The Escape

by Clare Harvey

  You have to hold the Rolleiflex like a prayer, just below the centre of your chest, and the double-mirror lens works like a kind of reverse periscope. The effect, in the shots, is to lift the horizon, making subjects appear somehow more heroic.

  It seems right to use a Second World War-era camera here in the forgotten underbelly of Berlin: everywhere I look I see walls pock-marked with bullet holes, rubble-strewn abscesses in once-grand terraces. I think about how it would have been in 1945. Echoes of that time are everywhere, just beneath the surface: ghosts in the pitted stonework, like a double-exposed film. When the boys’ ball comes my way I kick it back, and they grin their thanks.

  I walk on. There is a space of waste ground between the raggle-taggle street ends and the Wall, wide enough for army jeeps to barrel round on patrol, although there are no sign of them now. Weeds, dog mess, and used needles scatter the pitted concrete.

  I pause and look up over the Wall. Stabs of midday sunlight through grey clouds create a halo above East Berlin. Then something twitches in my peripheral vision. Up ahead I see a group of youths, huddled, tussling with something. There is movement: grunting, thuds. Perhaps some rival gang member is getting a good kicking? I should walk away. But I don’t. I lift the Rolleiflex to my chest, like a shield, and close in. My shoes crunch on broken glass. As I approach I hear the young men are chanting something – what?

  ‘Mauer muss weg!’ comes the shout – The Wall must go!

  The forest of denim and leather gives way easily as I arrive at the scene, as if they expect me. A young man with his sleeves rolled up is wielding a sledge hammer at a piece of graffiti-scrawled wall. The grunts and thuds I heard from a distance are the sounds he makes as he attacks the concrete. His sinewy arms bulge, and another piece of the Wall comes loose. There’s already a jagged smile appearing in the Wall, a glimpse of the other side.

  Eventually the young man gives up, to cheers, backslaps and more chants: Mauer muss weg: the Wall must go! He passes the sledge hammer on to his curly haired friend, who shrugs off his jacket and rolls his shoulders in readiness. I carry on photographing them.

  I run out of film. None of them notice as I slip away. I begin to retrace my steps, back towards Kreuzberg. I’m going to the apartment, to the party, to Quill. I tell myself not to worry, that the weekend here is an opportunity to take more photos. Quill is right. History is happening, and it is a privilege to witness it.

  As I can’t get a new passport until Monday, I’m trapped here, so why not celebrate freedom, along with everyone else in Berlin today?

  Chapter 7

  January 1945, Nazi Germany

  Tom

  With the hot potato in his hands he could begin to feel his fingers again. Good, they weren’t frostbitten. When Tom had been eavesdropping on the guards, Gordon had fallen asleep, and slipped, unnoticed, in to a recess behind the hay bale in the barn wall. When Tom returned, he was momentarily panic stricken, thinking the bugger had gone and done a Scott of the Antarctic on him, but he’d found him quickly enough, wedged in the corner, snoring into the mouldy straw.

  Tom chewed on the glorious boiled potato. It was hard and starchy, the skin green-grey and slippery. But it was hot, and it was food. From his squatting position next to the ginger moustache man, Tom looked up at the barn. There was a hole in the roof through which occasional snow flurries fell like fairy dust. But the rest of it was solid enough, roof tiles supported by huge oak-hewn wooden rafters. The eaves were brown-black shadows behind the beams. There were birds up there, a couple of pigeons fluttered – someone had made a vain attempt to lure them down with a piece of potato skin, thinking of roast pigeon, but the birds weren’t stupid. Tom looked up. The struts were huge, wide as a man, and that dirty grey colour of aged wood, almost the same colour as his greatcoat.

  The guards were still in the next barn, smoking and gossiping, taking their time, emboldened by the absence of their boss. Sometime soon they’d drain their mugs, pack the handcart, and someone would bellow ‘Raus!’ at the POWs. Then they’d all be off again into the endless, angry chill, so cold it numbed their thoughts as well as their limbs. On the march it was as if everyone forgot their dreams of escape into the liberating arms of the Reds, and focussed merely on the next step, the next breath. He’d have to carry on shouldering Gordon’s weight until – until what? Would the time come when he’d have to let them put a bullet in his pal’s neck and leave him by the wayside? Perhaps he’d ask the goons to do him a favour and finish him off at the same time. Perhaps that was how his war was destined to end. He chewed the remaining scrap of potato and swallowed it down.

