“More coffee?” Mrs. Majenka asks.
Bea suddenly stands. For a moment she just stands there, confused and indecisive, her eyes darting around the apartment. The decorative plates on the walls, the embroidered bellpull, a little wood-carved donkey on a shelf with tiny barrels on its back. Then she seems to return to herself. She stares in disbelief at Mrs. Majenka for a moment and rushes out of the apartment. Her footsteps echo in the hallway as he runs after her.
She looks small on Alice’s motorcycle. It roars like a rodeo bull under her as she guns the engine. He shouts at the helmet, but she’s not in there. The motorcycle hisses, she puts it in gear, and it lurches a little as she races off at full tilt. He holds up his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding snow and watches her fly off across the asphalt and disappear around a bend.
What should he have said to her? What could he have said? His heart is beating so hard he can’t think straight. Bea isn’t his cousin at all. He stops this train of thought. This isn’t about him; it doesn’t matter whether she’s his cousin. This is about Bea. Her world has been turned upside down. Her childhood memories are lies, and her parents Veronika and Wolfgang are frauds; her biological parents are Nina and Stefan, and Nina is dead, and Peter is partly to blame. Andreas understands why she’s in shock. His father was at the center of this all along, but Veronika also played a key role, and he wonders whether Bea ever wants to see her again—after all, she’s not actually her mother. On the other hand, Veronika raised her—is it possible to simply throw all that away? And what about Wolfgang? Wolfgang was never Bea’s father. The man who sends her postcards from all over the world, the man who writes I love you, was never her father. He’s writing to keep the lie alive. Veronika must have feared this day would come. Now he understands why she’s been so evasive in conversations about Peter. She didn’t want him and Bea to discover the truth.
He calls Bea’s cell phone. He doesn’t expect her to answer it, but he needs to talk to her, to say good-bye. All he manages to do is leave an incoherent voice mail. This afternoon he’s taking the train back to Denmark. Elisabeth’s birthday couldn’t have come at a worse time. She’s turning fifty-three. It’s not even a big birthday, but he knows she’d be disappointed if he didn’t come. He’s going to play his role as the dutiful son, and when people ask about his thesis, he’ll rattle off his prepared response: “I look forward to finishing my degree and giving back to the society that paid for my opportunity to realize my ambitions.” Out of sheer politeness, he’ll pay his thesis director a visit at the university. Then he’ll have to admit that he hasn’t written a single word since they last spoke, and Thomas will patiently tell him that it cannot go on like this. They’ll agree to stop working together. He doesn’t think there’s any point in continuing because this education was really just a means for him to postpone what he fears more than anything: the real world, a steady job, growing up.
Andreas plans to sell his condo while he’s home—as quickly as possible. He plans to stay for two weeks and then return to Berlin. He had decided that’s where he wants to live—until his visit to Mrs. Majenka caused him to reconsider.
28
PETER
East Berlin, July 1980
“She smells so good!” Veronika looked up from the little bundle in her arms. “What’s her name?”
Peter smiled, pleased. “They called her Petra.”
“They?”
“Someone who didn’t deserve her. Enemies of the state.” He didn’t wish to tell her more than that, and thankfully Veronika asked no further questions about the girl’s parents. Perhaps she was afraid to learn of their fate or worried that the child might one day be taken from her and returned to her rightful parents.
She looked at the girl again, her eyes softening. Gone was her grief over Wolfgang. Peter saw his sister changing before his very eyes. All at once, she’d become a mother. She’d always had a strong maternal instinct, and looking after the child seemed to come naturally to her; she knew exactly what to do. She’d dreamed of having a child for years, but Wolfgang had not wanted one. Too soon, he’d said. Too late, Peter thought.
He told her the girl was four months old. If she didn’t like the name Petra, she was free to change it; he’d take care of all the paperwork.
“Beatrice. I want her to be named Beatrice.”
