The Wall Between

by Jesper Bugge Kold

  “What are you hoping to accomplish, exactly?”

  “I think . . . I think I just want to confirm that my father was, despite everything, a good man.”

  “Yes, he was,” she says, turning to him and smiling.

  This newfound purpose relieves Andreas, providing him with a decisiveness he hasn’t felt in a long time. He would like to say that this purpose raises his spirits, but perhaps it’s more accurate to say that it’s because he’s made a decision on his own. He’s decided to dig into his own life.

  The decision is his and not the result of others’ expectations, and he is aware that this is a new way of thinking for him. During the past few years, he has been stuck in the past, but the past can remain in Copenhagen. In Berlin he can reinvent himself, wash the slate clean, and start over. It’s a liberating thought.

  Bea nods. “Of course. You’re his son, and you deserve to know who your father was.”

  “First there’s something I would like to know.” He tries to sound normal. “How was it possible for you to like him even though you knew what he did for a living?”

  Before she responds, she takes a deep and calm breath, as if the question irritates her. “I was nine years old when the Wall fell. I never knew Stasi-man Peter. He was just Uncle Peter. He was nice when the Wall was still standing.” She smiles.

  When they enter the Oblomov, Grigor Pamjanov calls out to them from across the room. He stands up, the porcelain on the table clinking, and greets them with exaggerated warmth. They sit down and glance around the intimate restaurant. White lace decorations rest atop thick red tablecloths that nearly touch the floor. The chairs are upholstered, and there’s a samovar against a coarse brick wall. Above that hangs a portrait of a Russian ice hockey team, all smiles, with missing teeth and gold medals around their necks. In white letters in the bottom right corner, “1984” is written. The thick curtains have been cinched tight on the windows facing the street.

  Pamjanov smiles at them. “Everyone believes one must go to Café Moscow to eat Russian food, but they don’t know Alexei.”

  The host approaches to take their orders.

  “Alexei here makes the best borscht outside of Russia.” As he speaks, he holds the host’s hand for an unnecessarily long time. Though the man is smiling, Andreas can see how uncomfortable he feels, and he can tell that Alexei is searching for an excuse to let go, but just as he’d done with their invitation to join him for dinner, Pamjanov insists.

  They confer briefly in Russian, and Pamjanov orders without consulting them. Relieved, the host pulls his hand out of Pamjanov’s grasp and reaches for his notebook in his apron pocket.

  Pamjanov leans confidentially across the table and switches to German. “Did you know that Vladimir Putin was stationed in the GDR, in Dresden? He worked for the KGB. That was before he became our new czar. He ate here whenever he was in Berlin. Isn’t that true, Alexei?” He tosses that last observation over his shoulder toward the bar.

  Alexei nods eagerly. Andreas tries to determine whether he’s enthusiastic about Putin or just trying to satisfy a good customer. Alexei goes behind the counter, then begins to open a bottle of Vedernikov.

  Pamjanov turns to Bea. “I’ve heard a great deal about you. Peter always talked about his little niece, but now you’ve become a grown woman. Look at her,” he says to Andreas, as his eyes wander unabashedly up and down her body.

  Andreas can tell she’s offended. Pamjanov’s straightforward style is intimidating, but she acts nonchalant. Though his manners are vulgar, he clearly considers himself a man of the world.

  “He always wanted me to send these postcards. They were meant for you,” he says to Bea.

  “I never got them. From Peter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Strange.” She looks down as if she’s lost interest in the conversation. When the waiter sets the appetizers before her, she jams her nicotine gum demonstrably beneath the edge of her plate and begins to nibble on her food.

  “Well,” Pamjanov says. It’s evident that he’s used to controlling the conversation. “Were you pleased with the funeral?” he asks Andreas.

  Andreas just manages to reply in the affirmative before Pamjanov continues. “It is said that you can measure a man by the number of guests at his funeral.”

  “So you didn’t like Peter?” Bea says, her voice tinged with hurt, as if he’s offended her.

