The Valley of Unknowing

by Sington, Philip

  I studied the fifty candidate heads, trying to identify my deliverer. I knew nothing about Anton, but at the same time I knew what I was looking for: not the gaunt messenger who had once followed me home, but someone altogether more impressive. I pictured a solitary man in his middle years, his build athletic, his hair greying but plentiful (I could not think of Anton as bald and in that I was correct), tidy, strong-jawed, quietly formidable – an authentic champion of the people, instantly distinguishable from the counterfeit variety.

  At first no one struck me as fitting the bill. Half the audience were elderly. I saw walking sticks and hearing aids. A handful of student types occupied most of the front pew. Over on one side a young couple were ostentatiously hugging each other and whispering in each other’s ears. Behind them, partially obscured by a pillar, I spotted a small man roughly my age in a pale blue anorak. He sat with his hands wedged between his knees, staring ahead of him. Could this be Anton? Outwardly he lacked heroic manifestations, but he was at least alone. I watched him carefully, expecting to see him turn towards me, but his gaze, like a man in a dream, never shifted.

  The lights above the nave went off. A pair of spots lit up a space in front of the altar. Greeted by a hesitant round of applause, the musicians filed out through a doorway in the side of the apse, squinting, the string players carrying their instruments. I didn’t pay much attention. I was still concerned with the audience, with Anton.

  The musicians tuned up. A pair of latecomers slipped through the door just before it closed: a burly man in a fawn raincoat and a younger man in denims. I knew at once that they didn’t belong: their demeanours were furtive, yet stern. Taking care not to look at me, the man in denims sat down at the end of my pew, quietly clearing his throat, as if preparing like the rest of us to listen. I couldn’t locate the older man. He was suddenly nowhere to be seen. I was sure no one had followed me from Blasewitz, but now I had the clear and unnerving sensation of being surrounded, hemmed in, all exits covered: me and Anton both.

  The music began. A sweet, Victorian hearth-and-home melody played on the cello; a lilting piano accompaniment. It was hard sitting still, hard pretending to listen, even as the melody gave way to fortissimo chords and high drama. I wasn’t sure I could stand an hour of it. But it was at that moment that I recognised the pianist.

  I had never seen her look that way before. Her hair was tied in a spiral at the back of her head, her face pale and unpainted. She wore a frumpy charcoal-grey dress, with puffed sleeves, somewhere between evening wear and funeral wear: Claudia Witt.

  I could account for the appearance, but not for her presence. I stared in confusion, a tumult of possibilities – all troubling – tumbling through my mind. I remembered a snatch of a conversation, the cellar bar near the medical school, something Claudia said about forming an ensemble in her spare time. Hadn’t I said I would be in the audience at their first concert? And here I was, thanks to a newspaper left in my letter box. Was this Anton’s idea of a joke? Was this Claudia’s idea of an invitation (perfunctory to the point of rudeness – very much her style)? Was I about to be arrested? Or was I simply witness to a performance of chamber music? I could not answer these questions. I could do nothing but sit in the darkness – sit through four movements of Dvořák’s homely raptures, sit through five movements of Shostakovich, alternately mournful and frenetic – and wait. It was in that condition of enforced limbo, powerless and scared, but with an excellent soundtrack to accompany my suffering, that I perceived the hand of Richter, the author not only of The Valley of Unknowing, but also of Two on a Bicycle, the young genius with a talent and a taste for mockery. I heard his laughter in that darkness, as close as if he were sitting in the pew behind me. This time, for the first time, I couldn’t bring myself to resent it.

  The music came to a close. The musicians were on their feet. The church rang with applause. The quintet nodded and bowed, the smiles fixed and tight, as if they had expected a bigger crowd or a warmer reception. The man in the anorak, the latecomer in denims, the lovers, the students, they were all still in their places, clapping. I clapped too. Someone shouted ‘Encore!’ But no encore was offered. The lights went on overhead. The musicians left their makeshift stage. People started filing out. Was I supposed to go with them or stay where I was?