Peter helped Veronika procure all the necessary equipment: crib, baby bottles, diapers, and clothes. They painted a bedroom a soft white. They played on the floor with Beatrice, and together watched her crawl for the first time. The joy he felt at seeing his sister so happy kept his ruminations about Wolfgang’s death at bay. Peter didn’t know whether he’d played a role in his brother-in-law’s death. If he hadn’t reported him, it wouldn’t have happened, but Wolfgang had cheated on Veronika, and surely that justified reporting him, and Wolfgang had denied her what Peter had now given her: a child.
In 1983, Peter was transferred to Hauptverwaltung Aufklärung, the Ministry for State Security’s intelligence abroad, which was usually referred to as HVA. Because of his operational experience in Department XX/5 and his tight control over informers, he’d been considered well suited to larger, more comprehensive missions. Sonnenberger comforted himself over the loss of Peter and his wife’s worsening health with an ever-growing number of cigarettes, but Peter was excited about his transfer. People like Stefan, Alexander, and Nina Lachner were enemies of the state, but not to the same degree as the West. The external threat was greater than the internal one, and his work in HVA would be directed toward combating the actual enemy.
Colonel Tauber welcomed him to the department, which was located in the same gigantic complex as his previous job. Tauber’s hair was coarse, short, and steel-gray. Although his glasses were thin, his body was not. His mustache was the same color as his hair and ran the length of his mouth. He spoke like a soldier, emphasizing every syllable.
“We have no use for people who get here sitting in a lecture hall. It’s people like you and me, who work our way up, who really earn our ranks. These are the people we need, the handpicked elite.”
Peter was proud of his promotion, and his efforts on behalf of the state were rewarded. Being very dutiful, he adapted quickly to his new job. He didn’t question his assignments; he simply fulfilled them—it was as natural and spontaneous a thing to him as breathing. Unlike in the West—where egotistical career ambitions went before the needs of the community—Peter was satisfied to participate in the collective struggle toward a shared goal.
It was around this time that he met the Russian KGB officer Grigor Pamjanov, who was stationed in Berlin. They both knew that each hoped to learn more from the other than they themselves planned to share: Peter wanted to know about the Russian intelligence service, and Pamjanov wanted to know more about the Ministry for State Security, but neither one of them ever revealed anything of real significance. The Russians tended to think that any opponent ought first be defeated verbally, then on the chessboard. Peter didn’t offer much resistance in their verbal arguments—he wasn’t even trying, and on the chessboard, they were equally mediocre. Once they realized this fact, they brokered a truce, and their mutual distrust grew into a friendship.
He enjoyed listening to the Russian ramble. Peter drank his tea, the Russian drank his vodka; and even when the evening drew to a close, Pamjanov kept right on talking. He prattled on about women, good business deals he’d done, the czar—who got his ass handed to him in a revolution—and the other so-called superpowers who’d been handed a piece of the pie that was Berlin. The Russians had been like the greedy boy at a birthday party, lining their pockets with the best and biggest piece. He laughed at that. “The French have forgotten what they’re doing in West Berlin, the English have no clue what’s going on, and the Americans treat the city like a shopping mall,” he said.
“What about the Russians?” Peter asked, when he could finally get a word in edgewise.
“The Russians are reliably unreliable:
we’re drunk seventy percent of the time and asleep the rest of the time.” He laughed again.
When Peter wasn’t at work or with Pamjanov, he visited Veronika and Beatrice. One summer he brought them to the seaside resort town of Warnemünde, where they stayed in the luxurious Hotel Neptune. They swam in the Baltic Sea, built sandcastles, and watched the wakes left by the big ferries as they departed the channel and entered the sea, bound for Denmark. At night they filled their bellies at the buffet, and Beatrice’s eyes would grow wide in amazement as empty trays were immediately replaced with full ones. After dinner they ate fruit that was otherwise only available at Christmas: oranges, bananas, pineapple, and strawberries. The following year they went to Bulgaria by train and enjoyed the wonderful beaches along the Black Sea. Beatrice started school, joined the Young Pioneers, and fell in line, repeating the slogan for peace and socialism: Be prepared!