  His response is swift. “Absolutely. Peter was a good man. Not many people knew that. He wanted his loved ones to be happy, but his methods weren’t always the best.”

  Several dishes are placed on the table, and Alexei pours wine. Pamjanov tastes it knowingly and continues, saying, “Many banged their heads against the Wall when it stood, but Peter didn’t run into it until it was gone.”

  “What do you mean?” Andreas asks.

  “The fall of communism was painful to many people, including Peter.” He swirls the wine around in his glass expertly as he talks.

  They are silent for a while as they eat.

  “What about you?” Bea says after she has finished her meal. She sounds a little impertinent, but Andreas seems to be the only one to notice the challenge in her voice.

  “I got by. Business is business.” He smiles.

  “Even during communism?”

  “With the right friends, you can earn quite a bit of money. Even during communism.” He laughs hollowly, then raises his glass so that his expensive watch appears from under his shirtsleeve. “Some of us were privileged. In my position I could travel wherever I wanted, and I did.”

  “And what position was that?”

  “Business is business.”

  Bea shoots Andreas a peevish glance, and the silence is interrupted when Alexei removes their plates.

  Pamjanov clearly dislikes the silence. “Let’s not discuss the past anymore. Sentimentality is something you should flush down the toilet or into your gullet. Prost.”

  They toast dutifully. Andreas doesn’t want Bea to spoil the atmosphere, because he still hopes to learn something more about his father from this man who knew him.

  “Did you live in East Berlin back then?” Andreas isn’t even sure what back then means and just hopes that Pamjanov will tell him more about Peter.

  “For a while. You’re probably wondering how I knew your father. We met through work. At first we just talked about work. Then we began playing chess and drinking tea, though I tried to get him to drink vodka. After that we became good friends.” He looks at his watch and he wipes his mouth with his cloth napkin.

  “Can you tell me more about Peter?” It sounds to his ears like a childish question.

  The Russian rests his elbows on the table, scrutinizing Andreas intensely. Then he begins. “Peter loved his family. He was very fond of his sister and of you,” he says to Bea. “He was a methodical, dutiful man. He believed wholeheartedly in the state and loved his job, and he was good at it. He noted everything, remembered every detail—he kept everything in order. If I arrived late to one of our appointments, he was irritated. He wouldn’t say anything, but I could tell.” He drains his glass. “And there was something about him that women liked, something impossible to put your finger on. Maybe it was his understated charm or the touch of innocence in his face. When people spoke, he listened, and of course women love that.” Pamjanov nods proudly, as if he himself were a master of this art, but Andreas isn’t so sure.

  “I’m afraid I have a plane to catch,” the Russian says, and—as if to brag—adds, “to Cairo.” He signals to Alexei, who immediately brings him the check. Pamjanov presses a stack of bills in his hand and pats him on the cheek.

  “Spasiba.”

  He removes a business card from his wallet. “Call me anytime. I’m heading back to Moscow in two weeks.”

  Then he hands Andreas a wad of bills. “For the taxi.”

  Before Andreas can refuse, the Russian is on his feet and leaving the restaurant.

  Bea stands behind him. “What an idiot.
” She sighs. “I thought he’d be able to tell us a lot about Peter, even things I didn’t know, but all he wanted to talk about was himself. Look how much money I have. Look, I’m flying to Cairo now.” She makes a face.

  They head out onto the street, and Bea continues. “When I can’t find anything positive to say about a person, I look forward to seeing them nourish the plants.”

  Andreas laughs and suggests getting a beer. She declines, telling him that the funeral wore her out, and he realizes he’s exhausted too, and annoyed. Pamjanov was withholding something. He’d talked for hours, but told them nothing. The whole point of the dinner had been lost in all his bragging about his travels.

  Maybe his disappointment is really directed toward himself? Is he wasting his time by playing detective like this? Though he has only been in the city a few days, he already feels restless, but he must be patient. He can’t unfurl an entire life in such a short time. It’ll take a while to get to know Peter, and the faster Andreas comes to terms with this, the less disappointed he’ll feel.

