Rift Zone

by Raelynn Hillhouse

  They entered an overheated room where another officer and a female customs official awaited her. The woman’s thin hair and frail frame indicated the poor nutrition she’d received growing up under the communists in the lean 1950s.

  “Please.” The woman reached out for her purse.

  Faith handed her the purse, parked her trolley and sat down. The woman opened the handbag and spilled the contents onto the scarred table. She examined Faith’s wallet, carefully removed the currency and fanned it out. Faith rested her hands on the table. The inspector paused and glared at Faith. “Hands away from the table.”

  “Sorry. I thought you would want them visible.”

  “Hands away from the table.” The woman flicked the credit cards onto the tabletop as if dealing blackjack. She returned to the wallet and removed a yellowed piece of paper. The crease in it was almost torn through.

  Faith moved forward in her seat. No. Not that. She had carried the note in her wallet most of her life and she read it religiously every day in memory of her father. It was the only thing she had from him, a few cryptic words written in old German script. Please don’t take it.

  The woman unfolded it.

  “Careful. The paper’s fragile.”

  “What does it mean?” The woman held it at arm’s length and read, “We had no chance, but we made ourselves one.”

  “I have no idea. Just a piece of poetry my father read to me as a kid.” She wished she had known her father so he could’ve read it to her. As a teenager she’d immersed herself in Goethe and Schiller, searching for those lines, for the message from her father. She never found it.

  The woman carefully set aside the note and Faith let out a sigh of relief. She resumed her search. She examined the last fuzzy breath mint and patted the empty bag. “Please stand and hold out your arms.” She frisked Faith, slowing down as she probed her breasts. She reached inside of Faith’s pockets and found the U-Bahn ticket. Upon noticing the numbers scrawled on it, she presented the ticket to the officer.

  “Would you like me to undertake a more intimate exam?” the woman said.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “The packages?”

  “Not yet. You may go.”

  The younger officer read the numbers and dropped the U-Bahn ticket before Faith. “What does this mean?”

  “It means you can go for a ride on the U-Bahn with one of these.”

  “The numbers.”

  “No idea. Looks like it’s been living in the underworld of my purse forever.”

  “But we found it in your pocket. Maybe the number’s a code.”

  “Maybe a direct number to the White House or a secret Swiss account at the Deutsche Bank? Or a—”

  “Enough.” The ranking officer held up his hand. “Frau Whitney, I have no interest in your purse trash. What you did today interests me.”

  “I had lunch with the Assistant Minister of Education.” The air seemed thinner as she struggled to maintain the rhythm of her breath.

  “You were in his office.”

  “He needed help with his computer. I opened it, tried to repair it, but couldn’t. A part is broken.”

  “Where is the part?”

  “I don’t know. I showed him the one that was bad. Maybe he threw it away.”

  “You agreed to take it to the West for repair.”

  “I refuse to take state property of the GDR out of the country. I’m a law-abiding guest of the GDR. I’d never—”

  “Frau Doktor Whitney, we know who you are and what you do.”

  “Apparently not,” Faith said.

  The officer snorted and turned to the younger man. “Get Frau Simmel back. We do have grounds for a body search, including all cavities. When Simmel is finished with her, I want to take a look in those packages.”

  Faith slumped over the table in the interrogation room, the now-wilted mums in front of her. She had been through several full physical searches before and had accepted them as an occupational hazard. Tonight was different because they weren’t looking for anything; they knew her person was clean. They wanted to humiliate her.

  They did.

  The officers returned and Frau Simmel smiled at her, but Faith looked away.

  “It’s time to inspect those packages. Place them on the table and untie the bundles,” the ranking officer said. “Frau Whitney, is there anything you would like to confess to first?”

  Faith ignored him, unfastened the bungee cords and heaved the packages one by one onto the table. As she picked at the tight knot, the slick synthetic twine shredded into dozens of thin strands. She broke a fingernail and ripped off the jagged fragment. She finished and stepped aside.

