The Vopo who had been conducting the interrogation smiled at his colleague and, to Katarina’s complete relief, handed the grave pass back to the father. Then he strode back through the graves, probably expecting his partner to share his cigarettes. Sure enough, the other Vopo pounded the pack against his hand and then pulled out two cigarettes, one for each of them. The other guard produced a box of matches, and they both lit up. But they still didn’t move. They continued to stare at the small cluster of mourners; the family wasn’t yet in the clear.
The mother lifted her head and glanced over at the guards. No, no, don’t do that. It was natural to look at the border guards, but do it too much and you invited questioning. The family had been instructed that if anything like this happened, they should keep praying for at least ten or fifteen minutes. They shouldn’t depart the gravesite immediately, or that would raise suspicions. But after ten or fifteen minutes, they were supposed to make their way back to their car and try the escape another day, another time.
Katarina checked her watch. It had been about fifteen minutes since the family knelt at the grave, but they weren’t moving. The father must have decided to wait out the Vopos. She knew the family was desperate to get out, and if it didn’t happen today, they were probably afraid it might never happen. But they shouldn’t stay at the grave so long, or that too might raise an alarm.
The mother suddenly threw herself forward on the gravestone, and for a second, Katarina thought she was going to pull open the hatch in panic. But no, she was just kissing the gravestone—like a grieving friend would do. The eight-year-old appeared to be crying. Maybe out of genuine fear, rather than great acting ability.
Suddenly, the mother began to wail. She bobbed up and down, her nose nearly touching the gravestone, and her husband and children gathered on all sides, wrapping their arms around her. The wailing carried to all corners of the cemetery. The keening was so authentic that Katarina wondered if the woman had worked on the stage.
The outburst of grief did the trick. The guards, clearly uncomfortable by such a raw display of emotion, headed back down the path in the direction of the trees. Katarina kept her eyes on them every step of the way until they vanished into the grove.
“The Vopos are beyond the trees,” she reported into her walkie-talkie. “But give it a little time. Over.”
Katarina wanted to wait until the Vopos were farther away before giving the all clear to Jürgen, who was positioned in the basement at the mouth of the tunnel. On her signal, he was to give three strong tugs on a rope that ran the length of the tunnel and was being held by Alexander. Then Alexander would push open the trapdoor from below, and the grave would open wide, for their tunnel came out in a small patch of ground yet unclaimed by the dead.
The grieving father looked over his shoulder at the spot where the guards disappeared into the trees, and Katarina thought she saw a flicker of a grin. This was his lucky day. He and his family would soon be entering the grave.
Sure enough, not long after she gave the all clear, the gravestone at the family’s feet began to move, as if the dead was coming alive. Then the grave opened up—a hinged trapdoor topped with grass and a phony gravestone—and Katarina caught a glimpse of the yawning hole through her binoculars. One by one, the family disappeared into the grave, on their way to a new life.
East Berlin
Elsa and Stefan strolled along the streets of her neighborhood, taking a break after studying together for a couple of hours.
“Do you have much more reading?” she asked.
“Nothing that couldn’t wait. I needed this break.”
They had been studying together regularly for weeks now, and Stefan was taking it slow with her. He hadn’t made any advances. He wanted his affections to sneak up on her.
However, he was beginning to feel a sense of urgency. Two days ago, he had spotted her meeting with the same male student that he had seen her talking with on other occasions, and she had an urgent, anxious air about her. He tried following the other student, to find out if he might be a Western contact, but the fellow lost him in Alexanderplatz. Still, Stefan suspected that she was planning something. He wasn’t about to lose her to the West, as he had lost Katarina, but he knew time was running out. He had to take action soon, or she’d be gone.
It was late afternoon, and the temperature was a comfortable seventy degrees. Elsa wore a blue beret, a colorful accent to her long blonde hair.
“What are you reading in your poetry class?” he asked as they turned on a street that led toward the border.
“Heinrich Heine.”
“One of my favorites.”
“Really? He’s mine as well.”
Stefan had done his homework and was well aware that Heine was at the top of her list of German poets. Heine was best known for his lyric poetry, and Stefan had memorized some lines for the occasion.
Nightly I see you in dreams—you speak,
With kindliness sincerest,
I throw myself, weeping aloud and weak
At your sweet feet, my dearest.
You look at me with wistful woe,
And shake your golden curls;
And stealing from your eyes there flow
The teardrops like to pearls.
“I’m impressed,” Elsa said as her shoulder brushed against his. “But you missed a verse:”
You breathe in my ear a secret word,
A garland of cypress for token.
I wake; it is gone; the dream is blurred,
And forgotten the word that was spoken.
Stefan smiled. “Sorry, but I don’t care much for that verse. The dream disappears, and the writer forgets the word that the woman breathed into his ear. I prefer to think it wasn’t a dream.”
“Why? I prefer dreams over reality.”
He nodded. After her experience with sleep deprivation, no wonder she preferred dreams and sleep. Then he took the plunge. “Today I have both. Today my dream has become reality.”