  One by one the pews emptied. The loving couple strolled out, holding hands. Old people shuffled past. By the door I caught sight of the other latecomer: he was smiling, shaking someone’s hand, offering apologies. He left with his companions. The students came down the aisle. One of them cracked a joke, a burst of raucous laughter briefly shattering the mood of respectful reticence. The man in denims got up to a flurry of joshing and walked out with them. Soon there was nobody left, just me and the stranger with the pale blue anorak and the sad eyes.

  This was Anton. It had to be.

  He got to his feet, edged slowly into the aisle. I did the same. He walked towards the altar. I followed.

  ‘Anton?’

  He showed no sign of having heard me, but continued to walk away. I continued to follow. I had no idea where we were going. Three of the young musicians reappeared, wrapped up now in coats and scarves. One of them, a violinist, hurried over to the stranger and embraced him. He smiled and shook the boy’s hand with both of his: the proud, supportive father. They all walked past me without even looking round. Then I was alone, free to go, relieved, puzzled, frustrated – but of these, alone most of all.

  ‘Bruno.’ I recognised Claudia’s voice. ‘So you actually made it.’

  I didn’t want to talk to her, but there was no way I could get out of it. ‘A promise is a promise,’ I said.

  We made our way out together. Claudia had changed into jeans and a sweater. Her dress, I assumed, was in the sports bag she was carrying. Shakily, the adrenaline still fizzing in my veins, I congratulated her on the performance. She said the Shostakovich had needed more rehearsal, a remark typical of Theresa – Theresa whose perfectionism and self-deprecation, I now perceived, masked a hard kernel of ambition.

  ‘By the way,’ I said as we crossed the porch, ‘it was you who put that copy of Die Union in my letter box?’

  ‘Of course. Who did you think it was?’

  ‘No one. Nobody.’ I laughed, feeling more than usually stupid. Instead of enjoying a pleasant musical interlude, I’d put myself through an hour of paranoia and dread for no reason at all. ‘You know, I didn’t find your reminder until seven o’clock this evening. You might want to give me a little more notice next time.’

  We passed beneath a large scotch pine, water dripping lazily from its branches. Claudia stopped, hoisting the sports bag on to one knee. The streets round about were dark and empty. ‘I wouldn’t bank on there being a next time,’ she said.

  She unzipped the bag and reached inside it. I had no idea what she was talking about or why we had stopped, not even when she produced an old copy of The Orphans of Neustadt, and handed it to me. It crossed my mind that she wanted me to sign it and that this request, like her invitation to the concert (not to mention its affectedly casual nature), was indicative of something other than disdain. In the time it took me to take the book and open the front cover I had recast the entirety of her behaviour towards me – the resentment, the sarcasm, the unflattering psychological profiling – in the light of unrequited love, jealousy, hurt.

  ‘Not the most original hiding place,’ she said, ‘but it’s better than nothing.’

  ‘Not the most – ?’ I flexed the pages, detected a telltale stiffness round one of the central folios, adjacent to the spine. It was then, at last, that I understood: once again my novel was moonlighting as a hiding place. On this occasion it concealed a West German passport with my photograph inside it. ‘So . . . you’re Anton?’

  ‘Just take the book.’ Claudia zipped up her bag. Either she was Anton or she was there on Anton’s behalf. It didn’t matter which. ‘Your day visa’s dated for Saturday week.’

  I took the book. Sudde
nly everything was happening so quickly.

  ‘Nine days from now? That isn’t long. I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘It’s long enough.’ Claudia hoisted the bag on to her shoulder. ‘Goodbyes aren’t recommended. It’s best you don’t say any. And you won’t need to pack. You’re a day visitor to East Berlin. All you should be carrying are vodka and cigarettes, and stuff from the Delikat.’

  I followed her as she set off along the road, heading for the dim glow of Bautznerstrasse. The satirical edge to our previous encounters had vanished. Claudia was all business now. I liked her better the old way. I liked it better when we weren’t both scared.

  ‘Where do I go?’

