” She nudged Bob toward his bedroom. “Go put on that nice tweed jacket and tie I laid out for you. Hurry, now, sweetheart.”

  “I didn’t hear about this,” Sergeant Jones replied, curt, accusing.

  “Oh, that’s my fault, dear.” Mrs. Jones’s demeanor turned light and breezy. “I got all caught up cooking for the wives’ club bake sale, and the fact that Bob was going out for the evening with Drew and Joyce completely slipped my mind. I’m sorry.”

  “At the Plänterwald Café.” Drew quickly provided the destination to help Mrs. Jones play along.

  “Plänterwald?” Sergeant Jones barked. “That’s in the East, isn’t it? Near Treptower Park, the Russians’ Garden of Remembrance. That’s no place for—”

  Joyce interrupted, bubbling, “Bob was kind enough to offer to go along to some jazz clubs with me, so I took him up on it. You know I’m training as a singer, Sergeant Jones, so I try to go to as many live performances as possible. And we all feel totally safe when Bob is around.”

  Wow, she was smooth.

  Practically pushing her son out the door when Bob reemerged in coat and tie, Mrs. Jones waved them off. “Have a wonderful night, my dears.” Drew saw Bob hesitate and search his mom’s face.

  She gave him a slight nod and a big smile and closed the door.

  Joyce tugged on Bob’s arm. “C’mon.” They escaped down the stairs and didn’t stop to catch their breath until they reached the sidewalk.

  His voice hoarse, Bob said, “I owe you, Drew.” Then he bowed and kissed Joyce’s hand. “My lady, I will love and serve you till the day I die.” Straightening up, Bob took in a long breath of the April night air. He held out his arm, and Joyce slipped hers through it. “So, where exactly are we going? And are there dames involved?”

  As Drew, Shirley, Joyce, and Bob entered the Plänterwald Café, they were engulfed in a chorus of clinking glasses and lively murmuring in English, German, French, and Russian. Drew spotted Matthias engrossed in the music in a corner, holding a table. Fritz was already playing.

  “Oh no!” Joyce whimpered. “His set has started.” She rushed to take her seat and then hung on every cool, lyrical phrase Fritz played on the café’s upright piano. It wasn’t the fast bebop or the frenzied chord progressions Drew had always associated with jazz. Fritz’s music was diaphanous, even dreamy, with a haunting melancholy.

  “Fritz calls this modal jazz,” Joyce explained to the group without taking her eyes off him as he played. “It’s influenced by a Miles Davis album titled Kind of Blue. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  “Yes,” Shirley answered, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hand. “It’s exactly what I’d imagine all the shades of blue would sound like if they could sing.”

  “Exactly,” echoed Joyce.

  Both girls sighed, mesmerized, gazing toward the stage.

  Drew, on the other hand, was struck by how lyrical Shirley’s observations always were, marveled at the fact that she was his date, and couldn’t stop staring at her. She was also as drop-dead gorgeous as she’d been at Sadie Hawkins. Tonight, she’d pulled her thick hair back into a ponytail and tucked a gardenia behind her ear. “Like Billie Holiday,” Shirley had said when they’d picked her up at her apartment and Joyce had oohed over the flower. “She’s my favorite blues singer. Nana introduced me to her songs.” The slightly severe hairstyle made Shirley’s large, dark eyes even more beautiful, somehow.

  Shirley glanced back at Drew, catching him mid-gawk.

  Matthias elbowed him and laughed as Shirley sm
iled shyly at Drew and then returned to watching Fritz at the piano.

  Bob, of course, was ogling Joyce. Nodding toward the stage, he asked Drew, “Has your dad checked out that guy?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, are you sure he’s on the up-and-up? Not some plant?”

  Drew frowned. “He’s a student at Free University. His father’s a professor who fled his teaching position in East Berlin because he was targeted by Russian and East German officials.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. In fact, it’d be a good cover for”—he shot a glare at Matthias—“a commie spy.”

  “Jeez, Bob, do you have to see a commie in every corner? Relax. Enjoy the music.”

  “No, he is right,” Matthias interjected. “It would be good cover.”

  Bob looked at him with surprise. “Well, whaddaya know.”

  Matthias shrugged, focusing on Fritz’s music. “I find this new jazz very interesting. You know, your State Department drove the Russians nuts when . . .” He paused. “Nuts? Is that right?”

