The House of One Thousand Eyes

by Michelle Barker

  Max’s looming visit had been flashing a bright red warning light through Lena’s dreams all night. Auntie might have been happy about one boyfriend—and somehow she was convinced Peter was Lena’s One True Love. But Two True Loves was something else. Two meant you probably worked at a textile factory and wore lipstick and bleached your hair.

  With any luck, Max would show up while Peter was busy with his radio. Peter worked a later shift on Mondays and would still be home when Max came over.

  Lena lined up with all the other rumpled and tired citizens, bought some ham, and brought it home. She stopped at the mailbox before going upstairs. Not that she expected Herr Schulmann to have dropped off anything so soon—but sure enough, there was an unmarked envelope, something bulky. Lucky she’d gone to the butcher’s that morning, or Auntie would have found it. There was no way she would open the package in the foyer. Instead, she tucked it inside her coat and went upstairs.

  Auntie made such a fuss about the ham it was as if Lena had won another prize for Enthusiasm in Handicrafts. While she was preparing breakfast, Lena slipped into her bedroom and hid the package under her pillow. When she returned to the table there was sliced ham, along with an egg and some Western coffee, a gift from the bricklayer, maybe.

  As soon as Auntie left for work, Lena went into her room and opened the package. Inside was a camera so small it fit into her palm. There was also a note:

  I arranged for a friend to deliver this. Take it with you to work. There is film in it. Photograph anything you find. Contact me when you’re ready to send it back.

  There were also instructions about which radio frequency to use, and Herr Schulmann’s call sign, whatever that meant. The phrase that would let him know Lena needed to meet with him again was a familiar Party slogan: “Work together, plan together, govern together.” No problem. Peter wouldn’t be the least bit suspicious. He won’t be, if you can keep him interested in you. Otherwise, see you in the prison cell next to Erich’s.

  She didn’t want to do that to Peter. Never mind that he was scabby and a bit goofy, she hated the idea of hurting his feelings. Then what? Forget you ever had an uncle, live your life the way they want? You didn’t see anything. You don’t know anything. You don’t say anything. But she did know. She was well into the middle section between the Walls now—the death strip. She could see all the hazards: the lights and observation towers, the tank trap, the fences, the Stasi-trained dogs. Yes, Mausi, there are dogs: German shepherds and rottweilers, with big teeth. She could see the far Wall too, the one blocking the West.

  But she had an idea. If she were to show an interest in radio, rather than in Peter, it might be less hurtful, and it would delight him. He didn’t have to know why. She tucked the camera into her sweater pocket so there was no chance of it being found—by Auntie or anyone else.

  *

  By the time Lena arrived to help beautify the courtyard, Hans was sitting on one of his crying-shame benches with an already empty mug. Danika was talking about a photo session she’d done with a real fashion photographer from Pramo, one of her favorite magazines. Even Auntie approved of Pramo, because it included patterns so you could make the clothes yourself if you liked them.

  “I was wearing a pantsuit, and high heels.” Danika’s voice went higher. “They took, like, ten thousand photographs. This way, then that way, then another way.”

  Her excitement was contagious. “What color was the pantsuit?” Lena asked. “Did you wear lipstick?”

  “Obviously I wore lipstick. Red,” she said, with a mischievous gleam in her eye, because red was one of those colors—reserved for flags and Pioneer neckerchiefs. It was not to be squandered on trifles. “The pantsuit was white. I had to be careful not to stain it.”

  Lena wished she had the magazine photograph of Marilyn Monroe to show Danika. “It sounds very glamorous.”

  “My friend has promised more paving tiles,” Hans said. “But then there’s the problem of sand.” He tipped the cup back until his head faced the sky, as if maybe there was one more drop.

  “What are we working on today?” Lena asked.

  “Who cares?” Danika said. “Why are we even here?”

  Peter appeared in the courtyard with an armful of shovels. “We’re here because we live in this housing development, and the plywood path is sinking, and we want to make the place prettier.” He turned to Lena for confirmation.