Her mother was proud, and Beatrice rarely asked about her father. Initially, Veronika was able to brush aside her questions, but as Beatrice grew older, she was no longer satisfied with vague answers. Unable to bring herself to tell Beatrice about his embarrassing suicide, she fabricated the white lie that Wolfgang had fled to the West. Beatrice was a loyal GDR child, and Veronika was convinced she would come to despise him for leaving—which was tantamount to being a traitor—and that she’d stop asking about him. Though Peter would have liked to come up with a better story, he went along with her version of events.
Peter quickly became a trusted employee in HVA. The service sent agents into West Berlin through secret routes, and when an agent returned from the West, it was Peter’s job to debrief him. The agents who were selected to cross the border were those who demonstrated both loyalty and great strength of character. HVA had built a complicated network of agents, primarily in West Germany, but also in other countries. Primarily, they were interested in the government in Bonn and the West German intelligence service, the Ministry of Defense, and the air force. If HVA could place a good informant in one of the enemy’s vital organs, the state would be able to shield itself from external surprises.
Having spies in the West was a necessity because the allied powers surely had spies in the GDR. Each side feared the other. NATO had nuclear warheads, the Warsaw Pact had nuclear warheads, and the generals in both alliances were as frightened as the rest of their respective populations that the arms race would end with the destruction of mankind under one giant mushroom cloud.
As the years went by, Peter’s workload grew. Peter went in early, as there was no one to keep him in bed in the morning, and no one to come home to at night. He liked coming in early, when the sun painted bright stripes on the office floor, because he occasionally ran into Kerstin Hopp, who also appeared to prefer the quiet hours before the corridors filled with the hustle and bustle of their colleagues.
Like the other women in the operational department, she was a secretary. He observed her while pretending not to: her shiny black hair, her nice rump when she bent to retrieve a coffee mug from the low cabinet, the way she adjusted her skirt. He made certain to have as many errands in her area of the office as possible. She smiled at him, but whether it was out of politeness or because she liked him, he didn’t know. He hadn’t been with anyone since Martina, and he’d begun to miss being with a woman. He longed for the warmth he found behind an ear, the vanilla scent of a cheek, a gentle kiss, a hot thigh draped across his own. Now his longing had a face: Kerstin Hopp’s.
29
ANDREAS
Berlin, February 2007
On the plaza outside Berlin’s central station, Andreas hails a cab. While it works its way through the city, he works his way through the past fourteen days. He called Bea several times every day, but she never answered the phone. In the beginning he left voice mails, but eventually he gave up. If only he had Alice’s number. He wants to help Bea, but he doesn’t know how. He wants to be there for her, but he doesn’t know where that is.
The taxi drops him in front of Bea and Alice’s building. He knocks. Nobody is home. He knocks again. He lingers awhile, hoping she might come home. Then he takes another taxi to Café Cinema, but the girl behind the counter hasn’t seen Bea for some time. He hails another taxi.
Veronika opens the door right away. The dark circles under her eyes have expanded to her cheeks—nearly to the corners of her mouth. Her sweatpants and sweatshirt are covered in stains. She smells of beer and despair. She appears to have aged many years since he last saw her a few weeks ago.
“I’ve been calling and calling, but she never picks up. I waited at her door for hours. She didn’t come home.”
He scrambles for his cell phone as if to prove how many times he tried to call her. The sprint up the stairs has winded him, and he stumbles over his words. He has to take a deep breath to ask a simple question: “Where is she?”
Veronika looks at him, wide-eyed. Her eyes are full of tears. The corners of her mouth quiver. With a trembling voice, she says, “Haven’t you heard, Andreas?”
He stares at her. Something terrible must have happened, something irreparable. She’s ragged, her voice faltering, her face ash-gray, and she begins to sob uncontrollably.
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Beatrice is dead.”
