The Wall Between

by Jesper Bugge Kold

  As evening fell, he was still thinking of his daughter and how she could sleep in the same position all night long. The guards had instructed him—or rather ordered him—to sleep only on his back, with his hands along his sides on top of the blanket. He doubted if he could. He always fell asleep on his belly. At 10:00 p.m., the merciless lightbulb on the ceiling was snapped off. The mattress bored into his back. He tried to bend one leg, then the other, but he couldn’t get comfortable. Where is Nina? Are they treating her the same way? How many nights will this last? When . . . ?

  A hundred-watt bulb tore him out of his reverie and back to his cell. It penetrated the entire room and made his eyes twitch.

  “Prisoner 243, adopt the correct sleeping position! On your back! Hands on the blanket!” The shout echoed in his skull. He tried in vain to get to sleep.

  The next morning, a guard came to fetch him. The huge cell door slammed shut with a bang, vibrating in Stefan’s ears as they started to walk down the hall.

  Stefan was guided roughly down several frighteningly long corridors. The prison’s halls were endless, stretching through time and space. They were built to make prisoners feel small, and it worked—Stefan felt smaller, both inwardly and outwardly, as he walked on the linoleum floor’s seemingly infinite patterns. All hope was lost here. There was no mercy.

  They eventually stopped at a door. The guard knocked three times, pausing between each one. “Come in.”

  “Prisoner number 243 ready for interrogation!”

  “Thank you. Sit down. My name is Emil Brank.”

  The man who sat across from Stefan appeared to have a steely resolve. His eyes looked welcoming, but Stefan didn’t dare believe in their sincerity. His hair—which couldn’t seem to decide whether it was ash-blond or red—was combed back, except for a lock of his bangs that broke jauntily to one side. His ears were large, and his earlobes stretched down toward his strong chin.

  Stefan glanced around. This room was longer and wider than his cell and furnished with a table, two upholstered chairs, an architect’s lamp with weak springs, and heavy curtains. The only decoration consisted of framed photographs of Ernst Thälmann and Felix Dzerzhinsky on the wall, and a plastic plant on top of a filing cabinet.

  The man studied Stefan at length. He seemed to be asking himself what kind of hooligan he would be dealing with now. Stefan stared back in an effort to appear defiant. He knew what they wanted. He was supposed to admit that they’d planned to flee the country, He was supposed to apologize and repent for his traitorous actions, and he was supposed to tell them how they’d intended to escape, but he wouldn’t let them break him. If he and Nina managed to get out of here someday, which he doubted, they still had the passports and the papers that Stefan had hidden in a secure location. Though their chances of escape were slim, he wouldn’t make the man’s job easy.

  “What is our crime?”

  “An escape attempt.”

  “We didn’t attempt to escape.”

  “No, you didn’t get that far.” Emil Brank smiled at him as if they’d been friends for years, then got right down to it. The questions came in bursts, at first with deliberate pauses to allow him to reply, but gradually in rapid-fire succession. Brank sat motionless and stiff in his chair. Whenever he smiled—and he did so often as if to underscore the relationship between them—the skin of his cheeks stretched tightly. Question, answer, question, answer, question, answer. Stefan grew hot. He heard himself talk and yet didn’t. He knew how he wanted to respond, but wasn’t sure that what he’d told himself to say was what came out his mouth. Emil Brank occasionally nodded encouragingly, almost appreciatively; sometimes he shook his head, evidently displeased.

  The interrogations continued for weeks, and Stefan lost all sense of time; it felt like months—years—had passed since his former life. Every day he was brought to this little room. Emil Brank always modified the conversations, turning up the heat, turning it down, rewording his questions, catching him off guard with a supplemental query. Stefan tried to tell the same story at every interrogation, always denying everything—even though the truth gnawed at him. The sentences were a tangle of ribbons, streams of words intoned without variation.

