by Amir Lane
Ekkehardt wasn't sure how long they stayed there for. Long enough for his legs to start cramping, at least. He didn't dare move. He was almost worried the dogs would even hear him breathing. Who was he kidding? He was entirely worried. His thighs began to tremble, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
Oh, God, he was going to move and give them away, and they were going to get blown to pieces and somebody would have to tell his mother that he'd tried to leave and gotten caught and—
“Come on.”
Ekkehardt thought he imagined the words at first, but then Zven’s hand curled around his wrist and tugged him forward. He snapped his fingers, and the flame formed again.
“Hurry, we have to go now.”
He didn't question it, only followed after Zven. The sounds of dogs and officers moved farther away as they crept closer to the wall. They could still turn back. They could go back, carry on with their lives as if they'd never come here. Get their Master’s degrees and apply to migrate legitimately like Lorelei was. But Lorelei had been trying to move for years. How long would it be before they would have their chance? It could be years, decades even. Zven sure as hell wasn’t going to wait that long and Ekkehardt… Ekkehardt didn’t want to wait that long, either. He wanted the life the West, or even America, promised. He wanted the life that Zven promised. He didn’t want to have to worry and wonder if they would be okay anymore.
Cold brick pressed into his shoulder, and he realized he was standing right against the Berlin Wall. In the dark, he couldn’t see the top no matter how much he craned his neck. It was so… high. No wonder hardly anybody ever made it over. How could they possibly get over it before the guards noticed him?
“Not here,” Zven whispered. “A little farther. There’s a hole.”
A hole? How could there be a hole? Surely someone would have noticed a hole.
Zven felt his way along the wall, leading Ekkehardt. They occasionally paused, waiting for the officers to distance themselves again before continuing. It seemed like hours but it was only minutes before Zven stopped and let go off Ekkehardt’s wrist to press both hands to the wall.
“What?” Ekkehardt whispered.
He barely heard his own voice. He didn’t think Zven, pressed right up against the wall, heard him, but he apparently did.
“It’s here.”
Zven shifted so Ekkehardt could see. Instead of a single slab of concrete, this one section was made of grey bricks instead. Was this normal? The rest of the wall was all the same, so why was this different?
“I know you can’t see it,” Zven whispered, “but this part of the wall was replaced. We can cross here.”
“The bricks? I see the bricks.”
“Wait, you do? How?”
Ekkehardt frowned. What the hell was he talking about? How could he not see it? It was right in front of him. Zven pulled him into a quick kiss that left him breathless under the circumstances. He generally wouldn’t complain, but this was neither the time nor the place.
“Never mind,” Zven said. “We can’t talk about this right now. We’ll figure it out when we get across.”
Zven kissed him again, his lower lip trembling this time, and turned back to the wall. A single brick stuck out further than the rest. He straightened up, standing at full height, and felt his hands along the wall. If there was anything there, Ekkehardt didn't see it. It wasn't for lack of trying. He squinted in the dark, trying to see whatever it was Zven was looking for, looking back over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure they weren't spotted. He kept his hands as close to Zven as possible in case someone saw them.
The thought of getting caught didn't seem to bother Zven anymore. He used the brick to hoist himself up and grab another much higher off the ground. The grunt he made as he pulled himself up even higher made Ekkehardt grimace. Surely someone heard that.
Ekkehardt kept looking back and forth until he thought he might give himself whiplash, but he didn't see anybody approaching. Still, his heart wasn't going to stop pounding until they were very, very far from here. The sound of brick scraping against brick had his head snapping up. Zven was pushing in a part of the wall. He wavered, but he didn't lose his balance.
A hole.
That was the hole he was talking about.
Ekkehardt’s panic redoubled until it spiralled into incredulous optimism. There was no way they wouldn't make it across. They were so close!
A bright light blinded him. He squeezed his eyes shut, covering them with his arm. He didn't realize at first what it was, and by the time he did, it was too late. An explosion rang out through the air. His eyes adjusted in time to see Zven’s body hit the ground.
Ekkehardt moved forward before his brain could scream at him to run the other way. Too late; the guards saw him. His feet slid against the loose dirt as he scrambled to decide on a direction. Away was the obvious choice but he couldn't leave Zven. He just couldn't.
In the end, it didn't matter. There was a spray of bullets he couldn't have avoided. For a moment, he thought he must have been on fire. What else would explain the violent burn in his chest? Maybe Zven had set him on fire, too, just like the officer.
He couldn't feel his feet, and soon his legs disappeared as well. He struggled to lift his hand. It fell against his chest like a weight. The tips of his fingers touched the edge of a hole. Sharp, blinding pain tore through him, blurring his vision and making him choke on a scream. Blood spurted from between his lips as he struggled to breathe past the pain and the blood filling his lungs. His thoughts slowed, enough for the last few seconds to replay with crisp clarity.
‘Oh…’
There should have been more. A prayer. An angry mourning of the end of his own life, maybe. A silent hope that his parents would be okay. Instead, there was only that one thought.
‘Oh…’
Each gasp he took was more laboured and more painful than the last. His mouth moved uselessly in an attempt to scream for help. No words came out, only a silent rush of his last breath.