  “That’s right,” she said. Somehow the way Peter had expressed it gave it meaning. She couldn’t have cared less about Auntie’s stupid Golden House Number plaque, but she did care about where she lived, and how the muddy courtyard made the whole complex look like a construction zone. A shithole, Erich would have called it. The housing developments were supposed to be a step forward for society: more housing for the People. It was part of what everyone needed to believe—that this Germany was the better one. But the muddy courtyard was a reminder that the entire city of Berlin was built on a swamp. It would be a tough battle to win.

  “My father is bringing some shrubs,” Peter said. “They’ll help with the moisture. We have to dig six big holes, a meter apart, along this side.” He pointed.

  “I’m not digging,” Danika said. “It will ruin my nails. The stylist said my hands are my best feature.”

  Lena tried to work out if that was really a compliment. Hans laughed.

  “Shut up,” Danika said to him. “What do you know? You with your Trunksucht.” His constant drinking. Hans put down the mug and ran his hand along one of the benches.

  “The benches are beautiful,” Lena said. “They’re the nicest in the whole neighborhood.” She took a shovel from Peter and began digging where he’d instructed so she didn’t have to see Hans’s face. He had pouches beneath his eyes, as if they were weighted with lead, which gave his face an air of sadness even though he was often smiling. The graying hair that curled at the collar of his pretend-leather jacket made him seem like the father of someone who owned a motorcycle. He lived alone; his wife had divorced him years ago and taken the children with her to Leipzig to live with her parents.

  By the time Military Papa arrived with a truck full of shrubs, Peter and Lena had three of the six holes dug, Hans had refilled his mug, and Danika was examining her fingernails.

  “I told you to be ready,” Military Papa said. He was broad and muscular, though with a bit of belly that suggested he wasn’t in the shape he should have been, even if he was retired from active service. His hair was cut short, his eyes small and squinting, and he had a long straight nose and a mouth that seemed designed for frowning. Lena dug harder and deeper. The thought of displeasing him terrified her.

  He glared at Danika. “Why aren’t you working? Did my son not bring enough shovels?”

  Lena wondered if Danika would have the courage to tell him her hands were her best feature. She stepped in front of Danika and said, “Peter brought exactly the right number.”

  Military Papa turned toward Hans. “And you, the adult, what kind of example are you setting?” Hans stood up unsteadily and Peter rushed over with a shovel for him, possibly suspecting he would need it for balance.

  Danika took a shovel and stood in the mud with her elegant lace-up shoes. “Where are we supposed to do this?” she asked Peter.

  “Watch your tone, young lady,” Military Papa said. “We keep a good attitude on this team.”

  Peter indicated the spot for the next hole, but when Danika started digging, it looked as if she had never used a shovel in her life. Military Papa just shook his head. As he unloaded the truck, Lena’s mood brightened. The shrubs were beautiful, thick and green.

  “They’ll need to be pruned for winter,” Military Papa said. “They’ll flower in the spring.”

  “Beziehungen,” Hans murmured. Connections—it helped to have them. Unlike the friend with the two paving tiles and the sand he’d probably stolen from a playground
.

  They had just finished digging when a voice from the edge of the courtyard called, “Lena!”

  It was Max. Not Max the cook, in his big hat, big stomach, and fake beard, but beautiful Max with the hair that wouldn’t behave, and the dimple, wearing his green coat and walking in that precise way of his. Everyone turned to look at him.

  “Who’s that?” Danika held up her index finger—the One True Love sign.

  Max must have sensed Military Papa was in charge. “Sir,” he said to him. “Sorry to disturb. I came to visit Lena, but if she’s busy—”

  Military Papa gave him an up-and-down look. Conscription haircut: check. Military posture: check. Confident eye contact: check. “Did you just finish service, son?”

  “Yes, sir. Eighteen months. The motor-rifle division in Potsdam.”

  “Very nice. Which regiment?”

  “Artillery, sir.”

  “Ah. One of Rudolf Gypner’s boys. You see, Peter?”

