by Marc Levy
“Really?” continued Marina, zipping his bag shut. “Now listen. We have to leave Rome by noon. And any fool knows not to stand between a woman and her bathroom.”
“And I thought I was the complaining one.”
“Maybe you’re rubbing off on me. It’s not my fault.”
In one fluid movement, Marina pushed past him into the bathroom, only to reach back for Thomas, letting the sash on her bathrobe fall open as she pulled him into the shower with her.
The Mercedes parked in front of a row of large gray buildings. Anthony asked the driver to wait for him. He hoped to be back within the hour.
He made his way up a flight of steps under an awning and stepped into the building that currently housed the Stasi archives.
Anthony presented himself to the receptionist and asked for assistance.
He was directed down a hallway full of bone-chilling relics. Here and there, display cases housed different models of microphones, video cameras, and photography gear. There were steamers for opening mail and gluers for sealing it back up after all had been read, copied, and archived. A myriad of other objects lined the hall, equipment once used to spy on the day-to-day lives of a population held prisoner by a police state. There were pamphlets, propaganda manuals, and an array of systems for eavesdropping, which grew increasingly sophisticated as the years passed. Millions of people had been spied on, judged, and catalogued in the name of the absolutist state. Lost in his thoughts, Anthony stopped and gazed at a photograph of an interrogation room.
I know I was wrong. Once that wall came tumbling down, the change was irreversible. But who could know for sure, Julia? The people who lived through the Prague Spring? The Western democracies who turned a blind eye to countless crimes and injustices? Who could have known for sure that today’s Russia would be free of its despotic leaders? Yes, I was afraid. I was terrified that the dictatorship would bring that rush of freedom to a screeching halt, and you would find yourself imprisoned in its totalitarian stranglehold. I was scared to death of being forever separated from my daughter—not by her choice, but because a government made the choice for her. I know that you’ll always hate me for it, but had things taken a sudden turn for the worse, I would have never been able to forgive myself for not coming and getting you out. I have to admit that part of me is happy I was wrong.
“Can I help you, sir?” asked a voice from the end of the corridor.
“I’m looking for the archives,” Anthony stammered.
“You’re in the right place. What can I do for you?”
A few days after the collapse of the wall, the employees of the East German political police, faced with the inevitable fall of their regime, began to destroy everything that might serve as evidence of their actions. But they couldn’t just put millions of pages of personal data collected over nearly forty years of totalitarianism through a shredder. Beginning in December 1989, the people caught wind of the massive cover-up and seized control of the offices of the former Stasi. In every East German city, citizens took over and prevented the destruction of what represented over a hundred miles of reports of all kinds, documents that were now open to the public.
Anthony asked to see the dossier of a certain Thomas Meyer, who used to live at number 2, Comeniusplatz, in East Berlin.
“Unfortunately, I can’t help you with that request, sir,” the official in charge said.
“I thought the law guaranteed public access to the archives.”
“It does indeed. However, said law is also meant to protect our citizens against any intrusion into their private lives that might occur through the use of their personal information,” replied the employee with impeccable clarity, like a fully memorized speech.
“Perhaps it’s the interpretation of said law that’s paramount. If I’m not mistaken, the main point of this law is to facilitate access to Stasi files, in order to shed light on the influence the secret police had over the private lives of individuals,” continued Anthony, repeating verbatim the text engraved on a plaque that hung over the entrance to the archives.
“Yes, of course it is,” admitted the employee, who apparently couldn’t quite grasp what this strange visitor was getting at.
“Thomas Meyer is my son-in-law,” Anthony lied with unflinching aplomb. “Today he lives in the United States. I’m happy to report that I’ll soon be a grandfather. As you can imagine, it’s important for him to one day have a frank conversation with his children about his painful past. That’s understandable, is it not? And you, do you have children, Herr . . . ?”
“Hans Dietrich,” replied the official. “Yes. I’m the proud father of two adorable little girls, Emma and Anna. They’re five and seven.”
“How wonderful!” exclaimed Anthony, clasping his hands together. “I can only imagine how happy you must be.”
“I’m positively spoiled, really.”
“Poor Thomas. The tragic memories of his adolescence are still far too vivid for him to come carry out this research on his own, you know. I came a very long way, in my son-in-law’s name, to help give him the chance to make peace with his past and, perhaps one day, find the strength to walk these same halls with his own daughter by his side. (Between you and me, Hans, I’m sure it’s a girl.) I picture him coming back here with her, setting foot in the land of his ancestors, allowing her to find her roots. So, I implore you, Hans,” continued Anthony solemnly, “as a future grandfather talking to the father of two adorable little girls. I need you to help me. I need you to help Thomas Meyer. Be the man who, through sheer human generosity and understanding, helps bring my future granddaughter that much closer to the happiness we all know she deserves.”
Anthony could tell his story overwhelmed Hans Dietrich, so he allowed his eyes to well with tears. That seemed to do the trick. Herr Dietrich offered him a tissue.