  ‘Your instructions are in the book. You cross at Friedrichstrasse Station. One stop on the S-Bahn and you’re in West Berlin. Just make sure you stand in the right line at the checkpoint. West German citizens have their own.’

  ‘West German citizens, right.’

  ‘And wear Western clothes: coat, tie and shoes in particular. That shouldn’t be a problem for you, right?’

  I shook my head. ‘I was thinking: don’t they keep records, of who comes in and out? Isn’t there some kind of list?’

  ‘Your name will be on that list. You don’t need to know how.’

  We walked on a little way in silence. I was leaving the valley and never coming back. It was more than an idea, more than a plan: it was real. I didn’t feel ready.

  ‘What happens on the other side?’

  ‘You take a plane if you’ve got any sense.’

  ‘A plane where?’

  ‘The choice is yours. Hamburg maybe, or Munich.’

  Munich: home of Bernheim Media, powerhouse of the global Aden phenomenon. I could pay them a visit. No doubt they would extend me a warm welcome. But how warm would it remain, once they had learned the truth? How understanding would they be when I told them they’d spent a fortune on a book they didn’t own, promoting an author who didn’t exist?

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘That’s up to you.’ Claudia looked at me. ‘That’s the point, isn’t it? To do what you want?’

  I’d been doing what I wanted for years; right up to the moment Theresa came along. Under her influence it had turned into what I didn’t want.

  ‘She’ll be at home by then,’ I said. ‘In Austria.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Theresa. I want to warn her. I want her to know I’m on my way out.’

  Claudia shook her head. ‘Tell her when you get there.’

  ‘I don’t know a soul in the West. Only her.’ I reached into my coat. ‘I’ve already written something, here. There must be a way to get it to her. Please.’

  We were almost at the main road. Two hundred yards away, at the tram stop, a small line of people were waiting. Claudia sighed and took the envelope from my hand. ‘All right. I’ll do what I can.’

  We stopped at the corner, beside an empty lot. A handful of old Trabants were parked on the uneven ground. Nothing moved on the wide, rain-washed street.

  Claudia tucked the letter into her bag. ‘Tell me something: why now?’

  ‘Is this for your report?’

  She laughed. ‘I don’t make reports.’

  ‘For the record, then?’

  ‘I don’t keep records. I’m just curious.’

  ‘It’s complicated. It has to do with a book.’

  ‘Theresa’s book?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ I realised I was still carrying The Orphans of Neustadt in my hand. ‘What I meant to say was two books.’

  Claudia shook her head. ‘Damned writers.’

  A tram was coming down the hill, dull sparks flickering in its belly. Our meeting was at an end.

  ‘So,’ she said, hunching her shoulders. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Yes. The same as yours.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why now? Why have you decided to trust me now?’

  Claudia had already set off across the street. She looked back over her shoulder. ‘What makes you think I trust you?’ she said.

  52

  The preparation for my journey, for the final abandonment of my home, for the grave crime of Republikflucht (to give it its forensic name) was no preparation at all. As Claudia had reminded me, there could be no packing, no gathering of mementos, no farewells, tearful or otherwise. I was to carry on as normal until the moment I reached Berlin, whereupon I was to cease being Bruno Krug, People’s Champion of Art and Culture, and become Werner Kleinschmidt, a sales executive at a medical supplies company near Frankfurt. This new persona was to endure for no more than a few hours. It represented a transitional phase, a chrysalis, masking my transformation from earthbound socialist caterpillar to airworthy Western butterfly. Once over the inner German border, I was to become Bruno Krug again, but beyond my name, the exact nature of that renewed identity – fighter for freedom, hypocrite, refugee, traitor – was very far from clear.

