Midnight Hunter

by Brianna Hale

  I feel a pang of regret and loss. I did want children, but I can’t imagine what bizarre set of circumstances could result in me having children now. I feel like I have one foot in Hohenschönhausen everywhere I go. “Oh. Maybe.”

  Frau Fischer adds sliced sausage to the pot. “Herr Oberstleutnant will make a wonderful father.”

  I make faces at Thom and think to him, Your Oma thinks I’m going to marry her horrible boss and have his babies. Isn’t that funny?

  The housekeeper suddenly stops stirring the pot and pricks an ear at the ceiling. “Did you hear something?” I listen, but I don’t hear anything.

  “Rats,” she mutters darkly. “I can hear them scurrying around in the rafters when I’m lying in bed. All these attics are connected and they run up and down all night long.”

  Now that she mentions it I have heard scuffling at night. “Rats, Thom. Yuck.” Thom stares at me and says “Ooo.”

  “It’s those nasty people who lived in the top apartment next to mine. They were always leaving food out. Good thing they’re gone now.”

  We’re so busy talking and I’m so preoccupied with making Thom giggle that we don’t hear the front door. There’s movement out of the corner of my eye and I look toward it, mid-laugh, Thom cuddled in my arms. It’s Volker, and he’s looking down at me and the baby with such naked displeasure that my happiness is vaporized as if shot by a laser.

  A moment later Volker’s face closes and he starts going through the bundle of letters he’s holding in his hands, examining postmarks and addressers with exaggerated care. “Frau Fischer, if you’re in need of a babysitter so that you may perform your duties here perhaps you could go through a more suitable channel.”

  Thom is whisked out of my arms by the red-faced housekeeper. I stand up and follow Volker into the living room as he continues to peruse his letters. He’s pretending nonchalance but his jaw is flexing in anger. Why, because I was happy for once in this miserable place? “She was only being nice. I was lonely. There’s nothing to do in this prison.” I wave my arm around at the living room.

  Volker takes a letter opener from the desk in the corner and rips across the top of an envelope as if he’s disemboweling it. “Frau Fischer is here to do a job and you’re not to distract her from that.”

  “Frau Fischer is doing her job. Thom has a babysitter but she brought him upstairs to make me feel better.” How dare he upset her like that? Everything she does is to make his life more comfortable.

  Volker’s standing with his profile to me and looking down his long, straight nose at his letter, but I can tell he’s not seeing the words. “How self-righteous you are, Evony. It’s surprising, considering what you are.”

  This change of tack catches me off-guard. “What do you mean, what I am?”

  Folding the paper, he puts it back into its envelope and glances up. There’s a bright, nasty gleam in his eye. “What I say, what you are. A coward. A shirker. A traitor.”

  Oh, so we’re going to play the who’s-a-worse-person game, are we? Drawing myself up to my full height of five-feet-five I practically spit at him, “If attempting to flee this regime makes me a traitor, then I’m a traitor and proud, and every good, decent person I’ve ever known is one, too. They’re ten times the people the Stasi are.”

  Volker shakes his head, a withering look on his face. “I’m not speaking as a Stasi officer, I am speaking as a German. You’re a poor excuse for one, East or West. Everyone who flees is corrupt. Weak. Like a building infested with termites.” He looks at his next letter, inspecting it front and back. “One wonders how the West has not collapsed under the burden of you all.”

  I’m being lectured on morality by a Stasi officer. I wish my father were around to hear this—he’d die of laughter. “You’d tell me how to be a good, moral German? You who terrorizes us and imprisons us in our own city?”

  “Yes, I am a good German. I have fought for Germany, been imprisoned for Germany; I devote my life to East Germany. Every single thing I do is for this country. Since the war my every action has been to build a stronger Republic and I will continue to do this until the day I die.” He turns toward me, looming over me, making me feel like a kitten raising her hackles at a German Shepherd. In a cold, seething voice, he asks, “What have you ever done for something bigger than yourself, or can you not see beyond the tip of that pretty nose of yours?”

