I smiled and acted out an applause, just as I used to do, then he motioned that I should leave and keep on walking. I nodded obediently, faced forward again, and then Anna and I walked away.
"You could've gotten us arrested just now," she scolded me. "And for what? A silly dance?"
"Papa was playful like that. It used to be my favorite song."
But Anna shook her head. "He wouldn't have you take that risk just to show you a dance."
No, he wouldn't. It took me the whole school day to think about it. While the others dutifully studied geometry, Russian vocabulary, and whatever else we learned that day, I considered Anna's suggestion that perhaps there had been a message in his words. Why had Papa chosen to pantomime from the middle of the song? If he had wanted me to think about this time of year -- March -- then the beginning of the song would've made more sense. And if he had danced just to bring up the fun memories, the final verse was the silliest to perform. So why choose the middle?
I figured it out during reading time that afternoon, forty-five minutes in which I could not recall a single word I'd read. It came down to the mistake Papa had made in his performance. Where he should've changed from a shovel to a rake, he only kept digging. And that was the end of his dance.
He was digging.
Papa wanted me to dig.
But why?
Fear ... was the most powerful weapon possessed by the Stasi. -- David Cook, British author
Years ago, Mama and some other women in our building used to garden in a small patch of dirt behind our apartment. They enjoyed the work, and the food from the garden was very good. But one year, the food shortages had been particularly fierce, and the harvest disappeared into the hands of those who walked by it each day. Mama never gardened again. Said it wasn't worth the bother.
I found the shovel after school, right where she had left it. It was tucked in a forgotten corner of the basement along with the things other families in our building had no room for upstairs. There were many boxes and crates, and dusty surplus tins left over from the war that probably weren't even edible anymore. Nobody ever went down here, though. The corners always stayed dark, and every time I came, it felt like the roof and dirt floor were closer to each other than the time before.
Although my instinct was to leave the basement as soon as possible, I forced myself to stay and stare at the shovel, as if another hard look would somehow help me understand what Papa wanted me to do.
Perhaps he wanted me to encourage Mama to start gardening again, or for me to plant one myself.
No, I didn't think so. He had pantomimed the lyrics for digging, not for planting.
Digging.
Maybe before he left, he had buried some sort of treasure nearby. Papa must be worried about our family, and of course he would want to take care of us.
Well, he didn't need to worry. Fritz's after-school bricklaying job helped us with money. Sure, we didn't have a television, but Anna did if there was anything I really wanted to watch. Most of our entertainment came from Fritz's record player, which was good enough most of the time. And we had no Trabant like other families, but it was okay to walk where we needed to go, and besides, they were ugly cars anyway.
Still, if Papa had some sort of treasure buried in the area, I wanted to find it. I hoped to see him again at the viewing platform soon so I could try to figure out where to dig.
Fritz didn't get home that night by supper, which was unusual. But sometimes his bricklaying required extra time at work, and so Mama and I didn't think much of going ahead without him. He would probably get back before supper was finished.
"This is better anyway." Mama's shoulders seemed heavier than usual, and just seeing them made mine feel heavy too. "I had some very sad news at work today, and wanted to share it with you in private."
I set down my fork and looked over at her. I couldn't imagine what must have happened, and already a pit was forming in my stomach.
"Your friend, Anna, has an older brother, doesn't she? A boy named Peter?"
If she had not spoken another word, I would have already known how Mama's story was going to end. I wanted to press my hands over my ears, pretending if I couldn't hear it, then it didn't happen. But life never works that way, and all I could do was close my eyes and pray that I was wrong.
"Anna's parents got a visit from the Stasi this afternoon. Peter attempted an escape last night, hidden in a special panel of a car from the west. He was discovered before reaching the border and tried to make a run to the west, but they shot him in the back. In all the confusion, the students driving the car were able to escape, but Peter didn't make it." Mama grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. "Anna probably got the news once she came home from school. The family has been allowed a day home tomorrow to mourn his loss, but this will be a terrible time for them. I thought you should know. It's a reminder to us all of what happens to those who try to escape."
They die.
Tears rolled from my cheeks, but I didn't care if Mama saw. I couldn't begin to imagine the pain that Anna and her family must be feeling right now. She loved her brother just as much as I loved both of mine. Losing one of them would feel like my whole world was coming to an end. Fritz would feel awful too. He'd feel guilty for knowing Peter's plans and not stopping him.
Wait ... Fritz had known. And he still wasn't home!
"Why isn't Fritz back from work?" I tried not to sound as worried as I was -- after all, he had been late before. But not often, and Fritz had said nobody knew Peter's secret but him.
What if Fritz had tried to escape too?
Although she had only the smallest understanding of why my face was suddenly flushed and hands were shaking, Mama said she knew I was upset and asked if I needed some time alone.
I left the table and practically ran into Fritz's room. I had half expected to see a note on his pillow too, some words of apology and explanation for his own escape attempt. There was nothing, so maybe it was just my imagination. But every minute that passed sharpened my worries. Fritz was never this late.
I reappeared in the kitchen, where my mother was finishing cleaning up, except for a plate she had left out for Fritz.