  He’s convinced of one thing, however: Grigor Pamjanov knows more than he’s letting on, and one day Andreas will give him a call.

  15

  PETER

  East Berlin, February 1978

  His hand inched slowly up the cord, fumbling for the switch. When the nightstand lamp chased away the night, he squinted. Outside it was still dark. He could hear Martina breathe, a soft whistling each time she exhaled. The rhythm of sleep. He observed her. Her face was unperturbed. The bed sheets had left deep marks in her cheek, like on a minted coin. Her mouth was open, and her breath felt like a moist brush against his skin. She had a cold sore in one corner of her mouth. The duvet was pulled up over her slender neck. She wasn’t pretty—a thought that astonished him with its sudden appearance. He gently touched her small ear and the swollen hole where she wore her amber earring. She rolled over and wrapped her legs around the duvet. He pulled his hand away. They’d made a pact. He wasn’t allowed to watch her while she slept or to speak to her in the morning. In exchange, she wasn’t allowed to ask him about his duties in the Ministry for State Security, where she knew he worked.

  He’d always wondered what she saw in him. Now, the opposite question had begun to emerge in his head. Staring at her, he questioned his love for her and what it meant. He wanted very much to love her and, for a moment, strained to do so, because the love he felt seemed all too faint to him. He ran his index finger cautiously across her soft cheek. Then he made a decision. A vast sensation filled him; it lay deep within and rang like an echo through his body. He looked at the clock. Though it wasn’t even six, there was already something irrevocable about this morning.

  He stood up and studied her back in the gleam of the lamp; he listened once more to her breathing and removed a clean shirt from his dresser. One of her hairbands was on the bathroom floor, her brown hair coiled around it like ivy. He imagined her short ponytail, which swayed from side to side whenever she was happy.

  He let the water run in the sink until it was hot. When it was just the right temperature, he washed up. He dressed before the mirror in the entranceway, then combed his hair. He’d hung the mirror high, too high, as if it would stretch his body and make him taller. He was five feet eight inches. If he only was a few inches taller, he would be happy. Or a few inches shorter, so that his unhappiness would have a target, but he was the kind of height a person couldn’t be satisfied or unsatisfied with: an ordinary height.

  When the machine had stopped brewing, he poured the coffee in a thermos and set it on the table. He enjoyed the silence, interrupted only by the light whistle of the thermos. Martina’s bare toes creaked against the linoleum floor, and he noticed her sour breath as her lips brushed his cheek. She never spoke in the morning. Her language was reduced to facial expressions: smiles, shrugs, quick embraces. It was as though she didn’t have enough voice to spare and was saving it all for the classroom.

  The toaster crackled. He watched her as she pulled her legs up underneath her on the chair, yanked her nightgown down, and rocked tiredly back and forth like a small child. She rested her head on her knees. She gave him a deep, warm look, which confirmed the decision he’d made in bed: it was time to propose to her. He kissed her on the cheek, donned his winter jacket in the entranceway, and headed out the door.

  A horse-drawn carriage clattered slowly down Kopenhagener Strasse. An odor rose from the horse’s mane and flanks, and steam spiraled from its flared nostrils. An arching cloud of dust rose from the bed of the carriage, which contained a cargo of briquettes. During the winter the city was enveloped in thick brown coal smoke, and the penetrating stench clung to his clothes. On Schönhauser Allee, a coal deliveryman was busy filling bicycle bags from a heavily laden handcart. The threadbare leather bags swelled from the weight, and the deliveryman’s mouth narrowed to a sharp line each time he swung a bag across his shoulders.

  Peter climbed aboard the tram, which sliced through the yellow-brown smoke-saturated fog. When he arrived at the Ministry, he stood outside Sonnenberger’s door.

  “Peter, come in here a moment.” Sonnenberger took a deep, audible breath and chewed on the earpiece of his glasses. “I’m not obligated to tell you this, but I’ll do it anyway.” He moistened his lips and stared out the window, as if something had caught his attention in the building across the street. He tapped one foot absentmindedly on the floor, and the thump of the sole against the carpet made a soft, pulsating sound. Peter tried to read his expression, but couldn’t. He turned to face the same direction as the major.

