A Night Divided

by Jennifer A. Nielsen

  A small package arrived the next morning from the post. It was labeled for me and had a return address and writing on it that I didn't recognize. The package was marked as SEEDS.

  "Who'd be sending us seeds?" Fritz asked.

  The package had been opened already and the Stasi inspection stamp was on the outside. But it didn't look like they had gone through it with anything more than a cursory examination. Seven envelopes of seeds were inside, all of them for squash.

  "Squash?" Fritz wrinkled his nose. "Who would ever want so much squash?"

  "Papa would," I replied. "It was his favorite vegetable."

  Fritz sat beside me. "Did this package come from" -- then he remembered we were bugged and changed his question -- "from anyone we know?"

  For the benefit of the microphones, I said, "I sent away for some seeds to help with the garden."

  Then I poured the envelopes out on the table. Fritz and I tore open each one but they contained only seeds. I felt beyond disappointed. Surely this package had come from my father, but I had expected more from him. When I said we needed money to help with gardening, he should have read more into that note. We didn't need seeds, and certainly not this many seeds for squash! Or worse, maybe he did send money and the Stasi had inspected it straight out of my package.

  Frustrated, I picked up the wrapping to crumple it up for the garbage, and then heard something rattle inside. I opened it again and saw one more package of seeds that was stuck in the seal. I pulled it out and made some comment about it being even more stupid squash seeds.

  But this envelope was different. It still rattled with the seeds inside but not as easily, and it was thicker than the others. I opened it and saw it stuffed with Ostmarks. I wasn't sure how much was in there, but probably more than we would spend in a month.

  My eyes filled with tears, and Fritz's too. But he shook them away and in a cheery voice said, "Well, I suppose we're planting squash, then. That was smart, Gerta, to write and ask for those seeds. By late fall, we'll have plenty of food for as many people as might want it."

  As we walked to the Welcome Building that morning, Fritz and I discussed what we should do with the money. I wanted to buy enough food to stock our cupboards again, but Fritz felt we ought to have a wheelbarrow to haul dirt.

  "The buckets don't carry enough dirt with each load, and it takes too many trips in and out of the building, which is dangerous. A wheelbarrow would be better."

  "Papa sent that money for food," I protested. We were living on so little these days that lately, my hunger won out in any argument.

  "No, he sent that money for us. And we need a wheelbarrow more than we need cheese and sausages."

  I disagreed. I'd have rather bought a hundred fat sausages with it, or better yet, a fine yellow banana from the black market. I carried my hunger everywhere with me, even into my dreams lately. Mama had said there was a lot of starvation at the end of the Second World War, but I never really understood what that meant. Not until the last few days. Now, every time my stomach rumbled and I had nothing to comfort it, I understood why she always worried about having enough food.

  In the end, Fritz won the argument, and we bought a small wheelbarrow on our way there. I'd have still rather had the banana.

  At least it made hauling the dirt easier. While he dug, I used the bucket to empty dirt from the basement into the wheelbarrow outside, all blocked from the view of the watchtower. Then I put another sheet on top and walked it over to the pond. With fewer trips, I was removing far more dirt than ever before.

  For much of the day, though, Fritz weeded and planted Papa's seeds while I continued removing dirt. It slowed down our work in the tunnel, but if the guards were watching from their tower, they needed to see progress in this garden every day.

  Late that afternoon, I was on my way to the pond with another load of dirt, covered over with two sheets from my bed, when a green Trabant Kubel with the word Volkspolizei drove up. Two police officers were inside. I froze in place while Fritz's head shot up and he jumped to his feet. I looked at him. Should we run for it? Where would we possibly go?

  "Keep working." Fritz's voice was terse. "Wait until they're not looking and then empty the wheelbarrow, but let them see you wash the sheets. Just pretend that everything is normal. We're gardening. That's all."