"Can we go to his job site and look for him?" I asked. "Please, Mama, can we go and find him?"
Mama pressed her eyebrows together. "Gerta, I know the news about Anna's brother upset you, but --"
"Fritz and Peter were friends," I said. "Fritz knew about the escape."
Without another word, Mama set down her dishrag and hurried to get a coat. Minutes later, we were outside, pressing through the busy city streets, deeper into East Berlin where Fritz had been hired to help lay brick for a new building.
So much of Berlin had been destroyed in the war, and even now, twenty years later, piles of rubble were still strewn about the city. The government was rebuilding as quickly as they could, but it took a lot of resources to maintain the wall. Their second priority was rebuilding public places, or areas near the border that were meant to show the world how superior our system was. It was behind the glossy scenes that everything remained in ruins.
Every day after school, Fritz had been working on one of those high-profile buildings, and they were in a hurry because of some visitors coming from Moscow. A few men were still on the job site when Mama and I got there, but Fritz was clearly not one of them. She told me to stay back while she talked to the job foreman. I hated being left behind, but a man in his position wouldn't want me in the conversation. So I waited where I could see their faces as my stomach twisted into knots.
In response to Mama's question, the foreman shook his head and his mouth was turned in a distinct frown. He checked his watch and then spoke to her some more. Even from here, I could tell that nothing he had to say was good. Where was Fritz? I wanted to scream. Why were they just standing there, talking?
Finally, Mama's back stiffened and she clutched at a handkerchief in her fist. But she only nodded, looking as if she wanted to scream too.
/> The foreman reached out a hand as if he might try to comfort her, but Mama stepped back, said a few more words, and then turned. Without speaking, she grabbed my hand and yanked me into a walk so fast that to keep up with her, I almost had to jog along.
"Where is he?" I asked. "Mama, where --"
"Hush. Wait until we get home."
The walk to the job site had taken less than a half hour, and though we were moving much faster now, it seemed like hours before we finally entered the safety of the apartment building. I asked again what the foreman had said, but by then it took all Mama's effort just to hold her emotions together.
She didn't say a word until we were inside our own apartment and her trembling fingers had locked the door behind us. Then she collapsed onto the ground and sobs poured out of her.
"The Stasi came to get him today," she said through choked breaths. "They believe he was involved in Peter's escape attempt. They took him away."
"What will they do to him?" I once overheard Papa telling my mother that he wasn't afraid of anything, except our secret police. He said that if he were ever arrested, no matter what they did to him, his life would be over.
I didn't know a lot about what happened to people after the Stasi got them. The only people who knew for sure were either the agents, or people subjected to their interrogations or tortures. They rarely talked about what had happened to them, if they ever returned.
Even the locations of Stasi prisons were secret, so I knew Mama couldn't answer any of my questions. But Fritz was her son! Even if it was only based on instinct, she had to have some answers, some way to make this better.
Except I had learned long ago that there were some things even a mother couldn't fix. She couldn't bring Papa and Dom back, or bring us to them. She couldn't keep me from missing them every single day. And nobody I knew could bring down that wall. All my mother said was, "They told Fritz it was only for questioning, but the foreman doesn't know if that's true." Then she turned to me. "Are you sure Fritz knew about Peter's escape?"
"He told me last night."
"And you waited this long to say anything?"
"By the time Fritz told me, Peter had already left. I'm sorry, Mama."
She closed her eyes and the tears ran beneath her lashes like the steady leak of a pipe. I put my arms around her, hoping to comfort her a little.
"Go to bed, Gerta."
I didn't want to. It wasn't my bedtime yet, and I wanted more than anything to stay awake until Fritz came home ... if he came home.
"I'm going to Herr Krause's apartment next door," Mama said. "He will know if there's anything we can do."
We didn't see Herr Krause as often as we used to, not since Papa left. Mama had brought him dinners after his wife died last year, but she also felt it was dangerous for the Stasi to believe that we were anything more than casual neighbors. If she wanted to see him now, then I knew how frightened she was for Fritz.
"Let me come too," I said.
"You've done enough!" Mama snapped. Then her eyes softened. "I didn't mean that. Please, go to bed."
I kissed her cheek, though I'm sure she didn't feel it. And apologized again, though I wasn't exactly sure what I'd done wrong.
On the way to my bedroom, I passed Fritz's room. The door was closed tight, which I found odd because it hadn't been when we left. Maybe he'd come home while we were out.
I turned the handle and darted in, fully expecting to see Fritz lying on his bed with his Beatles album turned low.
I saw that record first, smashed on his floor like someone had crushed it beneath his boot. Fritz had a poster of Ann-Margret on his wall, supposedly a popular actress in America, but that had been ripped down and nothing but the tacked-in corners remained. The rest of his room was in disarray, with drawers pulled out and books thrown onto his bed, but nothing else seemed to be damaged. The Stasi had been here. They had stood right where I now did, and maybe gone through our entire apartment too. Although it should have shocked me more, somehow this too seemed normal.
"I told you to go to bed," Mama called from the front room.
I almost asked her to come and see what had happened, but a voice inside me warned it would be too much for her tonight. I planned to get up extra early in the morning and clean it for her. Then, when Fritz came home -- and I had to believe he would -- everything would be okay again.