  The gangly officer folded back the wrapping paper. He opened a book and a cardboard bear sprang up. The corrupt Nigerian diplomats charged her a fortune to rent the diplomatic immunity of their Mercedes’ trunk, but any price seemed worth it at the moment. The new method of hand-off needed some refinement, she thought, as she ran her finger over her scraped hand.

  “What is that?” the officer said.

  “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”

  The senior officer pushed the other man aside and picked up a gray clothbound history of the Socialist Unity Party and flipped through the pages. “You expect me to believe you intend to read this, too?”

  “I’ve had insomnia lately. Keep having nightmares the Stasi is out to get me.”

  He hissed. “Repack the bags and go.” The officer looked her in the eyes. “Pleasant dreams, Frau Doktor.”

  The bastard could have released her beyond the final border control, but he didn’t, so she still had to pass the final passport check. More than once she’d seen them release someone here only to return for them within minutes. Four of the fourteen Formica passport-control chutes were open. White metal signs designated lanes for different nationals, separating East from West, West Berliners from West Germans and GDR citizens from everyone else. Faith watched her arm tremble as she handed over her passport. The guard’s head was motionless, but his eyes dashed between the photo and her face.

  “Take off your glasses. Push your hair behind your left ear,” he said in a monotone.

  A purple light flashed from the computer scanning her passport. He straightened his tie as he waited for her file. He glanced into an angled mirror high on the booth opposite him as if it enabled him to read her thoughts. She emptied her exhausted mind. He turned page after page, studying her movements. He stamped it and then the lock on the door clicked.

  She was almost in the West. Almost.

  Faith dragged herself down the long corridor and up the concrete stairs on shaky legs, heaving the damn cart up one step at a time. The tourist rush was long past and only a handful of people waited for the train to the West. Sentries toting machine guns paced back and forth on the catwalk above the platform. Their wide, baggy pants were gathered into high black leather boots, casting an ominous shadow of an earlier Germany. She bought Swiss chocolate from a state-run kiosk peddling communist propaganda and duty-free Western luxuries. She devoured the candy, her excitement rising. She had almost beaten them again.

  A commuter train rolled into the S-Bahn station. The blond wooden paneling and slatted seats had survived one, maybe two wars. She grabbed both metal handles and pulled open the heavy doors of the first car. Several minutes later, they crept from the station. High fences topped with barbed wire escorted the train the short distance through East German territory. Floodlights bathed the crumbling buildings, their windows bricked over to prevent their occupants from joining the handful of East Berliners who somehow scaled the Wall every month. She prayed tonight wouldn’t be the night for another attempt.

  Bright lights cast tall shadows from the dead strip between Berlins. Searchlights scratched the surface of the murky Spree. Spiked grates were invisible underneath the river’s polluted waters, but visible in the mind of every Berliner.

  Faith looked, just in case.

  After t
he train rumbled across the bridge into the safety of the West, she smiled; a more buoyant celebration of her little victory went on in her mind. At the first station, flashy Joe Camel and Marlboro man ads greeted her to the West. Her brain needed a few seconds to adjust to the color onslaught.

  A West Berlin engineer relieved his Eastern counterpart. The man glanced at Faith a little too long. When would these guys roll over and admit defeat? They couldn’t do anything to her in the West, so she slumped in her seat, closed her eyes and promised herself a shower within the hour.

  She couldn’t drag the books another inch, so she decided to leave them on the train and take only the trolley and flowers. At the Tiergarten station she climbed off, anticipating the solitary walk along the Spree canal, gas lamps casting romantic shadows on the cobblestones. Tonight especially she needed the walk.

  The stationmaster and two men in formalwear were the only ones on the platform. Faith quickly catalogued the young man’s appearance: tall, blond, blue eyes, athletic—a Nazi dreamboat. The older gentleman seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place him. His high forehead made his face long and kept his wide cheekbones from making it seem round. His silver-gray hair and goatee were meticulously trimmed, as if someone touched them up every day. He was striking now in his early sixties and Faith had the impression he’d been quite a ladies’ man in his youth. Maybe she knew him from the movies.