It feels as though his body snaps in two, his spine giving in, and he collapses. In his mind, he shatters on the floor like glass. He sees himself as shards. He doesn’t know how long he stares at the floor. A few words can destroy an entire life, and he thinks he’s just heard them. Though they are only three words, his head cannot contain them. He wants to run, run until his body aches and bursts open. He wants to get away, but Veronika presses against him. They are both crying. He’s not sure who is soothing whom in this tiny hallway. This isn’t the way it was when he learned of his father’s death. Bea’s death is cataclysmic.
His voice sounds like a little boy’s when he asks, “What happened?”
She sobs her way through her explanation. He hears fragments, words here and there, nothing cohesive. He pieces together that she died on Alice’s motorcycle. The police told her Bea’d caused the accident herself; she’d been speeding. She died, he realizes, the day she discovered that Veronika wasn’t her biological mother, the day she learned that she’d been adopted, or rather, forcibly removed or stolen—what can one call it? She’d bolted down the stairs from Mrs. Majenka’s apartment, hopped on the motorcycle, and crashed.
“Who is going to take care of me?” Veronika asks, dejected.
He peers through the doorway into the living room. The coffee table is littered with beer bottles. The ashtray is full, and at its edge the little polar bear stares, displeased, at the trash. The air is thick with cigarette smoke that has passed through a pair of damaged lungs, lungs that now cough air up through Veronika’s mouth. He looks at her. Tufts of hair stick to her temples, and her hair has thinned in spots. He didn’t even know that women could lose their hair, too. He wrenches himself free from her embrace.
“Do you have Martin’s telephone number?” She cries softly now. “We have to let him know.”
“Martin?” Andreas stares at her, confused.
“Her boyfriend. His name is Martin,” she sniffles. “I had looked forward to meeting him, but Beatrice wanted to wait a little longer. Now I’ll probably never meet him, and grandchildren—I won’t ever have any grandchildren!” She sobs uncontrollably.
Then he finally understands. He is overcome with disgust and rage. Her multicolored jogging suit is cheap and filthy, she reeks of cigarettes and beer, she’s monstrous and repulsive, and she lied to Bea for more than twenty-five years. Now she’s doing the same to him. Peter had lied and betrayed Bea too, but Peter is dead and gone now. Veronika was the one who built the lie up, who expanded it and stretched it until it burst, driving Bea to her death. All at once he feels his body growing hot with vindictiveness. It roars in his blood, barbed and lasting, and boils under his skull. He wants to hur
t Veronika, strike her, break her.
30
STEFAN
Görden, August 1985
“Watch your head,” the man said, helping Stefan into the car. The man claimed to be his father.
The man sat behind the wheel and sighed in resignation. He stared straight out the window and down the street, then closed his eyes long and hard as though lost in a difficult thought. He turned to Stefan. “What have they done to you, my son?”
Stefan had served his five years, and it had ruined his mind. All the interrogations emptied it; the many days, weeks, and months alone in his cell wiped out all the thoughts and feelings that had previously filled it. In fact, Stefan didn’t even recognize the man who sat beside him in the Trabant.
As they drove slowly toward Berlin, Stefan studied the landscape with a strange mixture of indifference and budding curiosity. They passed fields where clouds of gray dust trailed harvesters. Like broad-jawed beetles, the harvesters inhaled the crops, leaving long rows of bristly stubble behind. Stefan scratched his beard, producing a raspy sound, and stared at the double-wheeled tracks as they vanished in a dust cloud behind the hill. All that expanse made him tremble, made him nervous. He pressed himself more deeply into the seat. The car could serve as his cell until the man beside him stopped driving. Another town emerged. Houses with sharp corners, menacing in appearance, and cars, lots of cars, beside them, in front of them, and behind them. The city pressed in on him like cell walls. They stopped in front of a dull-gray façade.
Up the stairs, a door, a woman. She was crying, and he was pulled into her embrace. For the first time in years, he felt the warmth of another human being, and he surrendered to it. The woman disappeared in his arms. A feeling of something forgotten slipped through him, from his belly into his arms and legs. His entire body shuddered with longing. He didn’t want the moment to end. Stefan squeezed so hard that the woman coughed, and the man cautiously loosened Stefan’s grip.
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