  If this country expects my devotion then I should be able to demand something in return, shouldn’t I? Like freedom of thought and movement. If ever I was going to love East Germany that love was killed the day the Wall went up. “I have worked in the factories since I was sixteen. I’m not afraid of work.”

  Volker laughs. “Oh, you worked? The bare minimum required of our citizens. Things are a little uncomfortable for you so you want to flee, taking all the time and money that East Germany has invested in you, keeping you clothed and fed and educated for twenty-three years, to the West, where they can exploit it for themselves. They will take you in and spit you out when you’re no longer useful, when instead you could be here, working to make this country great.”

  Uncomfortable? He thinks this regime is uncomfortable? How would he even know, with his West German car and his French marmalade? Things are never uncomfortable for those in power. “Not everything you do is for the Republic. I’m not being kept here “for Germany” am I?”

  Volker’s teeth grind together. “This is my home and I do not wish to return to a menagerie of women and babies after a long day. Now get out of my sight.”

  I fold my arms, pleased I hit a nerve. “Gladly. Send me to prison, I’ll do time for Germany if it means I don’t ever have to look at you again.”

  He laughs coldly. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Oh, and you do? I’m about to retort, but then I remember what he said. I was imprisoned for Germany. How could an officer in the Wehrmacht and an officer in the Stasi have been in prison and still hold the positions that he has and does? Does he mean he was imprisoned in East Germany, or Germany when it was one country?

  Despite my bravado the idea of real prison is terrifying. Less than a week of slow evenings here and I’m climbing the walls. Ten years in Hohenschönhausen would send me mad. “No? I’ll happily learn.”

  He must see the fear in my face as his body relaxes and he digs in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. “It’s a pleasing thought, driving you down to the prison and locking you in for a few nights until you learn some gratitude.”

  He’d enjoy that wouldn’t he, collecting me penitent and cowed from prison. “Do it. I don’t care. I’ll never be grateful for you.”

  He chuckles, lighting a cigarette, and that infuriatingly indulgent smile is back. “Never say never, Liebling.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  The argument with Volker casts a pall over me for the next few days. Being called selfish for believing that I have the right to opt out of the country I was born into and go elsewhere stings. Surely it’s not selfish to want more than this? But what is more? My father hates the Soviets and Ana wanted to go to a free-thinking university. Ulrich wanted to start his own business and to own land like his parents once had. I didn’t really have a plan. I think I was swept along by the currents of their needs. If I was in the West now with them I’m certain I’d be happy as I’d be with the people I loved. But what do I want? I’m stunned that I could have made the choice to flee so unthinkingly, and the knowledge that I did makes me feel like I’ve misjudged the last step on a staircase.

  I dearly want to ask Lenore what she thinks about all this as she’s the closest thing I have to a friend, but I know without asking that she doesn’t think anything about this. She’s one of the least political people I’ve ever met though she’s intelligent and quick-witted. It’s as if she’s never thought beyond the pond she swims in. The ideal East German.

  Because thinking is too upsetting I try and be a good little secretary instead. I learn where the w key is on the typewrit
er without having to look and decipher the wriggles and lines of shorthand until I can transcribe from Lenore’s stenography pad and just about keep up with the speed of normal human speech. Every morning I dress in the clothes that Volker paid for and twist and pin my hair up. I don’t wear the makeup that Lenore chose as it feels uncomfortable on my face, but she can usually cajole me into putting on a little lipstick after we’ve drunk our morning coffee.

  I’m accepting things. I’m acquiescing to what Volker has made of my life and I hate him more than ever. The feeling seems to be mutual. He barely looks at me now and I wonder if he dislikes me enough not to find me interesting or attractive, or whatever it was he thought of me.

  Until the afternoon he calls me into his office.

  Lenore has disappeared into another part of the building and Volker puts his head around his office door, saying he has an urgent letter that he needs to dictate so I can type it out.

  “Fräulein Hoffman will be back any minute…” I call, but he goes back to his desk, leaving his door open. My stomach flutters. I don’t like the thought of going into his office and I’ve heard how quickly he dictates letters to Lenore. If he talks that fast to me I’ll be able to catch about one word in ten.