The moment these words left his mouth, he regretted them. Too much. Too saccharine. Too obvious. But somehow, someway, they did their magic. Elsa slipped her hand in his. They didn’t say a word for almost a minute, and then she suddenly yanked him forward.
“C’mon, you’re walking too slow, Stefan.”
“What’s the rush?”
She answered with a laugh and another tug on his arm. They ran together down the street toward an unsuspecting young man, who didn’t notice them coming up from behind. If they didn’t let go of their hands, they were going to bowl the fellow over and send him hurtling face-first on the pavement. Stefan tried to pull Elsa to his side of the sidewalk, but she resisted, and they remained on a collision course. At the last second, their hands parted, and they dashed around the student on either side, coming back together after they had raced past him. She couldn’t stop laughing.
As they approached the border, they noticed small clusters of people moving in the same direction and people talking among themselves excitedly.
“What do you think is happening?” asked Stefan.
“It’s Sunday, which means people on the western side are waving across the border.”
She explained that on Sundays, the West German police would let people on their side climb up on an elevated train crossing that gave them a great view across the border. Easterners and Westerners alike would carry binoculars to the border, and they’d wave their handkerchiefs and reconnect with family and friends from a distance.
“The strange thing is that I thought the view had been blocked by Vopos,” she said. “They erected this large wooden wall to block even our little glimpse of families in the West.”
That’s when they heard it. Music. Pop music. American music.
“Let’s check out what’s happening!” Elsa tugged on Stefan’s hand once again, pulling him along.
“Slow down,” he said. “We don’t want to walk into a riot.”
As they neared the crowd of about a hundred people,
the sound became louder and clearer. American music filled the air, for the Wall couldn’t keep it contained. The wooden barrier prevented them from seeing anything on the western side, but it couldn’t keep out sound. There were only three Vopos on duty along this stretch of the Wall, and they milled amid the crowd, occasionally barking orders for people to leave the area, but no one listened.
“Before, the policemen would sometimes wander in front of people and block their view, or they’d flash reflected light from mirrors into the eyes of the West Berliners,” Elsa told Stefan. “But I don’t see how they’re going to stop sound from reaching us.”
Hopping up and down, she tried to get a good look at where the music was coming from on the other side, but it was impossible.
“Let me climb on your back!”
He looked at her in surprise and found her smiling like a schoolgirl on a holiday. He wondered how she was going to manage to climb up his back in a dress, but he wasn’t going to spoil the moment by pointing that out.
“Sure. Hop on.”
She put her hands on his shoulders and jumped up. He caught her with his hands, and then she scrambled up onto his shoulders, like a child climbing a tree. He staggered for a second, and she let out a high-pitched screech.
Perched high on his shoulders, she laughed again. “I see it! It’s an American truck! I can just see the top.”
“An army truck?”
“Yes. And there are loudspeakers mounted on top of the roof.”
“That’s enough. Down. Get down now.”
Stefan wheeled around, nearly losing his balance, and spotted a scowling young Vopo.
“Sorry, sir,” he said as she slowly and silently slid down his back.
He noticed that Elsa’s carefree smile had been replaced by something entirely different. The policeman was about their age, but he terrified her, that was clear. He didn’t act in any way threatening, but just the sight of his green uniform had transformed her. She stepped behind Stefan, placing him between herself and the policeman. Who could blame her for this fear of uniforms?
The policeman moved on, for he had done his job of safeguarding the East from unauthorized peeks into the West, and Stefan took Elsa by the hand. “Do you want to leave?”
She remained rooted, thinking long before answering. With the policeman gone, her courage returned, and the defiance was clear in her voice. “No. I want to hear the music.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Stefan smiled and squeezed her hand. “Good. I like this music. It’s Brenda Lee.”
“Who?”
“An American pop singer. I heard her on Radio Luxembourg.”
She smiled again. The sultry sounds of Brenda Lee drifted into the East. Stefan could speak English quite well, so the words and the meaning were clear:
Please don’t tell me if you’re not real.
Let me keep feeling the way I feel.
I’m bubblin’ over with love supreme
And if I’m dreaming, just let me dream.
Ah, please don’t wake me if I’m asleep.
Just give the angels my soul to keep.
I’d be so happy if I could speak
And if I’m dreaming, just let me dream.
All at once, Brenda Lee’s voice took on a harsh tone, almost a growl, as she launched the next line.
My heart is jumpin’ up and down the street!
If this ain’t love, it’s the next best thing!
As the saxophone took over, several people started dancing—a slow, shuffling kind of dance. The Vopos did nothing. Just stared. Was one of them smiling and tapping his foot? Elsa squeezed Stefan’s hand.
“I love this,” she said, and her face lit up.
As the song came in for a soft landing to the words “Just let me dream,” Stefan turned and stared at Elsa’s profile, but she didn’t look back at him. He basked in her profile as she awaited another song. She wasn’t disappointed.
It was another Brenda Lee song, this one softer. A ballad. The music started out with strings, a swaying sort of sound; in fact, Stefan noticed that Elsa was already beginning to sway her hips, her long dress swishing from side to side. Then the female backups sang the word wanted several times before Brenda Lee’s lonely voice filled the air.