  Sonnenberger cleared his throat. “We’re launching a surveillance of Wolfgang Dewald, your brother-in-law.”

  The last part was unnecessary, of course, but Sonnenberger hadn’t wanted to let the name hang in the air. The name created a void, a gap between the words, which he clearly didn’t like. He was usually not the kind of man who allowed others to sense what he was thinking, apart from when he spoke of his wife’s illness, but in this case, Peter could tell that more was coming.

  “We’re instituting an operational review of Mr. Dewald.” Once again he lifted his glasses to his mouth.

  “May I ask on what grounds?” Peter asked impassively.

  Peter couldn’t imagine Wolfgang planning anything that would bring him into disrepute with the state, but then again, he’d noted how Wolfgang always laughed loudly whenever Russian athletes lost or made mistakes, and Peter once spotted a large hole in one of Wolfgang’s socks. When Peter had pointed this out to him, Wolfgang replied that it was his own little anarchic rebellion. Though it was innocent—perhaps even a little childish—many of his actions revealed faint traces of opposition to the state.

  “Your brother-in-law has been involved in painting slogans hostile to the state on public buildings.” Uwe Sonnenberger peered at him quizzically, clearly wanting to gauge Peter’s reaction.

  “Well,” Peter said.

  Wolfgang wasn’t an enemy of the state, but he believed that he was. Someone must have convinced him to engage in this pointless little rebellion, and his actions, grounded in stupidity, had been found out. Peter could warn him, tell him to be careful, but that would have to be Wolfgang’s own headache. Peter would have no objections to his arrest. It might even be a good thing for Veronika. He’d seen the way they argued loudly and how much frustration permeated their marriage. He felt sure that Veronika was unhappy with her husband.

  To indicate that he had nothing against the operation, Peter smiled at the major.

  “I would like to ask a favor.” Sonnenberger paused.

  “Yes.” Peter noticed the bite mark on the tip of the earpiece of his glasses.

  “If it comes from you, Wolfgang will have no cause for suspicion. You’ll give them a telephone, and we’ll establish a connection that we can listen in on.”

  “I’m happy to do it, naturally.”

  “It’s your sister, of course. We’ll also be listening to her.”

  “If
Wolfgang has committed a crime against the state, this is what we must do. Besides, Veronika has nothing to hide.” Peter didn’t feel bad for his brother-in-law. Wolfgang knew the rules, and he’d broken them. There must be consequences.

  “Good. So it’s settled, then.”

  Peter could hear the relief in Sonnenberger’s voice. The conversation had gone better, it was clear, than his superior had hoped. Peter saw nothing wrong with the assignment. If State Security was correct, then it was obviously in Veronika’s best interest as well.

  One week later the telephone was installed, and his sister was delighted. The couple had suddenly risen in status. State Security staff knew that whenever they installed a telephone, they would have to listen in on a great deal of unnecessary chatter, whenever family members, friends, or neighbors wanted to borrow the new phone, but even in those cases, of course, they might discover something useful.

  Shortly after their conversation, Peter was promoted to an operative. Sonnenberger considered it a waste of Peter’s talent to have him working on individual reviews. His skills needed to be put to use in the field. People in the department all said that Peter possessed a highly developed sense of observation, and the major agreed that he was a valuable colleague, and Peter had no reservations about his work for the state. Why would he? Had the state given him any grounds to believe otherwise? Dissidents saw visions, things that existed only in their minds, and only because they inwardly wished that such things existed. Why? Did they really believe that better times awaited them on the other side of the Wall?

  He began to work with informants. They were indispensable, so whenever he met them in covert locations—apartments, parks, or a discreet corner of the city—he treated them with respect. They would become close. Peter was the only one who knew their secret identities as informants for State Security, and that created a mutual interdependence. The best informants were stable citizens, honest and loyal and quick to adjust, but those with weak characters could also be exploited.