  Peter hadn’t looked up once since Max had arrived, but he had no choice now. Lena wondered what Military Papa wanted him to see. Everything, probably. The lack of slouching. No scabs. The easy conversation. The dimple.

  “Did you enjoy your service?” Military Papa asked, and then he started nodding. It was like a machine had been turned on.

  “Very much so, sir,” said Max. “I’m considering a career in the military. I’m in the process of deciding with my parents.”

  “Fine, just fine. You let me know if you’d like me to put a word in for you. I’d be happy to do it.” He gave Max’s hand a hearty shake.

  “You need some help here?” Max asked.

  “They’re almost done,” Military Papa said. “Go ahead and steal Lena for a few minutes. Lena!” he shouted, as if Lena wasn’t right there. Danika smiled and tilted her head, but Max barely noticed her.

  Lena’s face burned—she couldn’t keep track of all the reasons why—as she stepped away from the shrubs and walked unsteadily along the plywood path with Max until they were out of the courtyard.

  “That wasn’t your aunt’s husband, was it?” Max said.

  “No, he died a long time ago. That’s the father of the boy I came to the play with.” Great. Already we’re wading into the bog. Peter had seen him. There was little chance he’d recognize Max, but still. “You’re considering a career in the military?”

  “Are you kidding? I told him what he wanted to hear, so he’d let you come out.”

  Smart. Also dishonest. Should it ring an alarm bell? She wasn’t sure. Didn’t she do the same with Auntie? Didn’t everyone do it, just to survive? People wore two faces: the public one that did what the children’s magazine said—“be happy and sing”—and the private one that wanted to curse Scheiss Osten every five minutes.

  Max put his arm around her. Lena craned her neck, but he laughed low in his throat and said, “Don’t worry, they can’t see. I was hoping to spend more than a few minutes with you.”

  “Monday isn’t the best. That’s usually when we work in the courtyard.” She should have thought of it yesterday, but that kiss had turned all the days of the week into Sundays. In the background she heard the machine-gun bursts of Military Papa’s loud voice.

  “When can we spend more time together?” Max asked. “Like an evening?”

  “I work nights. I’m free most other afternoons—if I don’t sleep.”

  He looked up, and left, where a solution had to be waiting. “I rehearse in the afternoons, but I could come early, like today. If you don’t mind missing some sleep.”

  He turned Lena to face him and she lost herself in his dark brown eyes. She wanted to touch his face, his hair. What were the rules? Why hadn’t anyone told her? She reached up with one hand, using her fingertips. His skin was stubbly. And then his lips were on hers—soft, impossible. On the second kiss, his mouth opened and the lamp shop in Lena’s brain lit up. The voices in her head went quiet, listening.

  “Yes,” Lena said finally. “I would like it if you came to visit.” This was worth losing sleep over.

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow.” She couldn’t think. Her mouth barely worked. They stood in each other’s arms, Lena absorbing every wonderful smell of him. His clothes. His skin. His soap.

  “You should get back,” Max said, “and I have to go to the theater. I’ll see you tomorrow.” One last gentle kiss, and then somehow Lena had to regain the ability to walk.

  The moment she entered the courtyard a weight settled on her shoulders. Military Papa was still talking about the value of service and how great the artillery regiment was and blah, blah, Rudolf Gypner and, “Did you see that boy, son? Did you see the way he carried himself? That’s what service does for a young man. There’s a fellow with a career ahead of him. Just wait till you get called up.”

  Four of the shrubs were planted. Hans had made his way back onto the bench and was reminiscing about his time in service and how he used to have flawless aim. He started singing a song Lena had learned in kindergarten: “When I’m Grown Up I Will Be Joining the People’s Army.” Peter was patting down the soil and wouldn’t look at Lena. Danika wouldn’t stop looking at her. She sidled over to Lena and, right near Peter, said, “Who was that?”

  “A friend.” Lena’s voice came out in a squeak.

  “Is he ever cute. Could you introduce me?” She set her hands out in front of her as if her fingernails were drying.