  Tom thought again of the commandant, loping lupine up the track, miles away by now. He thought of the woman in that last village, the pulse of recognition as their eyes met. And he thought of the photograph that Gordon kept of his wife, Dorothy, tucked in the breast pocket of his uniform, underneath the RAF badge, above his heart. He touched the spot on his own greatcoat then, on the left. He couldn’t feel the insignia through the thick cloth, but he knew it was there. ‘Sod this for a game of soldiers,’ he muttered, as he pushed himself upright. He nudged past Ginger Moustache and leant over Gordon. If anyone were looking, which they weren’t, it would merely seem as if he were waking up his chum ready for the march. ‘Stop snoring and lie still for me, will you?’ he said, shaking Gordon’s shoulder, and Gordon opened his eyes and moved his chin a quarter of an inch downwards in acknowledgement.

  Just as he expected, there were footsteps and scuffling outside, the barn door was flung open, and the call came: ‘Raus! Raus!’ The groaning throng began to lumber to their feet. He could see the guard’s pale face, his shouting mouth, but the man didn’t bother coming in to rouse them, just yelled into the gloom.

  There was such a scuffling crush as everyone got up, that nobody took much notice of Tom grabbing the disintegrating hay bale and shoving it over Gordon. He kicked some muck and twigs over the top, too. It was dark over this side, and you could barely tell. He caught Ginger Moustache watching as he scrabbled to scatter the last few bits of straw, but the man looked pointedly away as soon as their eyes met.

  The prisoners had begun to shuffle out into the barnyard. Tom realized he’d need to be quick. All he had to do was get up that strut and into the rafters, quick as climbing the apple tree in the garden back home. His fingers scuffed the disintegrating brickwork as he reached up.

  ‘Schnell!’

  Damn. The guard was back, waving his rifle. Too risky. Tom filed out into the aching cold with the others. The driving snow stung his cheeks. They began to walk, along the track, following where the commandant had gone: fresh snowfall had already covered his footprints. Tom fell in beside Ginger Moustache, who raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  It was easier to walk without Gordon to support, and he managed to work his way up the column. Eventually he came across Oliver, his old hut-mate. He was limping a little, with blisters, but hadn’t yet succumbed to dysentery. They paused to clap clumsy arms on each other’s shoulders, then carried on trudging ahead. There were no guards in the centre of the column, but even so, Tom moved in close enough to whisper. ‘Say cheerio to the others for me.’

  ‘Beg pardon?’ Oliver’s voice was almost inaudible, muffled behind the scarf he had wrapped over his face.

  ‘I’m off. Don’t let on but send Edward and the others my best, won’t you?’

  ‘Are you mad? You’ll get yourself slotted!’

  ‘If any of the goons notice, just say I’ve got the shits.’

  There was an old oak tree up on the left, with a broad trunk, and beyond it the track curved away to the right. As they drew level, Tom headed towards it, making a show of fumbling with his fly. There was a ditch at the side of the road, too, and the tops of scrubby bushes poked through the snow drifts.

  Tom crouched down, watching the column plodding past. He resisted the urge to lie down, below the line of sight, because if anyone saw him lying in the ditch he’d be shot – for
attempting to escape, or being too ill to walk – either way he played it.

  The column was almost past now. The snow was still sheeting down, and everything was grey-white and blurred. If any guards saw, surely they’d think he was just another diarrhoea-sodden POW crapping in the bushes. But this was the most risky bit. There was a guard at the tail end of the line. If he were spotted now, the guard would wait for him, nudge him with the barrel of his weapon back to join the others.

  Then he spotted Ginger Moustache, who’d dropped right back, lumbering alongside the sickies and the tail-end goon. He was walking on the guard’s right-hand side. Tom crouched behind the oak tree, to the guard’s left. Just as they approached, he heard Ginger Moustache strike up a conversation: ‘I say, old boy, is it true we’re headed to Breslau?’

  ‘Wie bitte?’ The guard turned to respond. He was close enough for Tom to hear the soft crunch of his solid army boots on the snowy track beside him. He held his breath. Counting the seconds along with the footfalls: one, two, three . . .

