Forty Autumns

by Nina Willner

  By car and on foot, the police followed dissidents relentlessly. Their telephones were tapped; video cameras and monitoring devices were hidden in homes, offices, anyplace they frequented, in order to catch them from an unimaginable array of angles. Even bedrooms were not off-limits, their private conversations and intimate moments recorded, then used to try to manipulate them and sabotage their activities. The Stasi investigated everyone dissidents came into contact with, including family members, classmates, colleagues, and friends, past and present. Anyone who associated with these so-called dangerous subversives ran the risk of a prison sentence, which essentially rendered dissidents completely marginalized from society.

  With prisons packed to the breaking point, Honecker found a way to rid the country of “undesirables” and at the same time make money. He sold East Germans to the West.

  In the West, human rights activists collected donations to try to free East German political prisoners; church groups pooled their money to liberate those oppressed for religious reasons; families wanting to get their relatives out amassed what they could. At $14,000 to $60,000 a head, hundreds of thousands were ransomed across for money or goods. Oil, copper, silver, fruit, corn, industrial diamonds, fertilizer, all were traded for people. The regime then sold the goods on the world market for hard currency. All told, earnings topped $1 billion, ill-gotten gains from a massive human trafficking scheme that ultimately helped East Germany avoid bankruptcy and kept the twisted regime afloat.

  In the United States, I was a fifteen-year-old high school sophomore. I longed for information about East Germany, but found little.

  Time magazine ran an article about a defector who told of the complete degradation of East German society, of haunting human rights abuses. The most anyone seemed to really know was that East Germany was a harsh, bleak place, a strangely remote authoritarian communist state controlled by a ruthless secret police, and a staging ground for Soviet aggression into the West. What was clear was that, while some East Germans had managed to escape to the West and expose the hardships they had experienced, the full scale of oppression remained unknown as the great majority of stories of persecution and struggle in East Germany remained sealed inside, locked away and cut off from the rest of the world.

  By the mid-1970s, my mother, Hanna, had been separated from her family for almost thirty years. Though she had struggled over the years to keep their memories alive, so much time had passed that, after a while, ache and longing gave way to a melancholy incompleteness, a hollow emptiness. She learned to live as best she could in the pain that she would never see them again.

  Meanwhile, in the East, Roland had excelled as the director of his large school. Though he had done everything possible to earn promotion to school superintendent, he was informed that he had not been selected. The decision was due, his superiors said, to the fact that he came from a politically unreliable family. They specifically cited his connection to his sister who had defected to America, ironic since Roland had carefully avoided contact with my mother since her escape nearly thirty years earlier.

  The superintendent job was given to a subordinate, a young hardline communist with an unblemished record. Roland had always understood that his family’s checkered past in the eyes of the authorities could be used against him. Understanding that it was simply the way the regime operated, he had always half-expected it, and so he quickly adjusted, realizing there was nothing he could do.

  But the matter greatly disappointed Opa and set him off on another tirade. The old bitterness, which seemed to have gone dormant, resurfaced when he saw that his oldest son, who had been a bright and shining star and a model example of the great teacher in the communist system since the day his career began, had been wronged. Opa felt a powerful new rage.

  Around Klein Apenburg and in neighboring Apenburg, Opa started openly and loudly complaining about the regime and how it failed people. Clearly unconcerned whether the authorities were reading his outgoing mail, he sent Hanna a letter riddled with snide remarks and jabs at the regime, including this passage:

  I am angered that the USSR and the USA can manage a joint space trip in the cosmos, but a visit of a U.S. citizen to Klein Apenburg is not possible. Who can understand that? Maybe you should make contact with the office of Erich Honecker to complain.

  Once again, Oma implored him to keep his thoughts to himself. She told Roland to speak to Opa about his resurging anger, which he did.

  “I’m seventy-seven years old,” Opa replied. “What are they going to do to an old man like me? They’ve already exiled me to Siberia.”