Whether that was true or not, I chose to believe. I made myself believe it, or the worry would drive me insane.
The penalties for being an accessory to the attempt to flee the [GDR] were greater than the crime of trying to flee itself. -- Anna Funder, Australian author
A cold rain was falling early the next morning, making it hard to leave my bed. It didn't help that I had barely slept, and whatever sleep I got was filled with nightmares about Fritz. When I finally did drag myself into the front room, I was surprised to see him seated closely beside Mama on the couch. He looked exhausted and had a dark bruise on his cheek where someone must have hit him. From what I'd heard about the Stasi's brutal methods of questioning, he was lucky if that's all they had done.
Mama and Fritz were sitting in silence, and at first, neither said anything to me when I walked in. I called his name and ran toward him, but he put a finger to his lips to quiet me and shook his head in warning.
"Oh good, you're awake, Gerta." Mother spoke deliberately and her words were far too cheerful to fit the situation. "We should have a nice breakfast to celebrate Fritz coming home."
Celebrate his coming home? The Stasi had arrested him and obviously questioned him by force. Maybe we were grateful, but to call this a celebration sounded like a word they would want us to use. To hear it from my mother's mouth felt strained and unnatural.
"It's a cold morning." Fritz wasn't quite as cheery as Mama had sounded, but his tone also didn't match his bruise or the heavy bags under his eyes. "Maybe I'll build us a fire while you cook. Help me with it, Gerta."
Anna's apartment was newer than ours and had central heating, which was considered a great luxury. I envied her every winter when we had to collect wood to burn for our heat, which never reached all the way into my small bedroom.
But except for the rain, I didn't think this morning was particularly cold. We wouldn't normally use up valuable wood to warm an apartment we'd all be leaving for the day. Which meant something more was going on.
Fritz stacked a few sticks of wood in our fireplace and grabbed a handful of papers to use as kindling.
He picked up the first paper and I saw his handwriting on it, which said, Be careful what you say. The apartment is bugged.
Bugged? A thousand questions instantly leapt into my mind. Where were the microphones? How long had they been here? Who was listening to them?
He knew I'd read it because my eyes were wide with fear. Then he crumpled up the paper and stuffed it into the middle of the wood stack.
The next paper had already been written out for Mama. It said, The Stasi knew about a private conversation between me and Gerta the other night. They listen to every word we say in here.
My mouth went dry. I remembered listening to the Beatles and I was sure we had complained about the GDR, because we usually did at night. That same conversation in Fritz's bedroom was where I had told Mama the details about seeing Dominic. She had come in unexpectedly, cutting off our conversation about Peter.
Fritz said Peter had told no one else about his escape. And Fritz had told nobody about it but me.
We were the reason they had caught him. The reason he was killed.
Tears filled my eyes and I shook my head, horrified at what all of this meant. But Fritz had a paper for that too. He rummaged through a few in his stack until he found one that said, We didn't know. But we do now and we'll be more careful. We must sound happy.
We'd gone too long without speaking, and Fritz called out, "Gerta and I will have this fire going soon. Then I'll shower and we can get to school. Maybe since Anna won't be at school today, I can walk Ge
rta there."
"That's a good idea," Mama said. "Although we'll both be at work after school, Gerta. I expect you to come straight home today."
"Yes, Mama." I croaked the words out, and it felt as though I were speaking them directly into a microphone, which I supposed I was. Everything around me felt forced, and I didn't see how Mama and Fritz were just carrying on like normal.
No, it wasn't normal. We never talked like this. Mama didn't make celebratory meals, and we wouldn't have celebrated his release from the Stasi anyway. And Fritz never walked me to school whether Anna was with me or not.
But there we were an hour later, with Fritz walking beside me within throwing distance of the wall. I used to think this was the last place we could talk freely, but now it seemed like the only place. Beneath a shared umbrella, our conversation was as private as it possibly could be. Still, we kept our voices low.
"I heard about Peter's death yesterday while at school," Fritz said. "A friend told me the Stasi was interviewing his parents, and that they might be arrested too."
"For what crime?" I asked. "Peter tried to escape, not them!"
"The Stasi view escape on the same level as treason. So they'll embarrass and shame Peter's family now. They'll have to work extra hard to prove their loyalty to the state."
An older couple was passing by us, so Fritz and I fell silent. When we were alone again, Fritz said, "When I heard about Peter's death, I knew the only thing I could do was keep my head down and hope nobody remembered that we were friends. I got through the end of school, but Stasi officers were waiting for me the minute I arrived at work. They said it was only for a few questions, but I knew otherwise."
"What did they do to you?"
Fritz lowered his head. Clearly he didn't want to answer that question, not even for me.
By then, we were passing the platform where I had seen Dominic and Papa yesterday, but they weren't there this time. I had been so sure they would come -- after all, if Papa was trying to send me a message, then why wouldn't he be here? Especially today, of all days.
Maybe it was for the best. Even from the distance between us, Papa might have been able to see the dark bruise under Fritz's eye. It would worry him.
A Night Divided Page 4