Interlude
Ekkehardt opened his eyes to darkness. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. He knew what he'd been hoping for, but this was far from his bedroom, and Zven was nowhere in sight.
His eyes adjusted and he found that even though Zven wasn't with him, he wasn't alone. In the darkness, three women stood in a half-circle, looking over something he couldn’t see from this distance. He stepped closer to get a better look. Black, heavy-looking cloaks hung over their bodies. Hoods obscured most of their faces, but he could see their wrinkled hands and long, clawed nails.
He opened his mouth to call out to them, but the sound was muffled by the weight of the air around him. Still, the women looked up in his direction. Their eyelids were sewn shut. The one in the middle raised her hand as if to show him what they were so interested in. Rolling in the middle of her open palm was an eye.
Ekkehardt stumbled back, his breath freezing in his chest. He threw his arms up to protect himself from a threat he wasn’t sure even existed. What was this? A hallucination? Some kind of joke?
The women each spoke in turn, their voices croaking, repeating the same words in a language he didn't understand.
“Óχι ακόμη.”
“Óχι ακόμη.”
“Óχι ακόμη.”
They nodded, as if in agreement.
He found himself falling backwards again. He closed his eyes against the impact, but it never came.
5
They’re… kids.”
“… are rules.”
“It isn't…”
“… job to care, now is it?”
Ekkehardt didn't open his eyes at first. He didn't recognize the voices, and he could only make out half the conversation. Only when the voices and footsteps moved away did he dare crack an eye open.
Zven stared back at him, his own eyes hollow and glassy.
He jerked upright, a scream tearing from his throat.
“What in God’s—”
<
br /> Well, they knew he was awake now.
He needed to think. He needed to clear his mind and figure out where he was, what was going on, what he was supposed to—
‘There's no time to think!’
He pushed himself up as the guards scrambled for their guns, and he climbed over the side of the truck. His body hit the ground with a painful thud. Gritting his teeth against the pain was the only way he was going to get out of here alive. Alive, and without Zven. He couldn’t think about that now. He couldn’t let the guilt cripple him yet, not yet. The more he told himself not to think about it, even as he forced himself back to his feet and sprinted away from the shouts as fast as he could with his bad knee, the louder the thoughts were in his mind. He couldn’t even think about how badly his sides ached or how his lungs would only expand half-way. He squeezed his eyes shut against the image of Zven’s vacant stare, which only served to make him run blindly and picture it even more vividly.
The terrain changed. His foot caught on something and his knee locked up. He fell hard against pavement. There wasn't enough breath in his lungs for him to cry out. He couldn't push himself back up. Even if he could, he would have to get his kneecap back in place. Just like that, every last ounce of strength he had vanished. He wasn't sure if the guards were still chasing him, but he had to get farther away from this. From all of this. From the guards, from Zven’s empty gaze, from that goddamn wall.
But he couldn't. He couldn't even drag himself more than a few feet into the road. He lifted himself onto an elbow and pressed his hand to his chest. It was still bleeding, though not as much as he expected it to be. Whatever had happened to him before he'd blacked out… had happened to him. He'd been shot. He'd… died, maybe, and he was going to die again.
Light flashed over him. Sounds of a car horn honking, tires skidding against the pavement. A door slammed. Hands on his shoulders.
“Hey! Hey! Are you okay?”
Did he look okay?
He lifted his head weakly. His lips trembled. No sound came out.
The stranger, a man slightly larger than himself, grabbed at him with frantic hands. He didn't wait for Ekkehardt to offer an explanation as to why he was bleeding to death on the side of the road. They were close enough to the wall that he could likely put two and two together. Was he going to turn him in? He hoisted Ekkehardt up and half-carried, half-dragged him to the car idling in the middle of the street and shoved him none too gently into the passenger seat.
“You're bleeding,” he said. As if Ekkehardt hadn't noticed. “What's your name?”
The man pulled the car back into the right lane. There was someone in front of them, but Ekkehardt’s vision was too blurred to make out more than the vaguely human shape.
“What's your name?”
Could it be…?
“Zven—?”
“Zven?” the man repeated. “Your name is Zven?”
Ekkehardt didn't answer. They drove through the figure. He'd lost so much blood, he was hallucinating. Great.
“Zven, my name is Brand. I'm… hospital.”
‘What?’
“… to be okay… with me. Can… awake for me?”
Ekkehardt rested his head against the car door and grunted. He was so— so tired.
“Were you alone, Zven? Was… with you?”
“He's dead,” he croaked.
“The person… dead… name… What's his name?”
Ekkehardt didn't know what possessed him to do it. Maybe the blood loss made him delirious, maybe the early onset of survivor’s guilt made him delusional. Either way, he smiled bitterly and said,
“Ekkehardt Schneider.”
6
The pitchy beeping kept Ekkehardt from staying asleep, but for days, he only awoke for minutes at a time. He’d had surgery after surgery to hold the blood vessels around his heart together. He was vaguely aware at some point of Jakob and Liese next to him, though he wasn't coherent enough to know if it was at the same time. There were other people, too. Doctors, nurses, a few people from school. Some spoke, some didn't. Some disappeared when he tried to focus on them.