  The neighbors also warned Opa to pipe down. In Apenburg, store clerks and shoppers kept their distance, not wanting to be associated with his grumblings and antigovernment rants. Inevitably, he was reported.

  The authorities came to Klein Apenburg. At his door, they handed Opa a document. It was an official order committing him to a “special program” at Uchtspringe, a hospital located fifty miles away. Everyone knew of the place, recognized more commonly as the insane asylum. The hospital in fact was a state psychiatric facility and the special program was intensive reeducation training. Opa was directed to go, as the order read, “to get your thoughts straight.”

  Not long after Opa was committed, on a cool September morning, Kai passed away.

  16

  A LIGHT SHINES

  “OUR SOULS ARE FREE”

  (1977)

  The soul that sees beauty may sometimes walk alone.

  —Goethe

  Cordula was a happy, fresh-faced seven-year-old, the epitome of childhood innocence and purity. Fair-haired and fair-skinned like Reinhard, she was serene and levelheaded like him, too. With her blond hair cropped close and dimpled cheeks, she resembled a lovely little storybook pixie.

  At her elementary school in Karl Marx City, along with reading, writing, mathematics, and learning about personal conduct in socialist society, Cordula and her classmates sang Russian jingles that made it easier to learn the language: “Nina Nina tam kartina. Eto traktor i motor.” (Nina, Nina, there is a picture. It’s a tractor and an engine.) While she enjoyed school and Young Pioneer meetings, mostly she just loved to run, jump, and do anything physically challenging. It quickly became clear that Cordula had a gift for sports.

  While most of the time East Germany was awash in a sterile gray, every October 7, like a bright red communist propaganda poster coming to life, the country ignited in a burst of color. On that day, whether they wanted to or not, East German citizens were called to celebrate “der Tag der Republik,” the Day of the Republic, the anniversary of the founding of their country.

  In an over-the-top spectacle to showcase the might of the regime, every city and town throughout the country staged a huge celebration to mark the big day and call on citizens to take pride in their socialist communities. Modeled after similar celebrations in Moscow, spectacular pageantry hailed the regime, flaunted the power of the communist machine, and highlighted the progress of the nation. Workers, Party members, military and paramilitary units, and communist youth assembled to dazzle the crowds and galvanize the people to demonstrate their commitment to the state.

  The bigger the town, the greater the show. In the capital city of Berlin, the fanfare was unmatched. Eastern European and communist world leaders were guests of honor as the regime showcased the latest military equipment supplied by Moscow.

  Attendance was mandatory; every able-bodied citizen in every town and city was expected to show up and show his or her resolute support for the regime. Failure to attend or to demonstrate the required level of flag-waving enthusiasm was noted by Party leaders and secret police security interspersed throughout the crowd.

  In Karl Marx City, Heidi adjusted Cordula’s red neckerchief, fastened a Young Pioneer lapel pin—a tiny metal badge in the shape of a flaming torch—and straightened the envelope hat on her head. Looking every bit the Young Pioneer poster child, seven-year-old Cordula patted her three-year-old sister Mari on the
head and went off to take her place alongside her elementary school classmates who were already lining up for the parade.

  In downtown Karl Marx City, crowds had already massed. Great banners lined the streets with reverberating messages: “Long Live Our Socialist Fatherland!” and “Workers of the World, Unite!” Red, black, and gold East German flags with the hammer-and-sickle coat of arms decorated the stands. Loudspeakers boomed defiant nationalistic music and up in the VIP box, local Party officials and honored guests looked down on the crowds, smiling, nodding, and waving. Nearby a group of effervescent youngsters held large, colorful bouquets of flowers, which they presented to benevolent-faced officials.

  Heidi stood shoulder to shoulder with colleagues from her office. Someone handed out tiny flags, watching to see who did and who did not show an interest in taking one. Heidi thanked the man, flashing a convincing smile.

  The parade began. Cordula marched past with the other fresh-faced Young Pioneers. Party cheerleaders, planted throughout the audience, made sure the crowds applauded at appropriate times and everyone knew by habit to follow their lead.

