The House of One Thousand Eyes

by Michelle Barker

  “My aunt will think I’ve lost my senses if I come home with barley.” She might put it in the progress report. But Lena was getting swept away by the whispers in her ear. Max had leaned so close to her she could smell the soap he used—something lemony. She wasn’t losing her senses. It was as if the volume had been turned up on every sense in her body. “Barley,” she said. “Sure.” Then, realizing she’d contradicted herself, she said, “I’ll tell my aunt it was a new delivery.” Special barley. Everyone was buying it.

  It felt strange to wander the aisles of a grocery store with a man beside her who wasn’t Erich, to pretend at being one of those many-legged creatures she’d only ever observed from a distance: a couple. Don’t get carried away. It’s only pretend. And yet. He was tall, and he moved like someone who’d recently been in service—not stiffly, but with precision. His forearms were muscular, and still tanned from summer. On one arm he wore a woven bracelet that Erich would have loved and Danika would have made him take off at once. “It looks like his grandmother’s sewing,” she would have said.

  “How long did you serve?” Lena asked him after she’d paid for the barley.

  “Just the eighteen months. Got stinking drunk the night before my medical and they still deemed me fit for service.” He laughed. “Anyway, my father said it was the wise thing to do. Serve the minimum and get out, then they’ll leave you alone.”

  Lena thought of Erich, who had refused to carry a weapon. He’d told her about the bullying he’d suffered as he dug trenches for the military posts along the borders. And then—no job, except in the mines. He wouldn’t talk about the missing finger, not truly. “The fairies chopped it off in payment for a bottle of whiskey,” he’d say. Or, “I sold it to an old man who promised to make me rich.”

  She waited until she and Max were alone on the street. “I know someone who was a construction soldier,” she said. “He had trouble finding work afterward.” Careful. Just because this young man is helping you home doesn’t mean— But he’d hidden her under the table. He’d taken a huge risk before he’d even met her. On principle. So what? Keep him awake for thirty-six hours in interrogation and see what happens to his principles.

  “The People’s Theater of Prenzlauer Berg was happy to hire me when I finished my term,” he said with a grin.

  See? He’s being cautious, and so should you. “Are you acting in a play?” Lena asked.

  Two policemen appeared up ahead. Lena stiffened, and Max draped his arm around her.

  “We’re going to walk right past them as a couple,” he said softly. “You need to relax.” Then louder, for the benefit of the officers, he said, “We’re doing a play called Factory: A Love Story. It opens tomorrow.”

  She nodded awkwardly, as if her head was mounted on a stick.

  “Bem and Dieter are in it too,” he chattered. “It’s an original new work by—” As soon as they were out of earshot of the police he said, “Keep walking. They didn’t even notice us. You’re doing fine.”

  But she felt as if her body was about to fall apart on the sidewalk.

  “You should come see it,” he said.

  “I work nights.”

  “At Stasi headquarters.” The muscles in his arm tensed.

  “It’s not what you think. I only do the cleaning there.”

  He gave her a withering look. They offered you a job. A person only got a job at Stasi headquarters if they were the right sort; if they went to all the right meetings, knew the right people, and had the right relatives. Or the wrong ones. Lena wanted to glance up to the left-hand corner of the sky to thank Helmut, but stopped herself. She knew now that she’d gotten her job with the Stasi because of Erich. They used you to spy on your uncle.

  When Lena and Max rounded the next corner he took his arm away. So—it really had been pretend.

  “I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be working at headquarters after this.” You didn’t say that out loud, did you?

  “They didn’t catch you,” Max said. “Whatever you did, they won’t know it was you.”

  But Friedrich So-and-So did know it was her and he would tell the police: That Erich fellow’s niece came back. She broke into my apartment and emptied my freezer. She took something, some paper; I don’t know what it was. What did it matter which S-Bahn station she went to? They’d be waiting for her at home, or at work. She’d be called down to the police station or ushered into the backseat of a car. Or picked up in a van that pretended to sell fish. Or flowers. Sausage Auntie would say she was the most ungrateful girl ever, and they’d contact the nearest textile factory—or worse, the mental hospital—and that would be the end of that.

