She knew. Lena worked as a night janitor at Stasi headquarters—the place Berliners called the House of One Thousand Eyes. Working for the Stasi turned real conversations into chitchat about the weather or last year’s football results at the World Cup. People didn’t treat her the same way once they knew. They acted as if the thousand eyes were pollen, clinging to her hair or dress. Like she was a giant microphone, recording everything and then running back to headquarters with secret information about who was reading the wrong books or receiving packages from Western relatives.
If her parents hadn’t died, she would never be working at a job like that. She had dreamed of going on in her education, perhaps to vocational training or extended secondary school. She’d wanted to be a nurse, or to work with children, before things had fallen apart. “I miss Mama and Papa.”
“I know you do,” Erich said. “I miss them too.”
“Nothing’s been the same since the accident.” The accident at the freight car factory in Magdeburg had killed so many people. The news reporters had given it a name—tragedy—but it was like trying to stuff a thunderstorm into a garden shed. There was no word big enough for that kind of sadness. “You want to know a secret?” she said, because all at once she was bursting with it.
“Tell me. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No, it’s nothing like that.”
“What about that one you collect bottles with? Didn’t he buy you an ice cream once?”
Peter. “He’s not my boyfriend.” He wishes he was. No, he doesn’t, Mausi. Stop saying that. “He just lives down the hall.” A neighbor, like Steffi, but nicer. “No, it’s a secret about my parents.”
Erich brushed the hair out of his face, even though it wasn’t in his face. His voice changed. “What kind of secret?”
“I’ve always wished they hadn’t died in an accident.”
“Of course you wish that.” Erich let out a long breath. “It’s normal.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Lena twisted the bottom of her sweater, embarrassed by what she was about to say. You’ve got both feet in the conversation now. You may as well say it out loud. “I wish it had been someone’s fault.” A crime with criminals; a mystery with a solution. It made her feel mean to say it, but it would have been so satisfying. Accidents weren’t like that. They happened. They were stories that had come to a sudden end for no reason at all, and the people left behind had to find some way to survive.
Erich tapped his cigarette in the already full ashtray, knocking butts onto the table—Auntie would go wild—and then rubbing the stump where his pinkie should have been. “Have you told this to anyone else?”
“No. Only you.” Lena shifted in her seat. What had she said wrong? Her mind raced, searching for something that might make it better. “Do you remember the solyanka Mama used to make whenever you came to visit?” It was Lena’s favorite soup.
His shoulders settled. “We used to soak our bread in it until it was mushy.”
“It tasted sweet. And sour. Both at the same time. Will I have to live with Auntie forever?” This was the big question. Lena couldn’t even look at Erich when she asked it. I wanted to live with you.
“One day you’ll be old enough to live on your own.”
“Auntie says I’m too simple.”
“Adelheid doesn’t know shit.” Erich clapped a hand to his mouth in pretend horror at the bad word. He took her hands in his. “You’re always so cold. See? You couldn’t live here with me. We still heat the place with coal and there’s never enough.”
He stood up and looked out the window as if he were expecting someone. Then sat down. Then stood and drew the curtains. Then sat down. “Did someone tell you to say that? About the accident?”
“No. Why would anyone do that?” Oh. Her job. Not even her uncle trusted her. If only it would wash off. Even having a mechanic’s grease-stained fingers would be better than this. Everyone assumed she was a Spitzel—an informer. A spy.
The clock in the kitchen measured the moments between them that had somehow become awkward, and there were so few of them left before Lena had to go home for supper. She remembered the magazine behind her back. She pulled it out and finished extracting the photograph, and Erich repaired the rip with sticky tape that didn’t stick very well.
“You mustn’t show that to your aunt. If she finds out it came from me, she won’t let you visit anymore.”
“She’ll never know.” Lena smoothed the picture on her lap, then folded it and tucked it into her front pocket.
Erich glanced at the plant as if it were listening. “Do you still have a set of my keys?”