  ‘Breslau, someone said, but that means heading north, doesn’t it? And I suppose you want to keep on going west, given the circumstances, don’t you?’

  ‘Breslau?’

  ‘Yes, are we going – farhren wir nach – Breslau?’

  There was a pause then, and for a moment Tom thought the guard had stopped.

  ‘Breslau? I don’t know. We are waiting for orders.’

  The sound of the boots came from beyond the tree trunk now. Tom counted . . . sixteen, seventeen, eighteen . . . his chest bursting with pent-up breath. He closed his eyes, willing time to pass.

  ‘What would you do, if you were in command?’ Ginger Moustache’s voice was further away.

  ‘Command?’

  ‘Yes, if you were the commandant, what would you do? Take us to Breslau, or head west? What would your command decision be?’

  Tom could barely hear the footfalls now.

  ‘We are waiting for the orders.’ The guard’s voice wavered with impatience, but it was harder to hear, turning the corner.

  . . . Twenty-nine, thirty . . .

  The voices eased into the distance and Tom exhaled with careful slowness. The muffled boom of a gun came from the east. He waited a little longer, to be certain.

  Finally, painfully, he unwound from his crouching position. Pins and needles burnt his legs where they’d been bent for so long. He stamped his feet to get rid of the sensation. The road was empty in either direction now.

  Tom checked once more before setting off. Could anyone see? No, they were gone, hundreds of men simply swallowed up in the wintry landscape. He walked along the ditch, just in case – if he did hear or see anything he could drop to the ground and be hidden from the road. He made slow progress, squinting into the snow, and stumbling over hidden branches in the drifts.

  The sound of the artillery came again, and he smiled. He was walking towards the booming of the guns, at last: towards the farm buildings, towards Gordon, towards the Russian front.

  Eastwards – towards home?

  Chapter 8

  November 1989, West Berlin

  Miranda

  The apartment door is open, so I walk in, dangling the bottle of red wine I’ve picked up from the corner shop on the way, and dropping my rucksack in the hallway. Music blasts from the stereo. There is an old tin bath full of ice cubes and beer bottles on the hallway floor. In the kitchen a woman in a green cocktail dress winds an arm round the neck of a black bloke in tight jeans, and plants her face on his. I go through to the living room, crowded as a nightclub, the sofa-bed shoved out of the way against the wall, the speakers thumping. The air is thick with the tang of marijuana smoke. Everyone has made an effort: heels and dresses, shirts and aftershave. Dieter has even installed a miniature light set on top of the sound system: coloured lights flash along with the beat.

  My gaze trawls the room. Here and there guests are huddled around tiny mirrors upon which white powder is chopped and scraped into wispy white lines by razor blades, taking it in turns with rolled-up twenty Deutschmark notes: one nostril, then the other. I try not to look shocked at the blatancy of the cutting and snorting, and take refuge behind my Leica lens, snapping shots of the partygoers, some of whom grin and wave, like celebrities on the red carpet.

  ‘Miranda, where have you been?’ It’s not Quill but Petra who grabs me. Her Berlin bob is swept back and glistening, a black silk shift dress shimmers, her glossy lips part. ‘Dieter, look who’s finally here!’ she calls out. Then I see Dieter, fat joint in one stubby hand, bottle of beer in the other.

  ‘Where’s Quill?’ I have to raise my voice to be heard.

  ‘He just went out to the phone booth to make a work call.’

  ‘I’ll go and find him,’ I say. I need to check in with the picture desk anyway, make sure my shots have arrived. I pull away from Petra’s grasp, pass the grinding bodies in the kitchen, grab my rucksack, and go back outside into the grey afternoon. The clouds have thickened and the graphite sky pushes down on the angular rooftops. I turn up the collar of my jacket against the cold.

  My stupid heart lurches when I see him, turned away from me, black hair flopping forward, broad shoulders filling the phone box. I reach the booth and stand close to the glass, directly behind him. But he doesn’t notice me. I wait. Petra told me it was a work call, and that concerns me, too, with everything that’s been going on, so I do not think of it as eavesdropping. Not at first.