“Thomas Meyer, at number 2, Comeniusplatz, you said?”
“That’s the one,” replied Anthony.
“Have a seat in the reading room. I’ll see if we have anything on him.”
Fifteen minutes later, Hans placed a metal binder on the desk in front of Anthony.
“I think I’ve located your son-in-law’s file,” he announced, positively beaming. “We’re lucky it wasn’t among the papers that were destroyed. The reconstruction of the shredded files is far from finished. We’re still waiting on the necessary funding.”
Anthony warmly thanked him and then politely asked for a bit of privacy to study his son-in-law’s past. Hans left him alone, and Anthony dived into the voluminous file. It began in 1980. The young man was the target of spying for a full nine years. Page after page listed his habits and movements, the people he saw and places he frequented, his skills, his literary taste, written accounts of his statements, both private and in public, his opinions, and his level of commitment to the values of the state. It listed his ambitions, his hopes, his first brush with love, and his romantic experiences and letdowns. No stone had been left unturned in dissecting Thomas’s character. Lacking a mastery of the written German language, Anthony had to ask Hans Dietrich for help with interpreting the final page of analysis, at the end of the file, updated for the last time on October 9, 1989.
Thomas Meyer, orphan, was a student with suspicious ties. His best friend and neighbor from an early age, Jürgen Knapp, had managed to escape to the West, perhaps hidden beneath the backseat of a car. He had never come back to the East. There was no proof to confirm that Thomas Meyer had played a role in J. Knapp’s escape, and the candor with which he described his friend’s plans to the Stasi informant indicated his probable innocence.
The informant had discovered preparations for the escape, but unfortunately too late to stop Jürgen Knapp and have him taken into custody. Nevertheless, the close ties between Thomas and the traitor, along with the fact that he never denounced his friend’s plans to defect, made it impossible to consider him as a promising candidate for the future of the Democratic Republic. Given the facts cited in the dossier, th
ere was no recommendation that charges be pressed against him, but it was out of the question to entrust any important state position to this questionable individual. The report recommended keeping him under surveillance to ensure that he did not have contact with his former friend or any other person residing in the West. A probation period lasting until his thirtieth birthday was recommended, before any further alteration of his status or closing of his file.
Hans Dietrich finished his translation. Stupefied, he read and reread the name of the informant who collaborated with the Stasi for the report, not believing his own eyes. The man was unable to mask his repulsion.
“Who could even imagine such a thing?” said Anthony, his eyes fixed on the name at the bottom of the page. “How wretched, awful . . .”
Hans Dietrich agreed. He seemed equally appalled.
Anthony thanked his host for his precious aid and generosity. The archival official nodded and hesitated a moment before sharing one last detail.
“I think you should know, given the context of your research, that your son-in-law has made the same discovery we have. A note in the file says he has already accessed his dossier.”
Anthony thanked Dietrich once more, from the bottom of his heart. He also assured his host that he would make a contribution to the financing of the archives’ reconstruction. He realized now more than ever how essential it was to understand the past in order to navigate the future.
As he left the building, Anthony felt the need for some fresh air to recover his strength. He sat on a bench for a few minutes on a small stretch of lawn near the parking lot.
Thinking back to all he had learned from Dietrich, he suddenly slapped a palm against his forehead and blurted out, “Of course! Of course.”
He got up and returned to the car, sliding into the backseat and promptly taking out his cell phone to call San Francisco.
“I hope I didn’t wake you up.”
“Of course not! It’s three in the morning; why would I be sleeping?”
“My apologies. But I think I’ve uncovered some important info.”
George Pilguez turned on the lamp on his bedside table and looked for a pen and paper to take down notes.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“I have reason to believe that our man may have changed his last name, or at least made an effort to use it as little as possible.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long story . . .”
“What about his current identity? Any leads on that?”
“Not a one.”
“Wonderful. You call me in the middle of the night, just for that? Well, we’re sure to crack the case now!” retorted Pilguez sarcastically before hanging up.
George turned out the light, crossed his arms behind his head, and tried to go back to sleep. Half an hour later, his wife told him to get up and go to work. She couldn’t take any more of his tossing and turning. This way, at least one of them could get some sleep.
George put on a robe and stumbled into the kitchen, grumbling. He started to make himself a sandwich, liberally spreading butter on both slices of bread, celebrating the fact that Natalia wasn’t hovering nearby with lectures about his cholesterol. He took the predawn meal to his desk. Some agencies never closed, so he picked up the phone and made a call to a friend who worked in immigration.
“If a person who has legally changed their name entered our country, would the original name still show up in our system?”
“What nationality?” asked the man on the other end of the line.
“German, born in the East.”
“In that case, yes. They would need to use their original name to attain a visa from our consulate. I imagine there would be some trace of it in our system.”
“Do you have something to write with?” asked George.
“Got my keyboard right here, buddy,” replied his friend Rick Bram, immigration officer at JFK Airport.