  They fetched him at night, in the morning, afternoon, and evening—there was no pattern. He never saw another prisoner as they guided him down the corridors. When another prisoner was being moved, he was ordered to turn away and stare at the wall. The guards clearly wanted to ensure that the prisoners never caught a glimpse of each other, deepening their sense of isolation. His only company was Emil Brank, and Emil Brank was always the same, regardless of the time of day. His tightly combed-back hair; his small, jaunty lock; the uniform that was too small around his arms and shoulders; his wedding ring that he spun around his finger to hold his impatience at bay. With each conversation Stefan grew weaker and more passive. His strength gradually ebbed out of him. He used his time in the cell to think about the interrogations, and he used his time in the interrogations to think about his quiet time in the cell. Nina wouldn’t be able to withstand this pressure. Maybe she’d already told them everything. They claimed that was the case, but could he believe them?

  Brank was in a good mood this morning or afternoon—whatever it was, Stefan didn’t care anymore. Brank opened a folder, took a pen from the desk, and leaned back in his chair. He smiled, looking more self-assured than ever. The door opened behind Stefan, and a new man entered, the same young man with the air of authority who’d watched from the stairwell as they were arrested. He greeted Brank quickly before turning his attention to Stefan, who was seated in the center of the room. Then he nodded at Brank, and Brank began to speak.

  “We know that you and Mrs. Lachner helped your brother escape. We know that you participated in the planning, and we know that you were supposed to follow him later. Is this correct?” Brank looked expectantly at Stefan, who mumbled an unintelligible denial.

  “We know that Alexander is in West Berlin—we’ve had this confirmed—and we know that he fled the same day that we arrested you and your wife. Somehow, he must’ve discovered that you and Mrs. Lachner were arrested, and that hastened his escape. So your plan worked. Isn’t it a shame to sit here knowing that?”

  Stefan continued to stare at the floor. Alexander had made it. Hadn’t they just said as much?

  The new man chimed in. “Planning an escape and maintaining contact with a journalist from Die Welt. The first offense alone means two to three years in prison for you and your wife. With the other offense thrown in, you’re looking at five years in prison. Five years!”

  Against his will, tears began to run down Stefan’s cheeks.

  24

  PETER

  East Berlin, July 1980

  Peter got off the tram at Schönhauser Allee and headed toward home. The sun baked the city, and everyone was suddenly missing the harsh winter of the previous year, when the entire country was frozen in a hard knot of white. They’d all cursed the cold back then, of course, but now it seemed oddly enticing.

  He stood for a moment in the cool stairway. Then he went upstairs, pausing in front of the apartment where Jens Rembrandt and Martina had lived. Their relationship had cooled after a few months. Opposites attract, but what had they expected from such a practical person and an artist? Although Martina had tried, tearfully, to get her apartment back, she hadn’t been able to do so, for Peter had made sure that the Housing Administration transferred it into his name when she moved out. Rembrandt didn’t live in the building anymore, either. A middle-aged couple without kids had moved in.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been staring at the door. He noticed an eye staring at him through the peephole, so Peter continued to his own place. He put his shoes in the entranceway, removed his tie, and changed his shirt. Then the telephone rang.

  At first the line was silent. Then a voice.

  “Something terrible has happened, Peter. Will you come?” Without waiting for a response, Sonnenberger added, “At
once, please.”

  A short while later, the major greeted him in his office. Peter’s clean shirt was soaked with sweat following another ride in the tram. Sonnenberger apologized, but he had to talk to Peter face-to-face. Sweat pearled on Sonnenberger’s forehead, forming small patterns in his eyebrows, which were furrowed in concern. “It’s Wolfgang,” he said, blowing cigarette smoke from his mouth in little bursts.

  Wolfgang had been arrested two weeks earlier. A long prison sentence awaited him, and for what? For having been more than his usual stupid: writing slogans on buildings. Peter had nothing but contempt for such idiocy. He’d consoled Veronika, assuring her that Wolfgang would soon return, though he knew it wasn’t true. According to section 215 of the penal code, his brother-in-law was looking at five years in prison. It was a long time, but he deserved it, and Veronika would be better off without him.

  “What happened to Wolfgang?”