  The men did not board the train. They watched Faith.

  Faith swung around toward the back exit, but it was cordoned off for repairs. The stationmaster blew her whistle. The draft of the train rustled the newspapers wrapped around Faith’s flowers. She picked up her pace and veered behind the occupied bench. The men stood.

  She walked faster, but they followed her.

  “Frau Doktor Whitney. May I have a word with you?” The man with the goatee squeezed her arm. “Walk with me as if nothing’s unexpected.”

  “Let me go!” Faith jerked away, dropping her mums, scattering them across stained concrete. “How do you know who I am?”

  “You know.” He held her firmly and forced her to walk with him. The Aryan squatted and gathered the flowers while the older one spoke. “We have a proposition for you, Frau Doktor.”

  “Sorry, I just got off work for the day. Feier Abend. We can talk tomorrow.” How dare they violate the rules and come after her in the West. They’d played the game fairly for years, each time leaving off when she managed to get to West Berlin and resuming when she returned East. The Cold War depended upon honoring such clear rules of engagement. She sensed her commuter pass had just expired.

  “I think these are yours.” The younger man presented Faith with her mums.

  The man with the goatee continued to hold her with one arm. “Be calm, Frau Doktor. We’re here to apologize for our associates tonight. The cavity search was unauthorized. Henker is a crude man, usually effective, but crude. When I heard about it, I left my dinner to find you, but you’d already left pass control.”

  “I’ve never heard of anyone authorized to go West on a whim. Who the hell are you?”

  “Someone in a position to assist you with a visa, among other things. You see, it seems you just paid your last visit to the GDR, unless we can come up with a mutually satisfying agreement, but I’m sure we can.”

  “What do you want?”

  The older man looked at his watch before descending the stairs. It was Russian-made. “The cabaret hasn’t begun yet. There’s no reason for the entire evening to be ruined. Come along and we can discuss matters.”

  “Why should I?”

  “You will enjoy it,” he said as if issuing a command.

  “I’ve been followed, set up, strip-searched and now you want to take me to dinner and a show? The Stasi has a lot to learn about dating.”

  “Actually only a show. We’ve missed dinner.” A shiny Mercedes with West Berlin plates pulled up at the base of the stairs. “And you have no choice but to come as our guest.”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  A ghost is haunting Europe—the ghost of communism.

  —KARL MARX

  WILDFANG RESTRICTED WILDERNESS AREA,

  GERMAN DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC

  ONE DAY EARLIER, MONDAY, APRIL 17

  Minister for State Security Erich Mielke aimed his shotgun at a quail. He wanted only one thing more than to blast the bird, but he knew he’d never get it if he violated the strict etiquette of a hunt with Erich Honecker and bagged more birds than the Party boss. His finger was on the trigger and he had a clear shot at the plump bird, but he still had to convince Honecker of his plan. Mielke bit his lip, shifted his aim slightly and fired. Leaves rustled as a covey of tasty quail fluttered away.

  The day seemed unending as they walked from the meadow back into the forest of the private nature reserve. Hunting there was strictly forbidden, but rules never applied to the Party elite. The elderly leader Honecker stopped and raised his shotgun. Shaking, he followed a pheasant. It didn’t matter that the bird wasn’t in season, only that it was within his sights. He struggled to steady the firearm, but trembled even harder when he pulled the trigger. The recoil knocked him off balance and he stumbled. With a few frantic flaps of its large wings, the golden bird disappeared into the woods.

  Honecker caught his balance and stomped the ground, smashing rotting leaves into the mud. “Drat! I should have had that one.”