“Of course.”
“Good. My freezer might need defrosting. You never know.”
What? Was he going somewhere? Why in the world would he want her to do that? Well. His freezer was a prized possession, probably the most valuable thing in the apartment. Not everyone had a fridge with a freezer; they were expensive, and even if you could afford one, that didn’t mean the shops would have any.
Footsteps crunched up the stairs. There was a knock and Steffi said, “It’s me again.”
Lena reached for her uncle and hugged him goodbye for another week, memorizing his arms and the smell of him—tobacco, vanilla, ink. She held him so tightly she imagined breaking him in half and taking part of him home. And that was it—her daylong summer vacation was over.
Uncle Erich didn’t break in half. But the way he waved from the window when she looked up from the street filled her with a strange and terrible feeling. As if she might never see him again.
— 2 —
the humming-underneath sound
Lena boarded the S-Bahn and then the U-Bahn, and then she was walking down the much wider, barer streets of the borough of Lichtenberg. Past the partially finished buildings that were forever under construction. Past the hanging-around place, which Auntie said must be avoided, because hooliganism was contagious. Past the first of the huge housing developments that Erich called cardboard mushrooms. “East German concrete is made special,” he liked to say. “One-third cement, one-third spit, and one-third microphones.”
It was impossible not to feel small on these streets. Someone could reach down and move Toy Lena like a game piece. Finally she came to the cardboard mushroom where she and Auntie lived, and mounted the stairs to the fourth floor.
Two turns of the key and, “How was that layabout brother of mine?” Auntie called from the kitchen.
Though Sausage Auntie came from the same family as Erich and Papa, she was nothing like them. Aunt Adelheid was too much meat stuffed into a tight casing—round sausage legs in tight black stockings, generous bosom straining the black dresses she often wore, her wedding ring that would never come off now, no matter that her husband had been dead for years. The ring must have reminded her of the good old days, which probably meant the time before Lena had come to live with her.
How was Erich? Lena had to be careful how she answered. If he was too fine, Auntie would feel snubbed and jealous, and would fall into one of her tempers, which meant a headache was coming on and Lena would have to stay in her room. If he was not fine enough, there would be comments about his hair (too long), his job (you call that a job?), his friends (subversive), and his clothing (Western, decadent). Everything would be his fault.
“Uncle is good,” Lena finally said, lining up her outdoor shoes beneath the Everything Has Its Place needlepoint. “We had ice cream in the park.” She put on her house shoes and hung up her coat.
Auntie’s head popped out of the kitchen. She had short home-permed hair that was always frizzy and made her look like one of the porcelain dogs she liked to collect. “I suppose you’re not hungry for supper. The grocer had butter yesterday, so I’m making sandwiches.”
Lena glanced to the upper-left-hand corner of the sitting room, above the table that had been dedicated to
Auntie’s late husband, Helmut. On it was his photograph, a candle, his pipe, and his wedding ring. Helmut had been a high-ranking Party member, which meant Auntie had a good pension and lots of special relationships—including one with the grocer. Any time these relationships came up, Helmut had to be thanked, and so Lena looked up and she looked left.
“I am hungry,” she said. “It was only a small ice cream.” Even when she wasn’t defending Erich, she felt like she was defending him. But also—sandwiches with butter!
Lena entered the kitchen to set the table, and Auntie gave her a businesslike pat on the shoulder. There was no denying she took good care of Lena. Supper at Erich’s might have been a bottle of Vita Cola and some pickles, or a trip to the nearby Kneipe where he smoked and drank with his friends and they talked about poetry. It would have been exciting, but there was something reassuring about a knife and fork, a glass of milk. Bedtime.
When supper was ready, Auntie switched off the radio and they sat at the table.
“I’ve decided to involve us in a little project,” she said.
“Oh?” No sudden movements. “What sort of project?” And would it be little? Really?