  The major sighed. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I might as well be blunt.” He paused for a long moment. “I’m afraid I’ve just learned,” Sonnenberger said apologetically, “that Wolfgang committed suicide.”

  Dead? Wolfgang? Suicide? He was momentarily shocked. That certainly hadn’t been Peter’s intention when he had Wolfgang arrested. He was shocked that he would do such a thing.

  “Why would a man do that?” the major said, removing his glasses and nibbling on the earpiece. Suicide was a form of defeat, Sonnenberger knew. Such deaths tormented him, creasing his forehead with worry, and he wasn’t even the one responsible—the one people would point fingers at, the one who would have to write a report and stand at attention, but the state’s responsibility was his responsibility. The state became unhappy whenever a prisoner pronounced judgment on himself.

  “But how?” Peter asked, trying to come to terms with Wolfgang’s death.

  “We’re looking into that.”

  Peter knew that he didn’t wish to say more but didn’t understand how this could happen. In the past, prisoners had committed suicide more frequently, but prisons now took every measure to prevent suicides. Guards zealously monitored the prisoners in their cells, and they’d installed a new, modern alarm system to prevent such things from taking place. Even so, Wolfgang had managed the feat.

  Sonnenberger moved on to another topic, as if the matter was closed. “Can you head out to the prison tomorrow? You should interrogate Nina Lachner. You’re already interrogating her husband, aren’t you? So you’re briefed on their situation.”

  Peter nodded as the news of his brother-in-law’s death echoed in his head.

  “Take Ms. Majenka with you. A woman might be able to make her talk.”

  On his way to the prison the next day, he thought about his visit to his sister the night before. Usually, he never arrived unannounced, and she’d been surprised to see him. She’d sobbed through her handkerchief, crying heartrendingly for a long time, when she told him the news, but gradually, her grief gave way to anger, and Peter knew why. Suicide was embarrassing and cowardly, a selfish act, and his action was the ultimate humiliation for her, a final slap in the face.

  The prison was at the end of a long, desolate boulevard. Only those who worked in the prison knew of it. The area was so vast that it ought to have had its own city map, but it didn’t exist on any cartographical drawings. Every building surrounding the prison was owned by the Ministry for State Security, so unauthorized visitors didn’t have access. It had been built on a military site, and every entrance road was sealed off behind barricades manned by guards. Peter had been here often, and each time he was struck by the same disheartening sight: the thick concrete walls, the barred windows, the dull buildings, the long linoleum corridors, the barbed wire fence, the beaten-down prisoners.

  Peter signed in at the front gate. Cell block B and its interrogation rooms were on the second floor. There were 120 interrogation rooms in all. He opened number 56 without knocking. Emil Brank stood by the window, speaking with Ms. Majenka in a hushed voice. In the center of the room was a desk, which was empty except for a slate-gray telephone.

  Peter cleared his throat, and the two immediately ended their conversation. With a superior present, Emil Brank suddenly appeared eager. “Operation Dremler,” he said, setting the case files on the table.

  Brank had interrogated Nina Lachner several times since she had arrived in April: at night, during the day, for a few minutes at a time, sometimes for hours—all in an effort to wear her down. Until now it had just been Brank, Nina, and the same question: How did you help Alexander Lachner escape? He repeated this question over and over, revising it in minor ways. It was of the utmost importance that they find out exactly how he’d escaped. Who had provided the papers? Who had helped them plan it? Were others planning to go as well? Without this information, a hole would remain, a ruined mesh in the net they’d constructed around the Wall, and today she would tell them.

  “Maybe she’ll be confused by the sight of three of us,” Brank said, looking at Peter and Majenka. “It’ll put more pressure on her.”

  “If she still won’t reveal how Stefan’s brother got away, you and I will leave the room,” Peter said to Brank. Then he turned to Majenka. “And you can give it a shot.”

  He explained that she was to pretend to be a secretary who was writing down the interrogation minutes, and she should make eye contact with the prisoner while Peter and Emil interrogated her. If Nina sensed that Majenka was a sympathetic presence, she might open up to Majenka, who was good at putting prisoners at ease. Once they had a narrow opening, the rest would come.