The Mercedes drove back to the hotel. Anthony gazed out the window, watching the city pass by. The neon sign outside a pharmacy went through a flashing progression of date, time, and temperature. It was almost noon in Berlin, 21 degrees Celsius . . .
“And only two days left,” murmured Anthony.
Julia paced back and forth across the lobby, her luggage at her feet.
“I assure you, Miss Walsh, I haven’t the faintest idea where your father could have gone. He simply called for a car early this morning and hasn’t been back since. I tried to contact the driver, but his phone is turned off.”
The concierge took note of Julia’s bag.
“I wasn’t aware of a change in your travel reservations. Mr. Walsh hasn’t made any such request. The last I was told he had decided to—”
“I don’t need my father to decide for me! I told him to meet me this morning. The flight is at 3:00 p.m., and it’s the only way to make our connection from Paris to New York.”
“You could always get a connecting flight from Amsterdam . . . that would buy you some time. I’d be happy to arrange it for you.”
“Yes, please. Could you do that right away?” said Julia, searching her pockets.
Then, to the concierge’s astonishment, Julia suddenly sighed and gave up, her head sinking down to the counter.
“Is there a problem, miss?”
“My father has the tickets.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll be back soon. There’s still time. Assuming you absolutely have to be in New York by this evening.”
A black sedan pulled up in front of the hotel. Anthony got out of it and entered the lobby through the revolving door.
“Where have you been?” asked Julia, running up to meet him. “I was worried sick!”
“Glory, glory, hallelujah! You actually care about my whereabouts and my well-being. This is a historic day.”
“Or maybe, you had me worried half to death about missing our flight.”
“What flight might that be?”
“We agreed last night to fly back today. Don’t you remember?”
The concierge cut in on their conversation and handed Anthony a message that had just come in by fax. Anthony opened the envelope and read the message, his eyes flashing over to Julia every few lines.
“Good lord. A lot can change in one night,” he replied jovially.
He waved the bellboy over to take Julia’s bag back to her room.
“Come on, lunchtime. You and I have to talk, young lady.”
“Talk about what?” she asked worriedly.
“About me, who else? Oh, Julia. Only kidding. You should have seen your face!”
They sat down at a table on the terrace.
The alarm clock woke Stanley in the middle of a nightmare. A splitting migraine kicked into overdrive as soon as he opened his eyes, as though to punish him for his excessive wine-soaked evening. He got up and staggered to the bathroom.
After seeing his face in the mirror, he swore to abstain from alcohol until the end of the month. It seemed reasonable enough, since it was already the twenty-ninth. Aside from the jackhammer pounding away at his temples, it looked like the day was going to be a pleasant one. At lunchtime, he could drop by Julia’s office for a walk along the river. Frowning, two thoughts came to Stanley in quick succession: his friend was still out of town, and she hadn’t called or checked in the night before. He also couldn’t remember a word from the drunken evening he had spent with Adam. It was only a little while later, with his memory triggered by a large cup of tea, that he wondered in a panic if the word Berlin had somehow come out of his mouth.
“Once a liar, always a liar. Or at least so one would imagine,” began Anthony as he handed Julia the lunch menu.
“Is that supposed to be directed at me?”
“The world does not revolve around you, my dear Julia. As a matter of fact, I was referring to your friend Knapp.”
Julia dropped the menu and briskly shooed away the approaching waiter before he could even get close to their table.
“What are you talking about?”
“Take a wild guess. What else would I be referring to, here with you in Berlin?”
“Just tell me what you know.”
“Thomas Meyer, a.k.a. Thomas Ullmann, is a reporter for Der Tagesspiegel. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he currently works every day with the same lying bastard who spun us that yarn.”
“Why would Knapp lie to us?”
“You should ask him yourself. I imagine he has his reasons.”
“How did you find all this out?”
“I have superpowers. Being reduced to a machine does have its perks.”
Julia raised an eyebrow at her father.
“Well, why not?” continued Anthony. “You invent animals that speak to children. I can’t enjoy the notion of possessing a few magic powers in the eyes of my own daughter?”
Anthony reached for Julia’s hand, then thought better of it. He aborted the show of affection, instead grabbing a glass of water and lifting it to his lips.
“No! It’s water!” screamed Julia.
Anthony froze with the glass right at his lips.
“I don’t think that would be very good for your circuits,” she whispered, embarrassed at the looks from the surrounding tables.
Anthony’s eyes widened.
“Why . . . you just saved my life!” he said, setting the glass back down with exaggerated care. “Figuratively speaking, of course.”
“Okay, forget superpowers. How?” Julia insisted.
Anthony looked at her for a long while and opted to leave out the episode at the Stasi archives. After all, the most important thing was the what and not the how.
“Now, using a pen name in a newspaper is one thing, but actually crossing a border is a whole other matter. We found that fateful drawing in Montreal, which, need I remind you, is only a hop, skip, and jump away from the good old USA. Thus, I took a gamble that he paid a visit to our homeland as well.”
“I stand corrected. Maybe you really do have superpowers.”