“We’re going to beautify the courtyard and win the Golden House Number plaque for our building. Hans made those fine-looking benches, a crying shame if you want my opinion”—as if Lena could say No, I don’t actually want your opinion. Which she had tried, but only once.
Hans was one of their neighbors, an older man who lived alone and had a talent for carpentry. Auntie always referred to the benches he’d made as a crying shame. At first Lena had thought this was because the courtyard was a swamp and their beauty was wasted. But that was not what Auntie meant. They were a crying shame because Hans did nothing but drink schnapps all day, which meant he wasn’t fulfilling his potential. In Auntie’s book, not fulfilling your potential was written in big capital letters with the word NO printed next to it in red.
“I’m organizing a work brigade,” she added.
Lena didn’t have to ask if she was on it.
“You’ll start tomorrow, digging a drainage trench. I’ve already measured it out.”
In truth, it would be nice not to have to make her way across the sheets of plywood that had been laid atop stinking mud to get to the other parts of the housing development. It would be nice to have a shady place to sit and read, or chat with Peter and Danika, or play a card game like Skat at a table outside. “Can we put tables in the courtyard? And chairs?”
Sausage Auntie gave a meaningful nod. “That’s a wonderful idea.” She got a pencil and notepad and wrote it down. “We’ll drain all the water and set down a path of paving tiles.”
Lena didn’t dare spoil Auntie’s buoyant mood by asking where they might get paving tiles. Usually, getting such materials required putting your name on a waiting list at the building-supply store. Your order might arrive a year or two later, but not necessarily in the style or quantity you’d asked for.
Instead she said, “We should have shrubs. Trees too.” Lena loved the trees in Erich’s neighborhood, the way they grew in whichever direction they pleased. Trees were subversive.
Auntie wrote down shrubs and trees.
“Bird feeders,” Lena said.
“A vegetable garden,” Auntie added.
Like Mama had had. “So we don’t have to eat the mushy turnips from the co-op anymore,” Lena said.
Auntie gave her a look and wrote garden.
The courtyard idea grew until Lena could imagine trellises and flowers and a great tree in the center that she might climb, where she could balance at the top and gaze down on the rest of the city, the rest of the Better Germany, and then take flight.
But she didn’t mention that. Flight was a troublesome word.
*
The trick was in going to sleep at night. When you were used to working nights and sleeping days, the sudden switch back to normal on the weekends was almost impossible. It would have been easier not to switch, but staying up all night was not normal, and when there were psychiatrists involved, being normal was of utmost importance.
Besides, there was something the matter with Erich, which meant it was vital for Lena to behave if she wanted to investigate later. She said, “I think I’ll go to sleep tonight,” and Auntie clapped and said, “Well, well, look who’s come to her senses.”
Lena washed her face and put on her scratchy gray nightdress.
Auntie gave her a good-night kiss and thanked her for the courtyard ideas. “Tomorrow is Monday,” she said. Monday meant there might be better cuts of meat at the butcher’s—if Lena went early, if she waited in line with the grandmothers and the men who didn’t shave because they were unemployed—though you never say that, Mausi, because unemployed was not a word. There were several words that weren’t words in the Better Germany. If you didn’t give something its own word, then it didn’t exist.
“I’ll get the meat,” Lena said. If she stopped at the grocer’s afterward, there might be ketchup, or even fruit yogurt. You could never be sure what would be on a grocer’s shelves. It was important to be open-minded and always carry a shopping bag.
After Auntie had shut her bedroom door, Lena waited three minutes in case of an emergency re-entry. There wasn’t one. Then she sat on her bed so she could look at the pictures on her wall.
Auntie had allowed Lena to put up pictures as long as they were the right sort. Marx, Engels, Lenin—so many beards you could make a nest out of them. Her blue Pioneer neckerchief from the younger youth group was pinned on the wall next to the red one, and next to that was some uplifting art, which meant women playing the accordion and men in big boots with their sleeves rolled up for hard work.
