Light shone out from one of the offices. You could stop in at the theater in the afternoon, to explain. Yes, that was it. She could tell Max her aunt was forcing her to come with the neighbor boy. It was the only way she’d be allowed to go. The boy might wear a spiffy purple shirt, but it didn’t mean anything. Surely Max would be at the theater in the afternoon, rehearsing. Wasn’t that what actors did?
“Fräulein? Is that you?”
The husky voice cut through the noise of the Purimix. It cut through her thoughts and made a hole right in the middle of her stomach. What was he doing here? Didn’t the people in House 1 know that one of their devoted officials was a reactionary who made midnight phone calls to Western writers—or editors, or whoever the fellow was in Erich’s letter? Hadn’t the call from his office registered anywhere, with anyone?
Lena unplugged the Purimix and went in.
“Shut the door.” Herr Dreck’s hands rested on his desk, fingertips pressed against the wooden surface as if he had a button beneath each of them and was preparing to blow everything up.
Lena wished she’d brought her broom, something she might use as a weapon. Right. You want to spend the rest of your life in a prison cell?
“I was called in to the Comrade General’s office today.” Herr Dreck flattened his hands. “Like a schoolboy, to be reprimanded. Except this is my career.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.” A thousand sparrows had been set loose inside Lena’s rib cage. She held on to the back of a chair to steady herself. You don’t know what he’s talking about, remember? You weren’t here. Her lip began to tremble, and she bit it to keep it still.
“You telephoned a Western book editor from my office last night.” His face grew redder and meaner with every word.
“Me? Why would I do that?”
“Don’t piss on my shoe and then tell me it’s raining. The call was made in the middle of the night. I was home with my wife and children. You think I’m a moron?”
“No.”
“So—who else could have done it?”
Jutta. But Lena didn’t say that; she never would. No matter that Jutta knew about the listening device. No matter that she’d been asking about Erich ever since Lena had started working there. No matter that she sat in the ashtray room with her elbows spread across that stupid fashion magazine every single night.
“Well, then. Tell me: Who was this person you called, and what did you say to him?”
“It was a mistake.” Lena felt like she was on roller skates, something she’d only tried once, with Danika, after which she had concluded that human beings didn’t have wheels on their feet for a reason.
“A mistake. Again you treat me like a moron. You had a telephone number. You must have gotten it from somewhere.”
You’re simple, Mausi. Everyone thinks so. “I found it.”
The Lieutenant General got to his feet. He was a big man, much bigger than Lena. “You understand I can have you sent to a place where they’ll make you talk. Some people believe subversion runs in families. It’s genetic, like brown eyes. I’m inclined to agree.”
They weren’t sparrows in her rib cage anymore. They were more like crows. Spots appeared in her vision. Her head grew crowded with a loud buzzing noise. She heard herself saying something about her uncle.
“You don’t have an uncle.” He moved around the desk to Lena’s side. “Now listen. I covered for you with the Comrade General, said I’d made the call to get intelligence on one of our reactionary writers. Called in the middle of the night to catch him off guard. I was completely blindsided, you understand. I had to think on my feet.”
Lena wasn’t sure what to say. Was this unusual behavior for him? Was she supposed to congratulate him? “Thank you” was what she settled on, edging toward the door.
“That’s the idea.” He smiled in a way she did not like at all. “You will thank me. I’m letting you keep your job, and your life. The moment you stop thanking me, you will lose both.” He unfastened his belt and unzipped his pants. “Come here.”
Make yourself small. Smaller. She stood in front of him, and he pushed her to her knees.
— 14 —
we
There was no chocolate.
When it was done, Herr Dreck shoved her out of his office. “Get back to work.”
Lena searched for the Wall in her head, but there was no way to tell herself nothing had happened when her legs were shaking so badly she could barely stand. Her eyes were wet. He’d made her swallow it—his semen. She was going to be sick.