  “Next time, Erich. You’ve already shot more than I have.” Mielke patted his lifelong colleague on the back, disgusted that Honecker left him little choice but to leave their prey behind where they’d killed it. Just once he would like to eat their quarry, but Honecker couldn’t be cajoled to sample anything that came from the woods or water. Mielke hoped he could be persuaded into far more. Everything depended on it. “What do you say that we head back to the lodge for a nice thick Kassler?”

  “Sorry, can’t hear you. Turned the thing down so I wouldn’t blast my eardrums.” Fumbling with his West German hearing aid, Honecker led his companion down the wood-chip-covered path. “I can’t get this morning’s briefing out of my head. What are the Hungarians thinking? Opening their border to the West is madness. They’re playing right into imperialist hands. Don’t they get what that’ll do to the socialist brotherhood? To us?”

  Mielke said mildly, “My old friend, times have changed. I’m telling you, the day the Hungarians open their frontier to Austria, you’ll see our young people rush out of here faster than the Tsar left Petrograd.”

  “You can’t know that for sure.” Honecker shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Our citizens love the GDR and they worship the Party.” His voice trailed off as he added, “And they adore me.”

  “If there’s one thing my shop’s good at, it’s knowing what’s in the head of the GDR citizen. When someone takes a leak, we know. And I can tell you for certain that they’re pissing on us right now. You’ve trusted me for years, so trust me now: We’re looking at the end.”

  Honecker stopped and held Mielke’s gaze for several seconds. He turned away and continued down the path, the butt of his favorite shotgun dragging along the ground behind. The younger Honecker wouldn’t have tolerated anyone abusing a firearm like that. The man was getting too old—they all were. But everything to which they had dedicated their lives was now falling apart and they somehow had to rally themselves for one last struggle.

  Mielke walked behind the Party chief, studying the man for the right moment. “Our intelligence shows that Gorbachev himself signed off on the Hungarian plan. Unless we do something fast, it’s over.”

  Honecker shook his head and muttered to himself as he ambled along.

  Mielke’s chest tightened. He had to get through to the man. Not only was the Marxist-Leninist world at stake, but they themselves were in danger. As head of the Ministry for State Security, the MfS, the Stasi, Mielke had seen what they had done to their own people. Without the iron grip of the state security apparatus, he doubted they could survive forty years of repre
ssed wrath. Even if they somehow escaped the vengeance of the GDR citizens, he knew they wouldn’t make it past the West Germans. After the war, the communists had treated the former Nazis the way they deserved, but the West Germans had allowed them in their government and had promoted them within their judicial system. Mielke knew the old fascists were waiting on the benches of West German courts for their revenge. “Erich, comrade, do you hear what I’m saying? We might as well pack up right now and head down the beaten trail to South America.”

  Honecker kept going.

  At the Land Rover, Honecker opened his firearm, removed the unused shells and then stopped. He stared into the setting sun until it disappeared. “You know the Soviet Union is my first love. My family and I celebrate New Year’s Eve at midnight Moscow time—even though it’s only ten here in Berlin. Still, Gorbachev has to be stopped before it’s too late.”

  Mielke nodded. Breakthrough at last.

  Honecker strolled to the passenger side and, on his second attempt, heaved himself into the high vehicle. “Did you get the last James Bond film for me? I want to review it before the new one comes out.”

  “We got it for you last month. You told me you didn’t like the new guy because he didn’t always wear a tux. You ordered the Aerobisex Girls 2 and Emmanuelle in Bangkok for this week. My boys picked them up this morning in West Berlin.”

  Mielke had known Honecker most of his life and until that moment thought he could predict his every reaction. He studied his unyielding face and wondered if he really were growing senile. “Did I understand you correctly—that you want us to stop Gorbachev?”

  “Jawohl. Under no circumstances are you to involve any factions of the KGB or Soviet Army. Our Russian friends are not to know. I want this to happen in two weeks—on the first of May—our gift to the workers of the world on their special day,” Honecker said as he removed his horn-rimmed glasses and wiped them with a Tempo tissue. “You up for skat tonight? It’s been a couple of weeks since we’ve had a good game of cards.”