  I put my head down and continued walking toward the pond. I suddenly felt exposed, like spotlights were pointing down at me, revealing to the world every secret I'd ever tried to hide. The secret right in front of me. Why did a girl need a wheelbarrow to haul only two sheets? Why did her muscles strain if the load was only lightweight cotton? Why did she insist on cleaning in a pond that sent the sheets out dirtier than when they went in?

  The two officers left their car fully armed, and surveyed the lot like they already knew we were up to something. Truly, how could they miss the glaring signs of what we were really doing here? For as careful as we thought we had been, it all looked so obvious to me now.

  Fritz hailed the officers and walked out to meet them as far from the pond as possible. He invited them over to inspect our garden patch and brought them with him to the opposite side of the clothesline, leaving me free to quickly dump the wheelbarrow full of dirt. It plopped into the water far too loudly and soon I heard the footsteps of one of the officers coming my way.

  "Guten Tag." I saw white-blond hair and immediately recognized the officer as the one who had put his rifle against my cheek several weeks ago. Muller. That same rifle was still slung over his shoulder, but he also carried a sidearm pistol on his right hip. He had frightened me then, and much as I wanted to hide my fear this time, my legs were already shaking.

  "Guten Tag," I answered. My tone wasn't rude, but it wasn't friendly either.

  "I know you," he said. "You're the girl who watches the wall on her way to school."

  "It's hard to miss the wall, sir."

  He chuckled, but for only a brief moment. "Perhaps. But there are some who glance at the wall and others who seem to study it."

  I had no way to answer that, and I panicked for a moment. My eyes darted over to Fritz, wishing he were here to help me.

  But Officer Muller didn't seem to notice and only turned to face the garden. "We came to have a look at your Schrebergarten, to see your progress on this land."

  "We planted squash and corn this week," I said.

  "June is too late for planting. Nothing will grow by the time the frost returns."

  "It took us longer than we thought to clear the ground ... sir." I kept my head down, always at work washing the sheet in my hands.

  "Yes, we expected to see more than this."

  Muller started to walk away and I leapt from the pond to follow him. Fritz was already showing the other officer around the field, but there wasn't much to see. I worried that Muller might get bored and wander to investigate the building. The window we used to get inside was closed and looked as if it was nailed up just like the others. But of course, it wasn't. A firm push would open it and reveal our two-faced plan.

  "Are you a gardener?" I asked, following behind him. "Maybe you can give us some advice."

  "How long do you spend in this garden each day?" He ignored my question, which meant he had no interest in polite conversation. And he was walking directly toward the Welcome Building.

  "It varies. Often in the heat of the day we rest in the shade."

  "You are working this ground on behalf of the state, not for your own pleasure," Muller said. "If you are uncomfortable on warm days, we can find others who want the work."

  "The state isn't paying us to be here, sir," I said. "Only allowing us the use of the land."

  He turned to me. "The state does not need to pay you. You will expect some of this harvest, I assume. That is your pay."

  I lowered my head and held a tone of humility. "Yes, sir." I'd have thrown in a hundred more "sirs" if it helped. When Muller marched on, still walking toward the building, I glanced back at Fritz for assistance. W
hat was I supposed to do if Muller tried to get inside?

  But Fritz couldn't do anything to help. He was showing the other officer our permit for the land and answering whatever questions came at him. It was up to me to keep Muller away from the building. But how could I?

  Muller wasn't tall enough to see into the long upper windows, and like Fritz, he had to crouch to be low enough for the three windows at ground level. He stopped at the first window -- one that was actually boarded up, at least. He pulled out his flashlight and shone it through the cracks in the wood. Luckily, Fritz had filled in the largest gaps with extra wood, and I had gotten rid of most of the dirt that had been in there. The metal door for the air-raid shelter was closed and covered in a scuff of dirt, so he shouldn't be able to see it, and Fritz's pulley system was laid on its end in the far corner of the room. With only a flashlight, I doubted Muller would see anything more than some fallen boards.

  "Do you ever go in here?" Muller asked me.

  "It doesn't look safe to enter," I said. "The building is old and probably was bombed at one point. It looks like the whole thing might collapse soon."