“Your parents are coming as soon as they can,” he heard Jakob murmur at some point.
His hand was resting on the back of Ekkehardt’s wrist. It was better than holding his hand. His palms and most of his forearms had been rubbed raw when he fell on the street, but the back was fairly unscathed.
“You told the man who brought you in that your name was Zven and that… We thought you were dead, Ekkehardt.”
He wasn't sure if Jakob kept speaking after that. He fell asleep. His dreams, when he did dream, were full of bullets and cold, dead eyes. He heard someone say the man who brought him in told them he'd been robbed. Nobody seemed to doubt him. If they did, they didn't say it in earshot. Nobody asked him about Zven.
* * *
By the time his parents arrived, he was mostly conscious. He was still sleeping every few hours, but he could at least hold a conversation now.
“Your friend says they took two bullets out of your chest,” Hida said, her voice wavering. Guilt gnawed at Ekkehardt. It was almost worse than the pain in his chest. “They don't know how you survived. You lost— You lost so much blood.”
The memory of those three women came back to him. It couldn't have been clearer if they'd been standing in front of him right now. He even remembered what they'd said to — or about — him:
“Óχι ακόμη.”
Had he really just blacked out? Listening to everyone talk about how damned lucky he was made him wonder. He could have sworn he’d died out there. He’d never believed in any sort of afterlife before. He’d never even thought about it. Now, though… He moved a hand over the bandages on his chest, not quite touching. There was a story he'd been told as a child, by an uncle, maybe, about three old women who shared an eye. They saw everything, and they decided everything, including who lived and who died. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember more of the story.
“Ekkehardt? What is it? Do I need to get a doctor?”
He shook his head. It was his uncle Godfrey who had told him about the women. There were other stories, too. Greek stories.
The young girl who had become the Goddess of the Underworld. The soldier who fought monsters and nymphs to get home. The god who ate his own children to keep them from overthrowing him. The demi-god who fought a lion. Two soldiers in the Trojan War who loved each other so much that one incurred the wrath of the Underworld as revenge when the other was killed.
He opened his eyes again.
“Does Uncle Godfrey speak Greek?” he croaked.
Hida’s mouth fell open. He didn't blame her. The first thing he said, and it was this?
“I— don't know.” It sounded like more of a question. “Why?”
“I need him… to translate something.”
She frowned, but she didn’t push. Ekkehardt almost wished she did. A part of him wanted to talk about it, to make sense of… everything. The memories were too vivid, as if they were happening in real time, but it still didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel like something that had happened to him and…
To him and Zven.
To Zven.
The holes in his chest seemed so unimportant when he thought about the fact that Zven was dead. How— How had he survived and Zven hadn’t? Possibility aside, how was it fair? How could the Universe — the Fates — have allowed Zven to die? How— It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t fair. He clenched his hands into fists and covered his eyes. His fingers grew damp with his tears. He didn’t have the strength to stifle his sobs. He shouldn’t have left him Zven. He should have stayed, or brought him with him. The part of his brain still capable of logic knew it wouldn’t have made a difference. Zven had probably been dead before he even hit the ground. The part of his brain overwhelmed by grief didn’t care.
“Ekkehardt? Ekkehardt, what’s wrong?”
Oh, God, he didn’t even know where to start. It seemed so simple to tel
l her the truth, but he knew she would never forgive him for trying to leave East Germany.
They’d been so stupid to think they could ever get across the border. All the reasons why another way wouldn’t work seemed so minuscule in hindsight. Could anything have been worse than this? If they were going to die anyway… The hope they’d had wasn’t worth this. Each sob sent stabs of pain through his chest, but what was it compared to the ache in his heart? Losing Zven was so much worse than being shot.
“Ekkehardt?”
“It wasn’t worth it,” he wailed. “It wasn’t worth it.”
7
They didn’t tell him until he’d been ready to be released from the hospital that Zven’s body had been found. The authorities had contacted his family while Ekkehardt was still in surgery. He had been buried alongside the other Untouchables and, as far as they were concerned, that was the end of that. The news had pushed him into hysterics severe enough that he’d pulled some of his stitches and had to spend another night, bringing his stay to 13 days. It felt short, but the damage was surprisingly little. If there had been any chance of his parents letting him stay in Berlin with Jakob and Liese, that pushed the idea right out of their minds.
“We’ll call,” Liese promised, squeezing his hands and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Keep an eye on the phone.”
And with that, he was on his way back to Leipzig.
He spent the entire train ride with his mother and the first few days home alternating between sleeping and crying. After nearly a week, he couldn't cry anymore. There were no tears left. He suspected his parents were relieved he’d finally stopped, though they didn’t say it. Most of his days were spent still sleeping and trying to find something to distract himself from the recurring blame he kept placing on himself. He had read every book in the house, and Hida had run out of things to talk about, tiptoeing around anything that might remind him of Zven. It was easier said than done when everything reminded him of Zven. So he took to walking the house as if he were possessed. That was almost worse than the crying.