  Meanwhile, Stefan Lachner sat in another cell. Peter had interrogated him several times, but he was just as stubborn as his wife. They were each looking at five-year prison terms, after which they would be stripped of their rights. Concealing information from the interrogator did them no favors. What did they stand to gain from hiding how Alexander Lachner managed to escape?

  Brank seemed irritable as he spoke to the guard. “Bring me prisoner number 324.”

  A guard led Nina Lachner in and guided her into an upholstered chair in front of the desk. Brank nodded at the guard, who immediately left the room. This was the first time Peter had the chance to observe Nina closely. The prisoner who sat before him now was very different from the Nina he’d seen in the photographs. Gone were the meticulous makeup and the bouncy, permed curls. Her hair was now greasy and tousled and even turning gray in places.

  “What have you done to my daughter?” She stared at them through her eyeglasses.

  “I’m still the one who asks the questions,” Brank said, trying to sound patient.

  “What have you done with my Petra?”

  “Mrs. Lachner, I’m the one who asks the questions.”

  They began to interrogate her, but Nina didn’t respond. Peter heard the irritation growing in Brank’s voice and tried to get his attention, but Brank was focused entirely on the woman before him.

  “Listen, Mrs. Lachner. We know that you helped your husband’s brother flee the country, and once again I ask you: How did you help him?”

  She pressed her lips together defiantly.

  Peter interjected. “You have a sister, right? And she has three children? Am I correct that she’s a teacher?—or, rather, still a teacher, so long as you cooperate?”

  Still nothing. Behind her glasses her eyes were dull.

  Peter nodded at Brank, who lifted the telephone receiver and spun the dial. “Brank here. I’m interrogating prison number 324. Is it true that we brought her parents in yesterday? Yes. Wonderful.” He hung up.

  Brank smiled haughtily. “Your mother is sitting in cell 212, your father in 213. Are you sure you don’t wish to help us?”

  “You’re bluffing. My father is dead.”

  Peter felt a surge of anger. How could Brank make such an amateurish mistake? Peter watched as Brank stood and walked to the other side of the desk. Brank’s cheeks flushed scarlet, and he struck Nina on the side of the face with the flat
of his hand. Her chair rocked unsteadily, then found its balance. The blow left a hand-shaped welt on her cheek. Peter’s mind flashed to a plaster cast of his sister’s hand with his smaller handprint just below it. His family had displayed it on the living room wall. He could still recall the way the plaster had oozed between his fingers.

  Peter knew that Brank had struck her because he was frustrated by his own mistake. He raised his hand once more in yet another attempt to cover his own incompetence.

  “Stop,” Peter said sharply, but not before Brank struck Nina across the nose with a clenched fist. She screamed as her chair tipped sideways. Her head struck the edge of the steel desk, and she thumped onto the floor.

  Peter glanced over at Ms. Majenka. Her typewriter was quiet now. She was trembling, and the muscles in her jaw quivered slightly. She sniffled. Peter went around her chair and laid his hands on her shoulders. She sighed as he slowly lifted her from her chair and guided her into the corridor. She apologized softly as he returned to the interrogation room, closing the door behind him.

  Brank looked at him, furious. “What the hell was that about?”

  Peter had no intention of defending Majenka. “Get her up,” he said softly, pointing at Nina.

  Brank tried to position her on the chair, but her head fell slackly backward. Her face was drained of color, her features already fading. He patted her cheeks, but there was no sign of life.

  “Is she breathing?”

  Peter held one hand under her nose and leaned forward. With his ear close to her nostrils, he concentrated. Nothing. He put two fingers on her jugular, and then he knew. Nina Lachner was dead.

  Brank looked at him hesitantly. “I’m sorry, but I know she helped Alexander!” He picked up her glasses and tried to put them on her. They slid off and landed in her lap.

  “You’re a specially trained interrogator. How could you let this happen?”

  Brank stared at the floor. “What can I say? I’m sorry. I’ve never struck a prisoner before.”