  Actually, I didn't worry a bit about that happening. But I hoped he would believe it might collapse on him and decide to stay out.

  "Are there any doors to get inside?"

  I shrugged. "We're at the back of the building. The front would be on the other side of that wall. Perhaps you could access a door there, if you're allowed."

  "Of course I'm allowed!" he snapped. "But the entrance on that end is bricked over. What is your name?"

  If I thought there was any chance to get away with it, I'd have lied to him. But it was too easy to check my story. "Gerta Lowe, sir. I'm twelve years old and live about five blocks away with my mother and brother."

  "Does your mother approve of your gardening?"

  "She doesn't know. She's out of town caring for my grandmother. We hoped to make this garden a surprise for when she comes home."

  He arched an eyebrow. "Gerta Lowe. Is your father Aldous Lowe? I've seen his file."

  I hesitated. What else could I do but answer? "Yes, sir. But he lives in the west. We have no contact with him anymore." As soon as I said it, I could've kicked myself for that lie. Only that morning we had received Papa's package. If Muller checked my story, he would return with more questions. Or more officers.

  "Your father did not believe in Communism. He felt that it was only a matter of time before the GDR collapsed."

  "You'd have to ask my father about his beliefs, sir. I was very young when he left."

  Except, of course, that he had taught me everything he believed.

  Muller stared down at me and I felt like squirming beneath his gaze. "Only twelve years old? You seem older."

  "With my father in the west and my mother at work or with my grandmother, I've had to grow up fast."

  "Hmm." Muller's attention returned to the building. "So is there a way inside here or not?"

  My eye flicked to the window we used, but I quickly looked anywhere else. "We wouldn't know ... sir."

  Muller walked down and leaned over to tap on the middle window. Then he took another step toward the third window, the one that Fritz and I used. Once he pushed it, he would know. He would see what we were doing, and if I tried to stop him, that would only make things worse. I could try to run, but wouldn't get more than a few steps away before he'd draw his gun.

  "Officer Muller," his companion called. "We just got a call to investigate something farther down. It's probably a bird caught in the wires again, but we need to check it out."

  "Yes, sir," Muller called back.

  "I hope the next time you come, we'll have corn and squash to offer you." He must have detected the fake cheerfulness in my voice.

  Muller stared at me again. Was my face as flush as it felt? I could hardly keep two thoughts together and there was so much sweat on my palms that if I brushed them against my clothes, I knew it would leave marks. He frowned at me, then walked on and tapped at the third window with the butt of his rifle.

  Muller had pushed the side of the window with the hinges attached. It knocked the boards open only by a hair, but they did open and I was sure if I noticed, he must have too.

  "Officer Muller!" his companion called again, more sternly this time.

  If Muller had crouched here like he did for the others, he might have seen the boards separate from the wall. But instead he told me to stay ready -- the slogan for all young people -- and walked away. A minute later, his vehicle vanished down the road.

  I collapsed onto the dirt, so full of fear that I could scarcely breathe. Fritz came over and knelt beside me. "Are you all right?"

  "No!" I was fighting back hysterics. "He was right here, Fritz! Another second -- one more step --"

  "Just breathe." Fritz put a hand on my back and rubbed it. "Take some breaths, Gerta, we're all right."

  But I still couldn't get enough air. All I wanted was to yell loud enough to get the fear out of my body. "He had to know something was wrong. Our story doesn't make sense! There are too many holes, too much that doesn't come together!"

  "But they did believe it, and they did go away. We knew they'd come at some point, and now they're gone. It's over."

  "It's not over, Fritz." Down to my bones, I knew it wasn't over. There would be more visits and more questions. Harder questions designed to trap us. Ones we couldn't answer. This would never be over.

  Shut your mouth, then no mosquito flies into it.

  -- German proverb

  Fritz and I spent the following morning in the tunnel. He had hit more rock, but he didn't want to move sideways again. "I worry that we're tunneling at an angle," he said. "If we don't stay straight, we'll cost ourselves weeks of extra work."