  Genuine excitement surged when the athletes marched past. No one needed prompting to cheer them on. As in most countries, sports seemed to transcend politics. East Germans were particularly proud of their athletes and what they had been able to achieve to put East Germany on the map and bring honor to the country. As they marched past a roar went up, the crowds cheering as the athletes waved back in return. And so it was in cities and towns throughout the East. Amid great displays of pomp and pageantry, parades marked the country’s progress and its great surge into the future.

  While the rest of East Germany was in full-blown commemoration mode, in Klein Apenburg all was deafeningly quiet. With two sons deceased, a daughter three decades gone, a life of internal exile, and a husband in an insane asylum, Oma’s health began to take a turn for the worse. Her children and grandchildren rallied around her in Klein Apenburg, some even moving in for short periods just to be with her and help with the chores. She put on a brave face every time they came, but they saw that she had become fatigued. Seeing that she had begun to neglect her garden, everyone who visited chipped in to freshen the beds, pull weeds, and water the plants and flowers, which had begun to wilt.

  Later that autumn, Heidi and Reinhard, with Cordula and Mari in tow, came to stay with Oma for a week. Still waiting after seven years for the delivery of their new car, they came by train and then by bus.

  Cordula could not wait to see what was growing in the garden, including what was ripe and especially what could be eaten immediately. With Opa gone, she promptly took Oma by the hand to see the vegetable beds, Cordula kneeling to pull up a gourd and a few green beans. When the pain in Oma’s legs became too much to bear, Cordula sat Oma in a padded chair that Reinhard brought outside and placed on the edge of her garden.

  Oma sat in that chair nearly the whole time that week, soaking up the warmth of the sun, listening to the birds, and thinking back on her life.

  She reflected on the sustenance her gardens had always given her—lush greens that had seen countless rainfalls had at times given way to blanched and thirsty beds that had struggled through sporadic dry spells. Her greatest joy had been to toil until she saw the fruits of her labor, and especially when she saw everything blossoming in its fullest glory. It had been a labor of necessity to keep the family fed, but even more it had been a labor of love, and one that had come to nourish her and Opa in their isolated days in Klein Apenburg. Now, before the first frost arrived, it was once again time to prepare for the end of the season. Closing the chapter on any year had always made her melancholy as she canned and jarred and prepared for the winter. As Heidi picked the last of the season’s vegetables, Oma sank into the sounds of Cordula’s and Mari’s joyous little-girl chirpings, which reinvigorated her spirit.

  Over the next days, when the weather was mild, they relaxed outdoors, taking late-afternoon tea at a wooden table under an oak tree. Heidi baked fresh pflaumkuchen from the fruit she picked from Oma’s plum trees while the girls frolicked, playing with the water pump or flitting around the yard like butterflies. While Heidi washed dishes and Reinhard cleaned garden tools or tinkered with Oma’s bicycle, Oma sat in her chair, often with her eyes closed, breathing in the smell of the soil, and the aroma of late autumn in its fullest splendor.

  In the evening they supped indoors, spreading a table with East German delicacies, including Eberswalder sausages with Bautzen mustard, and Spreewalder pickles that Heidi had found in the state shop. When night fell, they sat around the dinner table, playing cards and listening to Oma’s favorite singer, Hans Albers, his silky voice crooning over the crackling radio. When Oma got tired, they helped her to bed, Cordula taking her time to tuck Oma in, patting her, and singing Sandman songs to soothe her to a peaceful slumber.

  That week, Oma, reveling in a deep sense of peace and serenity, wrote a letter to Hanna that made it out to us in the States.