  I go in and close the door. Once I’ve settled myself in the chair in front of his desk he fixes his eyes on a point somewhere above my head and begins to recite his letter. He’s as clipped and professional with me as he is with Lenore, though I notice he’s speaking a lot slower than usual and I’m able to keep up. My skin’s prickling with awareness of him, making me forget the symbol for every third word so I have to write them out in full.

  It’s not a long letter and we’re done in less than five minutes, and examining its contents it doesn’t sound particularly urgent, either.

  But when I look up and see him gazing at me with a speculative gleam in his eyes, I realize it isn’t. The letter was just an excuse to get me in here.

  “I’ve got a present for you, Liebling.”

  My heart plunges through my body. He hasn’t called me that for days. Leaning forwards he places a cellophane wrapped packet on the desk in front of me. Silk stockings. Lenore’s favorite sort. Getting her hands on a packet is the highlight of her month.

  “Thank you, Herr Oberstleutnant,” I mutter, taking them and standing up. Lenore’s welcome to these.

  “Evony.”

  I just want to get out of his office but his voice holds me in place.

  “Would you like to come here?” He glances at the desk in front of him and then back at me.

  My pulse races. There and do what exactly? “I thought this letter was urgent.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. I want to put those stockings on you instead.”

  The packet grows clammy in my hands even as I feel my body heat. Put them on me. Touch my legs. Put his hands beneath my skirt. I can anticipate the touch of his fingers, the gentleness with which he’ll smooth the soft, gossamer fabric up my thighs, and my body begins to feel liquid and heavy. That’s why I can’t go anywhere near him. I can’t be trusted.

  He watches me for a moment, thoughtful. “Most people can’t imagine what it’s like in Hohenschönhausen. It’s bleak, Liebling. The guards do not talk to the prisoners. The prisoners don’t talk to each other. The prisoners do not even get to see each other. The lights stay on all night. There is no sky. No wind. No hope.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I don’t doubt what he’s telling me is true but I will never be thankful for the life he’s given me instead. A little of my bravado from the other night stirs within me. “You’ve got an interesting seduction technique, threatening me. Out of practice?”

  A sleek smile crosses his handsome face. He knows exactly what he’s doing, I just haven’t figured it out yet. It’s not supposed to happen like this, I think desperately. I was supposed to meet a nice young man in the West who wants to hold my hand, not a predatory, cold-blooded Stasi officer who wants me to sit on his desk while he puts silk stockings on me.

  “Perhaps I’m just trying to make this easier for you.”

  I don’t understand him at first, and then I realize what he means: if I think I have no choice I won’t have to feel guilty for enjoying what he does. “That’s so manipulative,” I whisper.

  The silky, dangerous tone is back. “I think you mean thank you, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

  Biest. I walk around his desk and thrust the stockings into his hand, not looking at him.

  Volker’s gaze travels from my feet, up to the hem of my A-line skirt and back again, his gaze soft and appreciative. “Take off your shoes.”

  I’m stubbornly still for a moment, making him wait, and then I slip my feet out of the pumps and stand on the carpet. My eyes are drawn to his fingers as he slowly unwraps the stockings. For all me being a morally corrupt, poor excuse for a German he certainly gives me lots of little presents and admiring looks. And now this.

  But my thoughts are cut short when he grasps me by the hips and settles me on his desk. He looks up at me, that small, satisfied smile playing around his lips. He’s holding me lightly, his fingers a gentle pressure, but suddenly I don’t think I could move away if I tried. His hands move down to my thighs, over my skirt, and I begin to breathe a little faster, my lips parting. He watches every emotion that flickers over my face, studying me, hungry for my reactions.

  Sliding his fingers beneath my skirt, he deftly unclips the awkward little fastenings on my garter belt, first the ones at the front, and then gliding his hands round to the ones at the back. Despite Lenore and Frau Fischer’s intel that Volker doesn’t date he seems to know his way around a woman’s undergarments.