  “I can make it home from here.”

  He stopped. “But we’re nowhere near the next station. You shouldn’t walk alone. Please. I don’t mind taking you.”

  She moved away from him. “You’ve done enough. Thank you, and good luck with your play.” She glanced at her watch and realized she would just make it home before Auntie, if she didn’t miss the train.

  “Please come to see it,” he called.

  She didn’t answer, just turned to walk away. It’s unforgivable what you did, letting yourself into Erich’s apartment—impossible to fix, or excuse. You’ll lose your job. They’ll put you in prison. No more solyanka, or pictures on the walls, or beautifying the courtyard with Peter and Danika, or talking to Jutta. All of it suddenly seemed like the best life ever. How had she not known how good she’d had it? After her parents had died, she hadn’t been sent to an orphanage, or made to live with strangers. No, they put you in an institution. And now she had her own bedroom, and a plumbing unit right in the apartment, and enough food, and an adjustable multifunction table in the sitting room.

  Why wasn’t it possible to redo a bad decision? She thrust her hands into her coat pockets and there was the plastic-covered paper she’d discovered in the freezer—a clue to Erich’s whereabouts, maybe. She hadn’t had a chance to read it, but she wasn’t going to do so now.

  When she reached the S-Bahn station, she pretended to be interested in the homemade handicrafts for sale near the entrance. There was the blind man she was convinced wasn’t blind. There was a man in a suit, adjusting his watch. He’s just a man in a suit. Sometimes a man in a suit was just a man in a suit. He glanced up at her once, and again, then went back to his wristwatch.

  A pair of Transport Police sauntered past, on the lookout for teenagers with good-for-nothing hairstyles and obvious Western clothing. Lena was thankful she’d worn her GDR jeans. Pretend-Levi’s, Danika called them. She was thankful also for her shopping bag with barley in it. She was a girl with a purpose.

  The train arrived. She got on, sat down, and stared at the dirty floor. She didn’t dare make eye contact with anyone. What if one of those people were following her? When she switched trains, she kept herself alert for that back-of-the-neck feeling, but it didn’t come.

  Maybe Friedrich So-and-So didn’t call the police. Not possible. She’d let herself into his apartment—Erich’s apartment. She’d left a large knife sitting on the kitchen counter, along with the entire contents of his freezer. She’d thrown his cat at him. The police had shown up at the pub. He had called them for sure. Then where are they?

  Maybe they were waiting at Auntie’s place. But when she arrived, they weren’t there; nor was Auntie. Lena ripped off her clothes and tossed them into the cupboard, pulled on the gray nightdress and climbed into bed. Within minutes, Auntie bustled in and started crashing pots and pans in the kitchen, which meant it was time to wake up, so Lena did.

  “Oh. You’re up.”

  As if all that noise had been an accident. The baby next door started to cry.

  “How was your day?” Lena asked. Too polite. You never ask her that. If the police had called her at school, don’t you think she’d mention it?

  Auntie let out one of those sighs that me
ant the entire world was stepping on her toes. “These new trainees they’ve sent us are not working out. They have too many opinions—and not the right ones. You look exhausted.”

  The afternoon’s stress forced Lena to sit down. She wanted to tell Auntie everything, warn her that trouble was coming, or even beg—please tell them I’m too simple to be any bother. It had worked once. That was why they’d hired her at headquarters. She was simple. But not too simple. Too simple would mean slippers, and a gown, and sedation.

  No, Mausi. They hired you because they needed you to spy on Erich, and they believed you’d be too dumb to figure it out.

  “Go back to bed,” Auntie said. “I’ll call you when supper is ready.”

  Lena lay down and prayed to God, and to Helmut—someone who knew how to get things done. In the meantime, the sky felt heavy, the ceiling seemed lower, and the walls crept closer together.

  — 12 —

  a western something

  Supper was sandwiches and a discussion about discipline at school. A boy in Auntie’s class still hadn’t learned that crying was not acceptable behavior in the Better Germany.