But behind these pictures Lena had pinned others that Sausage Auntie didn’t know about. She’d gotten the idea after Erich had described how his novels were always about two things at once.
“There’s a surface story,” he’d said, “and then another story underneath, humming like a machine.” The sort of sound you didn’t notice unless someone mentioned it. Even then, it was possible to deny it. “The humming-underneath sound is called subtext,” he’d told her. “That’s how I can write what I want and still get my novels past the Ministry of Culture.”
Behind the picture of Lenin there was a magazine photo of the group of Western musicians named after an insect, the ones that sang the yeah yeah yeah music. Hiding under Engels was the Western actor John Travolta, with the Loch in his chin like someone had chopped it with an ax. There were her parents: Papa with his salt-and-pepper hair and the funny wide-open-eyes face he liked to make; Mama with her hair cut like a porcupine on top but longer on the bottom, and her almost-mustache, and her swimmer’s shoulders. She had nearly gone to the Olympics and had been to a special school for swimming, though she didn’t like to talk about it.
The photographs of the Erichs had been Lena’s cleverest idea. There were two very important Erichs in the Better Germany. Erich Honecker, the General Secretary in charge of the entire country, with his big square glasses and so many formal titles Lena could put herself to sleep reciting them—that was one. Two was Lena’s employer: Comrade General Erich Mielke, head of the Stasi, with his tiny eyes that saw everything. But the photographs of the most important Erich hid behind them both: her uncle. She tapped each of his two photos, good night, good night, remembering how her uncle had held her with strong arms, like Papa’s.
“You’re my wood nymph,” Papa used to say to her. “Green eyes, brown hair, you’d blend right in with the trees.” No, no, don’t cry. She’d cried so much after they had died she didn’t think her eyes could produce more tears, yet they always found a way, as if somewhere inside her there was a spring of warm salty water that bubbled up at the worst times.
The accident at the factory had divided her life into before and after. Before, she had lived in Magdeburg with her pare
nts, and had been a good student and was recognized for Enthusiasm in Handicrafts. After, she had fallen apart and been placed in a mental institution. “A nervous breakdown,” Auntie had called it. The doctors had other names for it. All she knew was that there were wasps, and they lived in her head.
As Auntie crashed around the apartment in preparation for bed, Lena pulled out her favorite of Erich’s books from under the mattress—Castles Underground. Auntie refused to buy any of his books and wouldn’t allow Lena to read them. She didn’t know Erich had given Lena a copy of every single one.
There was his face, looking up at her. And there was that feeling again, like the moment when you know you’re going to miss a step going down the stairs. What could be wrong? It’s Steffi, that’s all. Who wouldn’t be a nervous wreck with her living nearby? Steffi had panicked about something, and couldn’t you see it, Mausi? The way she stomped around and chewed her gum, she was probably the type who spent all her time worrying about other people’s problems.
The photograph on the book’s back cover showed a serious but relaxed man, so handsome. Lena’s friends at school—back when there had been school—had always liked coming to Lena’s apartment when Uncle Erich was visiting. “The famous writer from Berlin,” they called him. He would bring treats, things non-Berliners could never get: hazelnut spread, long-life milk, and a bag of Haribo gummy bears that Lena would share with her friends. They would devour the candy and ask, “What is he writing in that notebook anyway?”
What is he writing in that notebook? At work Lena rarely saw the documents that were locked away in desk drawers, files, and cupboards, but she knew there was paper everywhere, and not just in House 1, the building she cleaned. There were forty-nine houses in the compound, which was a lot of paper, all of it off-limits. Paper could get a person in trouble. When you wrote something down, you gave it life and made it yours. Even if you didn’t put your name on it, they could figure it out: the typewriter, your handwriting, where the document was found, who had passed it to whom. A thousand eyes watching was a lot of eyes when a person wanted to do something they weren’t supposed to. And that was only the agents. Never mind the informers.
The House of One Thousand Eyes Page 2