In a panic she looked around for a toilet, but all the toilets in House 1 were for men. She had to get outside. She ran down the stairs, gripping the handrail to keep from losing her footing, but she didn’t make it any farther than the foyer before she was on her knees again. Out came her supper, right in front of Marx and Dzerzhinsky. All over the beautiful black floor which, thank goodness, she hadn’t mopped yet.
She sat there shaking and crying. Behind her the elevator rattled. Not Herr Dreck, please not him. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her broken like this.
It was Jutta. “Mein Gott, child. What happened?”
When Lena opened her mouth to speak, the words wouldn’t come. She stared at the splatter of vomit. “I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”
“Na, na, we’ll do it together. At least you had the good sense to vomit on your half of the building.” Jutta pulled out a handkerchief and wiped Lena’s eyes, then around her mouth. “Let’s get you something to drink.” When she put her arm out and helped Lena to her feet, Lena sank into her as if she were a warm blanket.
Jutta took her to House 1’s coffee room for a glass of water. This was one of the agents’ special rooms, and Jutta and Lena were not supposed to use it, but Jutta didn’t seem to care. She made Lena sit down and waited until she’d taken a few sips.
“Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen der Butzemann.” The bogeyman that hid in closets and under beds, waiting to carry children away.
Say something. And not the truth, or he’ll do what he threatened, you know he will. “Must be a stomach bug,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry about—”
Jutta’s no-nonsense hand stopped her. “We’ll take care of the mess. And then I’m sending you home for some rest. Imagine if you’d done this on the carpet.”
Imagine if you’d done it all over Herr Dreck’s pants. Let him explain that to his wife. You’ll have to work on your timing. Timing? Would this happen again?
“How will you finish the whole building by yourself?” Lena asked.
Jutta patted her arm. “I’ll manage. I might miss a few spots.”
Lena felt a bit better, though when they returned to the foyer the stench of the vomit nearly made her throw up again. She was dizzy, her jaw hurt, and there was a putrid taste in her mouth. Jutta went upstairs to fetch Lena’s supplies. Together they wiped up the mess and Jutta mopped the floor.
“Off you go. Tell your aunt to keep you in bed this weekend. You’ll be tip-top by Monday.”
The play! “I’m all right now, Jutta, really. I don’t need to go home.”
“This is not a democracy. I don’t want puddles in the Comrade General’s office or it will mean both our jobs.”
Lena gathered her things and took them back to House 24. She took off her coveralls, pulled on her coat, and plodded home in the dark.
The fresh air invigorated her. She didn’t feel sick anymore, just angry. Herr Dreck would use this telephone call against her—but for how long? How long would she have to go on thanking him? Well, what do you think? She wished there was some way to contact his wife, humiliate him. You think his wife would believe you? An orphan cleaning girl from Magdeburg? It was all supposed to be honorable in the Better Germany, her job, her circumstances.
The swish of her footsteps in the fal
len leaves kept her company, along with her breath. Lights were on in some of the apartments. Brown, brown, brown. But the lives inside them—there were thousands of people with heads as busy as hers.
Was there some way to salvage the play on Saturday night? Probably not. She’d have to wait till next weekend or the weekend after, and then Max would think she didn’t want to see him. She trudged up the stairs to her apartment, put the key into the lock, opened the door expecting silence—and heard voices. At first she thought it was the television. Auntie, with her swollen ankles, probably hadn’t moved. Then she heard Auntie laughing, but not in a familiar way. It was a girlish laugh, the kind you’d practice.
A man’s voice came from Auntie’s bedroom.
Go to your room, don’t call out. Maybe she should leave. They hadn’t heard her. Auntie has a man in here. So? Helmut had been dead for years. Why shouldn’t she have a man over? No wonder she’d re-permed her hair.
Lena stood in the hallway, not really listening, still stunned by the realization that even in her own home she had no idea what was going on. Jutta was right when she said we don’t really know anyone. Was this man Auntie’s One True Love? Why had she never mentioned him?