  When Auntie settled in to watch the news, Lena shut the door to her bedroom and took out the plastic-covered paper, which now seemed so warm it might burst into flames. One glance told her it was a letter. Dear Erich. There was no letterhead. Lena’s eyes leaped to the bottom of the page. It was signed Günter Schulmann. Who was that? He must have known Erich well to use his first name.

  She was only beginning to read the letter when serious footsteps sounded down the hall. Auntie-who-doesn’t-knock might just have been marching to the bathroom, but no, she wasn’t stopping, put it away, the marching drew closer, under your pillow—quickly. Under the pillow it went, just as Auntie walked in.

  “Aren’t you ready for work?”

  “Almost.” Lena reached for her sweater.

  “Well, come on, then.” Auntie waited, arms crossed, for Lena to turn off the lights and close the door—with the letter still under her pillow. Someone had already been through the room once while she’d been at work. You can’t leave it there.

  Auntie followed her down the hall. “Get your shoes on.”

  You have to go back and get it.

  Lena put on one shoe—do it now—dropped the other, said “Oh!” and ran to her bedroom. She grabbed the plastic-covered letter and shoved it into her long sweater pocket, where Marilyn Monroe had been safe before Auntie had shredded her. Imagine what she’d do to this. Whatever it contained must be awful and incriminating. Why else would Erich have hidden it in the freezer?

  “I forgot something,” she explained to Auntie’s befuddled face. She slipped on the other shoe, out, go, and said “Bye” before Auntie could ask what she’d forgotten.

  On the walk to work she kept waiting for it. Someone would follow her, say her full name—or call her Citizen, or Comrade. A car would pull up, or a van. But nothing happened.

  Jutta sat in the ashtray room reading the same copy of Sibylle as always. Lena studied her weathered face. She didn’t want to believe Jutta had known about the listening device, but she must have. Some men would have approached her, spoken to her privately. “Ask the girl about that dropout uncle she visits every Sunday. Get her to talk.” Jutta had worked in Wandlitz, the highest-security neighborhood in the Better Germany. They trusted her.

  Jutta looked up from the magazine. “I’m not even German, did I tell you that? Do you see my high cheekbones and strong chin? Slavs were considered warriors, you know. I was very attractive when I was younger.”

  This isn’t a real conversation. She’s making noise. Lena sat and smoothed the stained vinyl with her hands. “Does anyone ever wipe this table?”

  Jutta shrugged. “It’s rare for Slavs to have protruding ears, did you know that?”

  “I’m going to give it a wipe. I can’t stand it anymore.”

  Jutta leaned on the magazine with both elbows. “Since when did you become Miss Tidy Pants?” She bent her head forward so Lena could see the gray roots of her bleached-blond hair.

  Let’s see how far you can push her. “It is why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Pfft. Not to clean this little outhouse. We’re off the clock right now. I only work when I’m paid.”

  “Anyway.” Lena went to the cupboard where they stored their cleaning supplies and found a rag. She opened the disinfectant they used in House 1—everywhere except in the Comrade General’s private rooms, because he’d complained that it smelled like turpentine—and splashed some onto the rag. Immediately the small room was doused in the overpowering smell.

  “Ach, you’re not using that shit in here,” Jutta cried. “It will disintegrate the vinyl.”

  “We eat and drink at this table.” Lena began to scrub the stains off. “It’s disgusting.”

  Jutta made her elbows into a proclamation. “You’ll clean around me. I’m reading my magazine.”

  “Aren’t you tired of that page?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.” She turned to the next page, a woman trying to look demure in an orange furry hat. “You’ll be wanting one of these too, I expect.”

  “That magazine is stupid.”

  “What do you know? Waltzing around in dirty Zehas and that ratty old sweater. How do you ever expect to find a boyfriend dressed like that?”