  Drew grinned and nodded. They’d turn his cousin into an American yet.

  “It drove the Russians nuts when the Americans sent Dave Brubeck to play in Poland. The pianist and his combo. The Russians agreed to the tour, yes, but I do not think they realized how the music would take hold. There are secret recordings of Brubeck’s concerts on old X-ray film cut into record circles. My friend has one. You can see the ribs.”

  Shirley had kept her gaze fixed onstage as she listened, but Matthias’s description caught her attention. “Music recorded on chest X-rays? Oh, that’s so poetic. The sound of American jazz superimposed over communist hearts—what could be more symbolic of the yearning for artistic freedom behind the Iron Curtain!”

  Amazed, all the three boys could do was stare at her. But inside, Drew felt his own heart fall completely in love.

  “I know about Brubeck’s tour,” she added. “Cultural diplomacy, my dad called it. He’s serving as the military liaison for the embassy on this tour. Brubeck’s band has white and Black musicians. The State Department hoped Brubeck’s integrated quartet would improve America’s image abroad, especially since the Soviets use our segregation laws to help turn East Germans against us. The practice does sort of prove all their claims about us, of hypocrisy and cruelty, of racial inequalities, doesn’t it?” She turned to Matthias. “Did the tour help improve the opinion of us?”

  “No,” Matthias replied, ever blunt. “We still believe your capitalist society to be fascist and racist.” He gestured toward the stage and added, “Except in jazz.” He shrugged once more. “Sorry. It is accepted fact.” He thought a moment and added, “Perhaps if you ever live like this American music . . .you will be different.”

  When Fritz finished his set, Joyce nearly bounced out of her seat applauding. The rest of the café clapped more tepidly, clearly waiting for the dance tunes of the featured combo. But a few French patrons approached Fritz as he sat down, flushed and a little sweaty from the spotlight, next to Joyce. “Vous jouez comme un impressionniste.”

  “Merci,” he answered.

  “What did they say?” asked Joyce.

  “That what I played was like their Impressionism. Monet, Renoir.”

  “Oh, yes,” she murmured, looking enraptured.

  “So . . .” Fritz scootched his chair in, wedging himself between Joyce and Matthias, as the featured combo began to play. “Was denkst du?” he asked Matthias. “Jazz ist hip, oder?”

  “Ja! Es ist großartig!” Matthias answered enthusiastically.

  “Hey, you’re with Americans,” Bob growled. “Talk American.”

  Drew had noticed Bob turn sullen when several Russian and GDR officers sat down at the next table. He’d also ordered a beer that he’d drunk way too quickly. Drew understood that Bob was hurting about his dad, but did he have to deal with everything by lashing out at others? He started to tell Bob to shut up, but Fritz spoke first.

  “Well, you are in Germany, you know,” he answered, still keeping his voice low so as to not disturb the musicians. “Talk American? Let’s see. Golly gee willikers . . . yippee ki yay . . . de-dee-dee, that’s all, folks,” he said, imitating American movie stereotypes. “Or maybe, Bob, when in Rome . . . eh? Isn’t that an American saying? When in Rome, do as the Romans do?”

  Bob leaned over Shirley to aim his vitriol straight at Fritz. He nearly shouted, “You ain’t Romans, butthole. You’re a bunch of leftover Nazis and commies and—”

  Suddenly, a young GDR lieutenant and Soviet officer, who’d been enjoying the music at an adjacent table, stood up behind him. They put their hands on the back of Bob’s chair and yanked him backward, spinning him around.

  “Nepriyatnyy Amerikanets,” the Russian began, unleashing a torrent of angry words.

  They all froze, having no idea what was being said, other than that the Russian and East German clearly thought Bob a rude nuisance. Only Matthias seemed to understand. He stood quickly, shaking his head and speaking haltingly in Russian. The officer frowned at what were clearly linguistic mistakes, but he listened as Matthias seemed to apologize for Bob.

  Finally, satisfied with whatever Matthias was trying to say, the Russian leaned threateningly toward Bob, with a scowl that suggested he’d be keeping an eye on him, and growled, “My sledim za toboy.” Then he turned his attention to Shirley. “Ty napominayeah’ mne nashu favoristuyu Kirovskuyu balerinu, Natal’yu Makarovu, s takimi vot volosami.”