Alone, so alone that I could cry
I want to be wanted.
Alone, watching lovers passing by
I want to be wanted.
When I am kissed
I want his lips to really kiss me.
When we’re apart
I want his heart to really miss me.
I want to know he loves me so his eyes are misting.
That’s the way, I want to be loved.
Stefan slipped his hand out of hers and gently placed it around her shoulder. She didn’t resist. She moved in closer, so close their heads touched. The music was just right, a romantic ballad filled with longing. If he could meet the American GI running the phonograph, he would shake his hand to thank him for this selection.
It was the most surreal of scenes. Couples began to slow-dance, while the few Vopos wandered among them, trying to shepherd them away like timid and very confused sheepdogs. The music gently drifted over the border, a smoky sound.
I want someone to say good morning and good night to,
Someone I know that I will always have the right to.
Where is this someone somewhere meant for me?
Alone, just my lonely heart knows how
I want to be wanted, wanted right now.
Not tomorrow, but right now.
I want to be wanted.
Elsa leaned over and whispered into Stefan’s ears. “What do the lyrics say?”
He said softly in German, “Alone, just my lonely heart knows how I want to be wanted. Right now. Not tomorrow but right—”
He didn’t get any other words out before she leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him. She had initiated the kiss, but not with the same forcefulness as Katarina would have shown. Just a soft touch of their lips at first, but then she put her hands on his shoulders and drew him in. It was all so perfect. The taste of her mouth was sweet. She pulled back for just a second and then kissed him again—a pleasure that was suddenly overwhelmed by the roar of a truck engine. The odor of exhaust blotted out the smell of Elsa’s perfume, and she pulled away from him.
Startled, Stefan wheeled around and saw that a GDR military vehicle had rumbled onto the scene. For a moment, he thought they were about to witness a military confrontation. Over Brenda Lee? He expected soldiers to pour out of the back of the truck. But no, this truck had loudspeakers mounted on its top, and the soldiers’ choice of artillery was classical music. This was a musical confrontation, and the missiles that they launched over the Wall were the words to Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. They blared the music, and the power of an all-male choir overpowered Brenda Lee’s solo voice.
Freude, schöner Götterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium
Wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum.
Deine Zauber binden wieder
Was der Mode Schwert geteilt
Bettler werden Fürstenbrüder
Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.
Joy, beautiful spark of gods,
Daughter of Elysium,
We enter, fire-imbibed,
Heavenly, thy sanctuary.
Thy magic power reunite
What custom’s sword has divided
Beggars become Princes’ brothers
Where thy gentle wing abides.
The Americans retaliated with a much louder Brenda Lee song and cranked up the volume. The air above their heads became a battlefield, saturated with the sound of a full chorus on one side and the voice an American pop singer on the other, creating an odd symphony all its own. Brenda Lee’s twangy country roots bled through the Beethoven.
All you gotta do when you’re lonesome
Is to call on me
&nb
sp; And I’ll come a-runnin’ to you
As fast as I can.
I’ll love and squeeze you.
Uh-huh-huh.
I’ll try to please you
’Cause, baby, I want you to be my lovin’ man.
That was as far as Brenda Lee got before the Beethoven choir fired back with a matching rise in volume. Every so often, Stefan could hear Brenda’s “That’s all you gotta do”—especially when she cat-screeched the words “Tell me that your love is real.”
Seid umschlungen, Millionen!
Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt!
Brüder—über’m Sternenzelt
Muss ein lieber Vater wohnen.
Wem der grosse Wurf gelungen,
Eines Freundes Freund zu sein,
Wer ein holdes Weib errungen,
Mische seinen Jubel ein!
Be embraced, millions!
This kiss to the entire world!
Brothers—above the starry canopy
A loving father must dwell.
Whoever has had the great fortune,
To be a friend’s friend,
Whoever has won the love of a devoted wife,
Add his to our jubilation!
What they were witnessing was a milder, musical version of the standoff between American and Soviet tanks at Checkpoint Charlie last October. That standoff nearly started a war, but this one was much more amusing. In fact, Stefan found the Cold War cacophony so funny that he almost laughed out loud. He looked down at Elsa to see if she was enjoying the musical conflict as much as he was, and he was shocked to see her standing there with hands clamped on her ears, her eyes wide. Stefan didn’t know what shell shock looked like on a battlefield, but this was what he imagined it might be like. Elsa was overwhelmed by the competing sounds.
Stefan put his arm around her and hurried her away from the Wall. He noticed that she was shivering, but the shivers were not in response to his touch. It was a fear response. By this time, she was crying. He didn’t understand. One moment, she was climbing on his back and having a grand time; the next moment, she was a terrified child.
When they were away from the wall of music, Stefan stopped and pulled her close to him. They didn’t say anything, and there was not a trace of romance in this embrace. He felt a sense of failure. Wasn’t he supposed to protect her? Wasn’t he her guardian angel? He should have taken her away as soon as the truck arrived, but he had failed miserably, and the day was ruined.
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