Auntie’s bedroom door opened and the man came out, as naked as if they were on a beach on Rügen. It was the bricklayer who lived on the second floor. Erich used to say he had a plastic bubble for a head, only Lena found it hard to focus on his head when the rest of him was—but she wasn’t supposed to look there. When he saw her, he let out a cry and ran back into the bedroom, slamming the door. Lena went to her room. Now you’ll be in for it. Wait, if he was naked, that meant Auntie—that meant Auntie—
A moment later, Auntie appeared in her housecoat and slippers, swollen ankles miraculously deflated. She and Lena had the what-are-you-doing-home conversation while Lena sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. They had the no-play-for-you-tomorrow-night discussion, not if you’re sick, though it was too one-sided to be properly called a discussion. They did not have the man-in-my-bedroom conversation, because Auntie acted as if it had never happened. Even though the entire time her face remained bright pink and she wouldn’t stop talking, as if there were only a set number of words and as long as she used them all up before she got to the man-in-my-bedroom situation then they wouldn’t have to talk about him.
If she knew what you’d done tonight . . . Lena wished she could tell her, but there lay Herr Dreck’s power. She couldn’t tell anyone without incriminating herself. She had made that phone call, after all. Even if she lied about her part in it and Auntie went straight to Herr Dreck’s office—which she wouldn’t do; she would write a formal letter listing everything she’d ever done for the community—he would deny everything. But an accusation like that would mean the end of Lena’s job, the end of any job, except maybe the textile factory, or the uranium mines in the Erzgebirge.
After Auntie left her room, Lena put on her gray nightdress and lay in bed. Despite the ordeal of the night, she was wide awake. This was her daytime. She heard the bricklayer leave. She heard Auntie go to bed. The apartment went silent, which was all her head needed to go party-level noisy. Everyone was invited.
Does Max really like you? arrived wearing an ugly hand-me-down coat that all the One True Love thoughts had worn at some time or other.
You need to call the Western editor again. Yes, that thought was there too, trying so hard to seem nonchalant that everyone could tell it was subversive.
Maybe you’re being followed stood in a corner with a drink, wearing sunglasses.
And where is Erich? Will you ever see him again? These thoughts were the ones with the lampshades on their heads. They were the center of attention at all times.
*
Lena hoped that by doing her Saturday chores while Auntie was teaching, she might prove herself fit enough to attend the theater that night. With Peter? Are you sure this is a good idea? But she wanted to go, and she knew it would be with Peter or not at all. She dusted and polished and swept the apartment, singing the most purposeful Party songs she knew, as if they might build a bulwark against Auntie’s giant NO.
She went door to door with Peter to collect recyclables, though he was acting different. When the box grew heavy, he insisted on carrying it himself to the collection point. And he kept saying we. “We need to get there early so we can find good seats.” “We should try the ice cream at that new Eiscafé. We like the same flavors, don’t we?” It was such a small word. With Peter it felt like a lead weight around Lena’s ankles.
When Auntie came home, she made a heroic effort to use up all of Saturday’s words in one conversation. “We’ve got a big day today in the courtyard,” she began. Then came the details. Hans had a friend who had liberated a truckload of sand and another of paving tiles from his workplace. That afternoon they would make a path. Here was what it would look like. Whatever you do, don’t mention bricks, or laying, or laying with bricks, or—that’s enough.
In the courtyard, Peter followed Lena around like an excited duckling. “I’ve already hidden my new shirt in my coat if you don’t mind maybe I’ll find a place to change before we get on the U-Bahn do you know how to get to the theater where is it what time does the play start I’ve never seen Factory: A Love Story Danika have you heard me and Lena are going to the theater tonight and—”
Auntie stepped in like a storm cloud. “Lena won’t be going anywhere. She’s sick.”
Lena looked her in the eye. “I’m much better now.”
Auntie turned away. She’s afraid of you. Because Lena knew her secret. It wasn’t such a terrible secret, but Auntie seemed to think it was.