  The Soviet waited, expecting Matthias to translate.

  Ashen, Matthias said, “You remind him of a Kirov ballerina—Natalia Makarova. Your hair like that.”

  Shirley forced a smile. “Thank you.”

  The combo struck up “Come Dance with Me.” Holding a finger up in that universal signal for listen, the Russian extended his other hand to Shirley. “Tantsuy so mnoy?”

  The invitation to dance with him was clear. Her expected answer, too. It felt like everyone in the club was watching, collectively holding their breath. Would an American girl—an interloper in the Russian sector—accept a dance with a Soviet officer? More ominously, what would he do if she refused?

  “Wait a minute, Shirley.” Drew started to rise. “You don’t need to do this.”

  “Better not to challenge this man,” Matthias whispered, catching Drew by his elbow. “He will bring Shirley back at the next song. According to the sixty-forty rule in East Berlin, the next song must be East German. Not so good to dance to. Maybe even the Lipsi. He won’t know those steps.”

  The Russian waited through their exchange, his smile fading into a cold demand. Meanwhile, his GDR comrade pulled himself taller, his posture set to back up the Russian.

  “You are in danger if they arrest us for causing a scene, aren’t you?” Shirley asked Fritz in a hushed tone.

  Nodding slowly, Fritz answered, his eyes fixed on the Russian. “They could claim I’ve caused a public disturbance as an excuse to lock me up. That would give them leverage on my father.” He looked at Bob. “You too. They like to arrest children of American officers. Hold them overnight to see what they can shake out of their dads.”

  “Yeah, we know,” Bob snapped.

  “And yet,” Fritz replied, “you still behave badly and attract their attention.”

  Shirley rose and took the Russian’s hand before anyone could stop her.

  He led her to the small dance floor. Drew stewed. At least the tune was an easy 4/4 swing piece so Shirley could slip and slide safely at arm’s length, her full skirts swaying wide, an added buffer of fabric between her and their Cold War enemy. No other patron dared to join her and the officer on the dance floor.

  The instant the drummer hit his final cymbal stroke of the song, Drew was on his feet, sprinting to take Shirley’s hand.

  But the Russian didn’t let go of her.

  “Come.
” Matthias shot up, pulling Joyce with him. They scurried to stand next to Drew and Shirley, as if they were about to dance as well. Awkwardly, Matthias took Joyce in his arms.

  “Vy khotite vmeshat’sya?” The Russian eyed Drew with a smirk, a little amused.

  “He is asking if you wish to cut in,” Matthias explained to Drew while nodding at the Russian politely. “Bow and say da, spasibo.”

  Forcing himself to bow stiffly, Drew parroted, “Yes, thank you.”

  The Russian officer placed Shirley’s hand in Drew’s, and she immediately cuddled up close to him. Drew winced, feeling Shirley tremble.

  Ignoring Drew entirely now, the Russian spoke to Shirley. “Spasibo za prekrasnyy tanets, mademoiselle.” He went back to his drink as the band began an odd-sounding song: part waltz, part rhumba, with a dash of polka rhythm thrown in.

  “What the heck is this?” Drew muttered.

  Matthias burst out laughing. “It is the Lipsi. As I predicted. The GDR’s answer to Elvis. No wiggle-hip. If nothing else, we Germans are predictable in our rules. Try to follow me.” Holding Joyce like he would for a waltz, Matthias led her in small circles, moving his feet in what looked like a cha-cha step in slow motion. Joyce followed his pivots, laughing at the jumble of moves.

  A few East Berliners joined them, expertly twirling to the odd 6/4 melody.

  Knowing he looked totally ridiculous, Drew gave up trying to mimic Matthias’s complicated moves. He opted instead for the basic fox-trot his mom had taught him—walk, walk, sidestep, twirl. He and Shirley weren’t on the beat of the odd music—they weren’t even in step with each other—but he was holding her in his arms.

  They stayed close together on the dance floor for an hour, switching partners among the six of them, until only Fritz and Joyce were left, gazing into each other’s eyes as they swayed to a slow ballad. Shirley, Drew, Bob, and Matthias clustered at their table, winded, recovering from a fast-paced rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In”—a Louis Armstrong favorite.