  Contrary to expectations, maintaining the appearance of normality was not easy. The clinic in Loschwitz telephoned to enquire after my stool sample, which was by now long overdue (their pills had no noticeable effect). I could not afford to arouse suspicion, so I duly set about trying to provide and bottle the requested material, an operation greatly complicated by my permanent state of anxiety, which ensured that any food I did eat – and I ate very little – went through me at alarming speed. If anything, I overdid the charade of business-as-usual. At a meeting of the regional Writers’ Union I made a long and boring speech about self-criticism in the workplace and the need for socialist writers to foster it, my first such intervention at that forum since the era of détente. I hung Christmas decorations and a string of coloured lights in my apartment. I committed to a plethora of plumbing jobs, enough to keep me occupied until well into the New Year. I even went as far as to get tickets to Taras Bulba for the following season, which entailed pulling strings with Barbara Jaeger (‘Russian opera, Bruno? What next, Russian women?’). By my standards this level of activity was frenetic and would have suggested to any conscientious observer a transition of some kind.

  I had other tasks, besides play-acting at normal life. The first was to assemble an outfit of suitable Western clothes. I owned a number of items already – most usefully the raincoat I originally gave Michael Schilling and had not yet returned – but no shoes and no tie. The latter I found at the Intershop, a gaudy floral affair in Italian silk, but the range of footwear on offer was small and almost exclusively for women. I had to settle on an ancient pair of black leather lace-ups, which I recovered from the back of the wardrobe and polished for hours on end, hoping the resultant oily shine would convey an adequate sense of prosperity and bourgeois materialism. I had also to learn my part. Anton’s instructions contained a detailed biography of Werner Kleinschmidt, which I was to memorise: information about his family, friends and employment, addresses and phone numbers, and his purpose in East Berlin, which was to visit grieving relatives in Prenzlauer Berg (it seemed Kleinschmidt had missed the funeral). This was to be the basis of a more detailed persona, which my instructions said I should develop for myself, just in case I was questioned. This part of my task held none of the pleasures that normally accompany the development of a fictional character. I was aware at all times of how brittle my creation was and how easily exposed for a cipher – the price for my lack of prowess being potentially greater than any number of bad reviews. With this in mind I finally destroyed the slender file I had stolen from the clinic in Radeburg, tearing it into little pieces and dumping it into the communal skip, concealed inside an old detergent bottle. It was, I reasoned, hardly proof of anything in itself – certainly not an unlawful killing – and if it were found on me, disaster was all but certain to follow.

  Theresa’s silence added to the torment of those nine days. I had no idea how long my letter would take to reach her. It was unreasonable to expect a reply in so short a time. But she had promised to write to me as soon as she was safely in the West and so
far I had heard nothing. It was possible the post was responsible. Correspondence did not always make it across the inner German border. It was a busy time of year. But there were other possibilities I found difficult to exclude: that my letter had silenced her, the momentous news that I would soon be in the West myself, intent on killing off Eva Aden for good. Maybe Theresa didn’t like the idea of that. As Eva Aden, she had told me she felt free. Free, famous and potentially well off. It was a lot to give up.

  The day before I was due to leave I went in search of Claudia Witt. My head was full of questions that only she could answer – questions about the border, questions about Theresa – and she would surely know by that time that I posed no threat. But what I really wanted was reassurance. I wanted to hear that my method of escape was tried and tested. I wanted her to tell me that nothing could go wrong, so long as I kept my head. Above all, I wanted her to tell me that Theresa would be waiting for me on the other side – because all this, everything I was doing, everything I was leaving behind, it all meant nothing if she wasn’t there to witness it.

  Having no home address for her, I returned to the cellar bar near the medical school in the hope she would show up there. Four hours went by without any sign of her. I was on the point of giving up when a florid young man came down the steps, polishing his spectacles with a handkerchief. I recognised him as one of Claudia’s birthday companions: Johann or Johannes or Jürgen. He seemed pleased to see me and readily accepted the offer of a drink. In the ensuing conversation it emerged that Claudia had gone to Berlin for an audition six days earlier and not come back. No one had heard from her since then.

  The young man made light of the news, but I could tell that behind his breezy delivery he was concerned.

  ‘That quintet she’s in, they were supposed to have a rehearsal today, but she didn’t show.’

  ‘I expect she stayed for some sightseeing. She’ll be back.’