“She’s much better now,” Peter echoed, though when he said it Auntie glared at him and pushed a shovel into his hands. Auntie was armed with several shovels and a variety of small unmatched woolens. It looked like she’d raided the lost and found that morning at her school. Her rolled-up sleeves told Lena that this afternoon would not be a pony ride.
“Aren’t you two the cute couple,” Danika said.
“We’re not a couple,” Lena said quickly.
Peter’s face turned red and splotchy and he went to find something to dig up.
“Now you’ve done it,” Danika said.
“Shut up.” Lena wouldn’t look in his direction. She felt terrible.
“Today’s the day, everyone.” Hans had a way of filling up the air around him even when they were outside. It was his friend who was coming to save the courtyard, therefore Hans was saving the courtyard, therefore he was the one who owned the afternoon. He wore a corduroy cap, and work pants, and proper boots, and he wasn’t drunk—at least not yet.
Peter and Hans had already removed all the planks of plywood except one. That had been the only way across the mud swamp. Danika stood on the remaining plank as if it were a life raft. “Is this actually going to work?” she asked.
“You mustn’t talk like that,” Auntie said. “It’s bad for morale.”
The rumble of a truck sounded nearby.
“Here comes the Sandman, children,” Hans said. “Everyone get ready for bed.”
“Thank God,” Danika said in her most sarcastic voice. “Nothing bad can happen now.”
Auntie looked like she wanted to stab them both. “Listen up, all of you. I’ve told the fellow to dump the sand in the northern corner of the courtyard.”
No one knew which was the northern corner.
“That one, for crying out loud.” She pointed. “And when he does, we’re going to spread it in a nice thick layer across the mud.”
Lena began to feel excited. Up to now, Auntie’s plan to beautify the courtyard had seemed pointless. Not only were they never going to win the Golden House Number plaque, but their battle against the mud had become depressing. Every time it rained, the mud won, and autumn had just started.
But now the drainage tr
ench had been dug, with a layer of crushed rock on the bottom and larger flat stones on the sides. The trench led to a vacant lot next door that would be a mud bath by the end of winter, but, as Hans said, that would be someone else’s problem.
The truck squealed to a halt and the driver backed in, Auntie waving her arms to guide him. He tilted the truck bed back and Lena waited for an avalanche of sand. A mountain of sand. But the man had only liberated an anthill’s worth.
Auntie looked as if someone had stepped on her birthday cake. She rapped on the driver’s door while everyone gathered behind her, boots sinking in the muck.
“Is there another delivery coming?” she asked.
“Maybe next week,” he said. “If I can organize more sand. I can’t take too much, see, or they’ll notice and I’ll be in trouble. Come grab the tiles, Hansy.”
Hans trudged around to the passenger side and took out two paving tiles. “We’re grateful.” He tried to sound convincing, but even he acted like someone had knocked over his stein of beer. “One step at a time, right, people?”
“Right,” everyone said.
Hans’s friend said he would do his best to come back next Saturday, and that was that. Peter spread the sand. “Thickly,” Auntie ordered, “or it won’t do any good.” But it wouldn’t do much good anyway. Peter and Hans set down the two tiles, and there they had it, two footsteps—out of the eighty or so they had hoped for.
What if you met with that Western editor and showed him the letter? Met him? How? How would Lena even contact him again to arrange the meeting?
Peter walked back and forth from one tile to the other. “It’s a beginning.”
“It’s stupid.” Danika stood on the single sheet of plywood with her arms crossed.
“Come on, man,” Hans said to Peter. “Let’s put the rest of the plywood back or no one will be able to cross.”
Say you could find a way to call him again. Wouldn’t the letter be proof enough? Nothing would be proof enough. No matter what Lena said or did, the man could still assume she worked for the Stasi. She did work for the Stasi. Not like that. Really? All those Monday-evening conversations with Jutta—and Jutta asking her question after question: What was Erich working on now? Did he have any big new ideas? What did you two talk about? All the while, someone in another room had been wearing a bulky headset and taking notes.
The House of One Thousand Eyes Page 14