  He strips the nylon stockings off me in one long, fluid movement, and then he turns his attention to my legs. His hands are warm as they caress the soft skin behind my knees, making my pulse beat hard, and then they run down my calves to my ankles. He places my bare feet on his lap, drinking in the sight. Lenore was right. Volker likes legs. He likes my legs, and it’s heady, the way he looks at me. No one’s ever looked at me the way he does.

  Wordlessly, he reaches for the packet and slips the stockings up my legs, careful not to snag the delicate fabric. The little clips are fastened, and it’s done. Except he doesn’t pull my skirt back down. He smooths his fingers higher, across the skin of my inner thighs. Gentle, unhurried. I can feel my breath coming faster and I realize the stockings, like the letter, were a preamble to something more. We’re in his office. How far is he going to take this? How far am I going let him take this? His fingers touch the fabric of my underwear and my eyes snag on the silver epaulettes on his jacket.

  “I hate your uniform.” It comes out in a soft whisper, and for a moment I don’t even realize I’ve spoken aloud.

  Volker’s hands still. Then he lets me go and begins unbuttoning his jacket. I watch the path of his fingers, the gray-green wool parting to reveal a white shirt underneath, a black tie. He stands up, towering over me, and shrugs out of the jacket. Leaning over me he braces his hands either side of my legs, his mouth very close to mine.

  “It comes off. I’m just a man underneath.”

  “No you’re not, you’re—” But he kisses me, stoppering the words with his mouth. The scent of him envelops me, warm and inviting, and his body is hard beneath my fingers. I’m touching him, pulling him closer, opening my mouth beneath his so that his tongue invades me. I capture his hips between my knees. But he pushes me away from him and I’m confused, resisting, until I realize he’s laying me down on the desk. I prop myself on my elbows, aware my skirt is falling back, aware he’s standing between my thighs, and I don’t care because he takes his forefinger and runs it down the length of my sex over my underwear. That one, soft touch cascades through my body, pushing away everything else. Again. Please. I look up at him with need in my eyes.

  He circles his finger back and then concentrates the motion where it feels best, on the swollen nub at the apex of my thighs. I make a w
himpering noise and fall back onto his desk, my eyes closing. As he rubs that spot I give in shamelessly to the sensations, not caring what I must look like, that I shouldn’t want this. Not caring what he is or who I am. Just wanting him, as I have since he planted that first soft, tender kiss on my neck. Since he showed me that he could make me enjoy forgetting about everything but him.

  He hooks my thighs over his shoulders and I realize he’s sat down and pulled his chair closer. Easing my underwear to one side he licks me, slowly and carefully, his tongue soft and slippery and very warm. The intensity makes my head rear up in surprise. Is this what people do? Does he like that? He’s got his face right there. And then his tongue dips down, pushing into me, and I cry out, startled. It’s too weird. It’s too strange. Please don’t stop.

  Volker pulls away a little and mutters, “Hush, these walls are thin.”

  He goes back to working my hard little nub with the tip of his tongue and I wrap both my arms over my face, pressing them against my mouth to muffle my cries. Everything seems to be slowly tightening down there, my hips curving upwards with every whimpering breath. He keeps up that slow, circling movement with his tongue and I feel my toes curl, my hands reaching for something to grasp. They find his wrists and I hold on for dear life. A bright, golden sensation is building inside me and I don’t know what it is, until I do. I’m going to—he’s going to make me—

  My back arches and my head flies back, but he keeps a firm grip on my legs, still licking, making the sensation go on and on until I can’t bear it any longer. I sit up and take his head in my hands, clenching my thighs around his shoulders, breathing hard.

  He kisses my thigh, blotting his mouth. I feel very hazy and heavy, needing to hold onto him to steady myself. When he eases my legs off his shoulders, they grip his ribs instead. My hands touch his shoulders, rub across the short hair at the nape of his neck, slide across his jaw.

  “Gut?” he asks, an ironic look in his eyes, because good clearly doesn’t come into it when I’ve got my legs clenched around him and I’m rubbing my thumb over his lower lip wondering how the hell he just did that.