  Danika wanted to linger, but Lena put her head down and helped plant the last shrubs. “I have to get back upstairs,” she said. “My aunt will be home soon.” As if that mattered. Lena just wanted to get away from Peter. She couldn’t bear for him to look at her. She tried to keep her face neutral, to keep the kisses from showing, but it felt like every part of her glowed. As soon as she had finished the job, she abandoned her shovel in the dirt and ran upstairs.

  — 18 —

  timing is everything

  As Lena got ready for work, she took the miniature camera out of her pocket and held it in one hand: a tiny eye that hoped to capture giant secrets. “I’m just practicing an acceptable creative outlet,” she rehearsed. As if anyone would believe that.

  How would she carry it? Where would she keep it? It couldn’t be in a place where Herr Dreck might touch it by accident. She tried tucking it into her kneesock, but it cut into her leg. The coveralls. They were practically made of pockets. She would slip it into one of the side pockets, along with something bigger that stuck out—like a hairbrush. Next to that, the camera would go undetected.

  On the way to work, Lena hid both camera and hairbrush in her coat. The closer she got to headquarters, the heavier they felt. If anyone found out about this—and what did Herr Schulmann expect her to do? Poke around in the Comrade General’s private files?

  Auntie said each person was born with a talent. Lena had seen the Comrade General give speeches on television; he was not a talented speaker. Jutta claimed he couldn’t sing or play a sport. He wasn’t even a good shot. But he was better at hunting people than animals. He had a hunter’s sense for prey, and he noticed—everything. That was one thing.

  Two was that Lena didn’t know what she was searching for. Something with Erich’s name on it. Among the ten million or so documents in that building, there was sure to be one that explained everything.

  Three was Jutta, who was maybe maybe-not keeping an eye on Lena at all times.

  Four was the key. Mielke’s drawers and cupboards were locked, like everyone else’s. Unlike everyone else, however, he did not hide his key in one of the obvious places. Lena had never come upon it, but there were parts of his rooms she never cleaned. The key might be hidden on Jutta’s side. But how would she search there without Jutta noticing?

  And wouldn’t Mielke know if someone had been snooping in his cupboards? That was why Jutta and Lena were required to clean his ro
oms together. They were supposed to monitor each other. “Trust is good,” Lenin used to say, “but control is better.” It was the Stasi’s unofficial motto. And now Lena was going to do the unthinkable. She was going to spy on the man who spied on the Better Germany.

  As she walked in the cool evening air, she listened to her breath, and to her feet clipping the edges of puddles. She passed the lit rectangles of ordinary upright socialist life—people making dinner, resting after their busy day at work, getting ready for the Black Channel to come on television so they could shut it off. Who would be in charge of a problem like her uncle? She ran through the list of offices she cleaned, one miniature Lenin bust at a time, thinking, thinking. But she’d never opened any drawers or cabinets in those offices. She didn’t know what any of the Stasi agents did.

  And there were all the men who worked in the offices Jutta cleaned. She doubted Jutta would talk about them, not even if Lena tried to fool her. Jutta seemed dull, but she wasn’t. It was a trick, like being simple. When everyone thinks you’re simple, they don’t watch what they say around you. Who would suspect Lena of the kind of subversion she was planning?

  “Are you feeling better tonight?” Jutta asked when Lena walked into the ashtray room. Sibylle was on the table, turned to a different page today—a woman walking along a narrow white line on the road, as if balancing on a tightrope. Lena thought of Danika posing for the camera with pouty red lips, doing something impressive with her hands.

  When will you transfer the camera to your coveralls? Lena put a hand into her coat pocket, pressing it against the end of the hairbrush.

  “I feel much better,” she said. For now. Herr Dreck would be waiting for her. It would be different—now that she’d done the last thing, the thing she couldn’t bear to think about. He might make her do it again. She couldn’t keep throwing up every night and going home early, or she’d lose her job.

  “Good.” Jutta planted her elbows on the magazine to hold it in place. “My neighbor made stew. I’ve brought some for us to share during our break. I don’t want to have to tell her you’ve thrown it up all over our Comrade General’s daybed.”