  So we dug out what rock we could and made the path only as wide as it absolutely had to be for a body to squeeze through. I thought about Mama here, whether she would feel comfortable in such a closed-off area. Fritz and I were used to it, but when we brought her down here, she might not like the feeling of being in a dark and narrow tunnel so far below ground.

  After several hours' work, we got past the rock, and Fritz helped me haul what we had removed up to the surface. I was reluctant to use the wheelbarrow again -- it had been such a close call with Officer Muller yesterday -- but I wouldn't be able to get the rocks outside otherwise.

  I was on my way to the pond with a load of middle-sized rocks and some dirt, all covered over with one of Mama's sheets, when I stopped. Another visitor was coming. Anna.

  She was alone today and wore capri pants and a sturdy button-down shirt. Gardening clothes. Even her brown boots were different from her usual pair. In one hand was a basket that I knew must contain a day's supply of food and water, and in her other hand was a small shovel.

  I quietly groaned and set the wheelbarrow down.

  "Guten Tag," she called to me. "It looks like you've already had another hard day of work."

  "We have," I said. "We're probably going to quit for the day, in fact."

  "We?" Anna looked around. "Where is Fritz today?" Her voice turned skeptical. "Another errand?"

  "Yes." I knew that didn't reflect well on Fritz, but what choice did I have?

  Anna pressed her eyebrows together. "He leaves the hard work for you too often. I don't usually see him working here. Only you."

  My mouth suddenly went dry, so much that I had trouble speaking. "You've been watching us?"

  She laughed, with no idea of how serious my question had been. "Only when passing by the alley, that's all. Anyway, I told you I would come to help, and my mother said I could stay as long as I wanted. I'm looking forward to it." Her eyes darted to the clothesline. "You started doing your laundry here too? That's odd."

  "We have running water and room to hang the clothes when they're cleaned. It's better than our washer back at home."

  Anna walked with me over to the sheets to inspect them better. "Are you sure about that? I don't mean to be rud
e, Gerta. I know you're doing your best with your mother gone, but these aren't that clean."

  "I am doing my best," I said defensively.

  She wasn't being unkind. It's just that she had no idea of how tired I was, how hungry I was, and how frightened I was every minute of the day that we would be discovered. If I were any more tired or hungry or afraid, I would spend every waking minute crying and every moment of sleep racked by nightmares. But as it was, my senses were constantly on alert while we were here, and I fell into such deep sleeps at night that I couldn't remember if I still dreamed anymore.

  "I'm sorry," Anna said. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I came to help, really. And I can pull weeds or water the plants or help you with the wash -- whatever you want. I brought food we can share, even enough for Fritz if he returns. And I thought we could talk and catch up."

  I tried not to look as sad as I felt while I stared at her. Of course I wanted our friendship back. I missed her as much as I missed my parents and Dominic. In some ways, maybe more, because up until a couple of months ago, she had known me better than almost anyone in the world. And it would've been wonderful to have her company here through the long afternoons. Except for the times I was down in the tunnel with Fritz, or he was up here with me, this was lonely work.

  But it was impossible to allow Anna to stay. Fritz couldn't leave the building while she was here, and I wouldn't be able to empty the dirt, or even touch the wheelbarrow right behind me. The first thing she'd try to do if I accepted her help would be to peel off the sheet from the wheelbarrow to wash it. And then she'd see what a fraud the entire clothesline really was.

  "I appreciate your offer, but Fritz and I want to do this by ourselves." I had to be firm, but tried to be polite as well. More than ever before, I still wanted her as a friend.

  "Oh, I did hurt your feelings." Anna frowned. "I truly am sorry. The laundry is fine, Gerta. It's hard to do so much on your own."

  "I'm not on my own," I said. "I have my brother with me, and my mother will be home soon. Thank you for asking, but we don't need help." I swallowed hard and added, "We don't want it."

  "I'm trying to get our friendship back." Anna's face flushed, as if she were holding back tears. "I'm trying, Gerta!"

  But my face had turned to stone, just as hers used to do. "It's too late for that."