  ‘Is that you, mate? Finally. Took your sweet time about it . . . the line’s shocking, isn’t it? Is it just as bad your end? Okay, okay,’ he raises his voice, shouting to be heard. ‘So, mate, you’ve heard the news, obviously. It’s a bit sooner than anticipated, but, you know, time and tide . . .’ I lean in against the glass. At first I’m just hearing, not actively listening. ‘So you need to sail to Salcombe as usual, but this time Jules will be there to meet you. The pair of you are going to go together to Coors’ place on the coast of the Netherlands – I’ll fax the details . . .’

  Why? Why is he telling people to sail to the Netherlands? What has this got to do with our piece for the Sunday Correspondent?

  ‘Jules will cut the stuff en route, and Coors will deal with it from there on in. He’s a good chap: solid, yeah. His fiancée is an air hostess with Interflug and we’ve got the customs at Schoenberg and Stasi chaps sewn up, too . . . What? I do wish you’d do your bloody prep, mate. Schoenberg is the airport in East Berlin and the Stasi are the state police. For fuckssake.’

  He shifts the receiver to the other ear, then, and I think he’s going to turn and see me, but he doesn’t. And I know I should walk away, or at least let him know I’m there, but I don’t do that either. I carry on listening.

  ‘We’ve got to move now, to get control of the supply routes, take advantage of the chaos and steal a march on the others . . . What’s that? You’ll have to speak up, mate.’

  He straightens up, and I am sure he’ll catch sight of me now. But the traffic zooms past, reflections play on the glass panels, and still he doesn’t notice me there, just beside him.

  ‘My what? My front? My cover? What are you talking about? Oh, you mean the gorgeous Miranda. No, she’s not going anywhere, I’ve made sure of that, so yes, to all intents and purposes I’m just an innocent journalist with his photographer girlfriend, covering the Berlin situation for the foreseeable future. It’s perfect. Even better because as far as she’s concerned, it’s the truth. And you know what, her shots are so good that I can file any old shit and they’ll publish it as a picture-led piece. Which gives me more time to focus on the operational side of things this end. Yeah, I know, right . . .’ He starts to laugh.

  I knock on the glass. He looks up, sees me, smiles his toothpaste smile through the pane. ‘Talk of the devil – here’s my precious pet now. Gotta go mate. Ciao.’ He hangs up, pushes open the booth door.

  ‘Miranda!’ He steps forward to embrace me, but I pull away.

  ‘I heard,’ I say.


  ‘What?’

  ‘The whole conversation you just had, with whoever it was.’

  ‘Baby, listen–’ He holds his hands out, palms upwards, head to one side. ‘It’s not what you think . . .’ I shake my head and take a step backwards. ‘Oh come on, it’s just cocaine. It’s just a lifestyle choice,’ he says. ‘It’s not like that shit that did it for your dad.’

  ‘You know nothing about my dad.’ I hear my voice waver, feel the heat rising in my chest.

  ‘Miranda, look. It’s business, that’s all. Now the Eastern Bloc is bound to open up, there’s a huge potential gap in the market. If we get in first, we can make a killing.’

  ‘A killing?’

  He nods, smiling into my eyes, not hearing my tone, thinking he’s brought me round.

  ‘No, Quill. I won’t be your ‘front’ or your ‘cover’ or your ‘pet’ or however else you think of me.’ I make a move to go, but he grabs my wrist, twists my arm up behind my back. The wine bottle falls and smashes on the pavement. He pushes me inside the booth, then lets go of my hand, spins me round, and shoves me up against the phone.

  ‘I need you,’ he says, pushing his face in close. His expression is a mixture of anger and bewilderment.

  ‘It’s over,’ I say. ‘We’re over.’ I can’t meet his gaze, and look away, hearing the growl of cars and a distant shriek of police sirens.

  I don’t know how I expect him to respond, but not like this. It comes, sudden as a hammer blow. A buzzing in my head, a moment of blackness. I hear myself cry out as if it is someone else – disembodied, apart. And then I open my eyes and I am back here in the phone box with him. I feel it then: a bursting pain in my right brow.

  ‘You headbutted me?’ Even as I stutter out the words, it seems impossible. ‘Why?’

  ‘Knock some sense into you.’ He turns and pushes open the booth door. ‘I’ll see you back at Dieter’s.’ And he lets the door shut behind him, trapping me inside. I watch him go, through the grimy glass, shrinking into the Berlin afternoon.