  For the first time ever, she expressed herself openly, from the heart and without reservation, about her pride in her family, in Opa, in her children and grandchildren, and about the simple things that mattered to her. She wrote how she was “happy to have Heidi, Reinhard, and the girls visiting.” She wrote of Manni and his family having visited the month before, and about the treats he had brought her: “glass cherries,” plums, and apples. She wrote about Tiele’s new teaching job, about Helga’s vacation in Bulgaria, and about Tutti’s darling blond-haired children. She wrote about Roland’s achievements as a teacher, about his recent “retirement,” and about her struggle with losing Kai and Klemens. She shared her grief over Opa’s absence, even insinuating that the state had wronged him she took the risk to write, “it was something he did not deserve.”

  She ended the letter saying, “I find the greatest peace with my family and in my garden.”

  On their last night in Klein Apenburg, Reinhard built a bonfire in the yard. Under a starry country sky, taking in the refulgence of the full moon on that clear autumn evening, they talked into the night, chattering animatedly about everything from the upcoming winter, predicted to be a bitterly cold one, to the amusing antics of the grandchildren. After a while, Oma became quieter. The silence lingered. When she spoke again, it was about a more serious matter: the future of the family.

  “No one knows what the future holds,” she said, “but I want the family to stay strong. Keep up the Family Wall. Lean on and protect one another no matter what may come.” Though she had always avoided talk of repression in East Germany, Oma now had something to say about it. “No one can say what will happen or if things will change, but all I know is, justice will win. Truth will prevail and justice will win.”

  Silence lingered. After a time, she continued: “We have survived East Germany with our dignity intact. This life has not always been easy, but it has not made us bend. It has actually made us stronger. And we are strong because our souls are free.”

  No one spoke for a long time as they sat staring into the flames, watching them pop and crackle, little sparks snapping up and disappearing into the dark night sky. Heidi looked at her mother, her face illuminated by the light of the fire, her thoughts somewhere far away. Fine silver-white strands of hair, which were usually worked into a neat bun, now fell gently around her mellowed, age-lined face, deep creases framing her heavy-lidded eyes. Finally, she looked back at Heidi, the fire reflected in her eyes, a soft, knowing smile gracing her face.

  All was quiet except for the crackling of the fire. After a long silence, Oma finally spoke again: “There will come a day when you will see her again. I may not live to see the day, but you will be reunited with Hanna.”

  On a cold, windless winter day, Opa was released from the insane asylum and returned home to Oma in Klein Apenburg. Over the next few months he said very little, and for as long as he lived, he would never talk about what had happened to him during those months at Uchtspringe. But his experience in the asylum ma
rked the last time he would ever speak out against the East German regime.

  Later that winter, Oma’s health took a turn for the worse. By spring she had taken to her bed. With Oma having fewer good days than bad ones now, Opa tried to manage the household and tend to Oma as best he could.

  Opa took to penning all their letters, writing what Oma dictated to him. At the end of one letter to Hanna he added a private note:

  Mutti is doing so-so. She takes her medication regularly and goes to all her doctor’s appointments. Is it possible for you to try to send some Sionon-diabetic sugar?

  My mother did so, but she never got word that they received it.

  By early spring, Oma could no longer ride her bicycle to the doctor in Apenburg. At the age of seventy-nine, Opa began making the runs for food and supplies. Since the doctor rarely made house calls to Klein Apenburg, eventually Oma was moved to a hospital in Apenburg.

  All her children and grandchildren came to visit Oma. Cordula thought she seemed strong and full of hope, and was reassured when Oma promised, “I’ll get well soon, and in the summertime you can come and play again in my garden.” Then she turned to Heidi and said, “Keep the family together.”

  Not long thereafter, on the first of June 1978, on a warm spring day, two weeks before I graduated from high school, at the age of seventy-three Oma passed away with Opa by her side. The doctors said it was diabetes and high blood pressure. My mother got the news in the form of a Western Union telegram from Opa.

  The family was devastated. The anchor of the family was gone. She had been their center of gravity and the spirit that had sustained them. They were stunned sick, wondering how they could go on without her.

  Years later, Hanna would write in her memoirs, “It was my father who opened my eyes to the wonders of the world and to the pursuit of knowledge, and it was my mother’s spirit that has guided me throughout my life.”