  Her too? Was everyone obsessed with having a One True Love? “I don’t want a boyfriend.” Lena scrubbed so hard she shook the table. She imagined a man in another room with headphones on, wincing at the terrible sounds, and smiled. There was no moving Jutta, though, and that was all the answer Lena needed. Jutta knew; she’d known all along.

  What had they given her as a reward? Maybe nothing. Maybe they’d threatened her with a humiliating rumor: pornographic magazines arriving at her apartment, or a history of shoplifting. Don’t judge her. You don’t know what you’d agree to under that sort of pressure. No one knows, until they’re in it. But she and Jutta were friends. Well, not friends, exactly. Co-workers. On the same team. It should have counted for something.

  Lena dressed in her coveralls, gathered their supplies, handed Jutta her bucket, and they set off into the cool night for House 1.

  Would it be Herr Dreck? Would he be the one to use her full name and tell her she was under arrest? He doesn’t even know your name. But when he called her into his office, he didn’t mention Friedrich So-and-So. He had other things on his mind.

  Lena ate her chocolate, and swept and dusted. She was dying to read the letter from Erich’s freezer, but she didn’t like the idea of not knowing where Jutta was and when she might show up. She needed to time it just right.

  By the middle of the night, she and Jutta were the only ones left in House 1. It was almost time to clean the Comrade General’s floor. And by then Lena had an idea. She arrived on the third floor ahead of schedule and dragged the Purimix into Mielke’s office. One thing she knew: Jutta never arrived early to clean these rooms.

  The first room was where meetings were conducted. There was a long table at one end, and a smaller one surrounded by comfortable chairs. All of Mielke’s telephones were arranged on the desk. The gifts he’d received from other socialist states—decorative plates, busts, photographs—lined the shelves. On the walls were photographs of him wearing all his medals—so many, he must have clinked whenever he moved.

  Lena went through to the next room, which was Mielke’s personal area. She pulled the heavy drapes closed and eyed his dark blue recliner. How nice it would be to sit, just for a few minutes. But no, he would know. The angle would be wrong, or the cushions out of alignment.

  Quickly, now. She pulled out the letter. Dear Erich. It seemed her uncle had written a manuscript, something important. The letter writer, Günter Schulmann, was excited about it. He could definitely find a Western publisher for this. Was Erich certain about
the facts? When would it be ready? How would he send it? You realize this will be huge. Call if you need anything—here is my number at home.

  There was also an address. Günter Schulmann lived in the Other Berlin, the space beyond the border that was missing on maps in the Better Germany. In that Berlin, everyone was unemployed, didn’t have proper health care, and was in danger of becoming homeless at any moment. All the teachers and news programs said so.

  What did he mean, a Western publisher? Erich had always published his novels in the East. But Herr Schulmann had mentioned facts—so maybe this wasn’t a novel. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be published in the Better Germany because it was too subversive. You couldn’t pull off the humming-underneath sound in a book with facts. The authorities would declare a sudden paper shortage and that would be the end of publication.

  Lena glanced up from the page. The zigzag pattern on the drapes made her eyes feel funny. What had Erich been writing about? There was one way to find out, but it would mean a telephone call to the West. She couldn’t make that call from Auntie’s telephone, and Hans was always saying that the public phones on the street were bugged.

  She folded the letter back into her pocket, returned to the meeting room, and plugged in her Purimix. You could call from here. But that was dangerous too. Who was Günter Schulmann? A Western writer? He was a Western something, anyway. Lena knew the Stasi monitored international phone calls. She didn’t think they would listen in on the conversations of their own high-ranking agents, but surely they would know if such a call had been made. Anyone who called a Western something from House 1 in the middle of the night risked getting into huge trouble. Huge trouble, you say? Well. That might be one way of thanking Herr Dreck for his attention.

  It was late, and this was the man’s private number. Lena would be waking him up. So what? It’s important. This man will want to know what’s happened to Erich.

  She left her Purimix where it was, took a rag and some detergent, and went down to Herr Dreck’s office. The lights were off. The room was already clean; now it would be cleaner. I forgot to do the corners, Jutta. Herr Dreck is particular about his corners.