The Wall Between

by Jesper Bugge Kold

  The man whispered, “Is the room ready?” She nodded.

  The room was small, and he exhaled with a short sigh of relief. He felt better in the cramped space, but he still had to be on alert.

  In the cell, there’d only been a bed, table, stool, washbasin, and toilet, but here there were many things. On the bed there were pillows, whose softness was visible to the naked eye; on the wall there was a picture of a buck in a clearing, rays of sunshine like pillars of light in the foliage dotting the forest floor. There were shelves, a table, and a small TV with a rake-like object on top. A frame held a picture of a bride and groom. In it the man was tall, about Stefan’s size, and had a thick beard like his. The woman was small, her dress white and puffy like summer clouds, and her hair was wavy, like the waves of his childhood beach.

  “Would you like to be alone for a little while, Stefan?” They stood in the doorway and looked at him warily.

  He nodded, though he didn’t really know what he wanted. They seemed nice, but he wasn’t used to people. The prison guards had been like machines, only capable of carrying out a few tasks. They’d had bad intentions, and he was forced to protect himself, but these people seemed different. They smiled, but he nonetheless had to be careful. If there was one thing he had learned in prison, it was that people couldn’t be trusted.

  They closed the door and left him alone. He was hungry and had to piss, but he didn’t know whether the door was locked. He lay down on the bed and let his eyes wander. He couldn’t identify the new feeling surging within him. It took him a few moments to realize that what he felt was joy. There were colors everywhere, lots of colors: the city was colorful, the room was colorful. He’d missed green; he’d missed red and blue. Here they all were, and for the first time in years, he could relax, even though his head throbbed and his thoughts were scattered.

  Sleep caught up with him, and for a while he hid inside a dream. The dream was hazy, but there was a woman and a child. Images flickered across his mind, like photographs from a time long ago. Small hints, a baby crying, the woman’s curly hair.

  31

  PETER

  East Berlin, December 1988

  He’d taken Beatrice to Ernst Thälmann Park that afternoon. They’d tried to build a snowman. They’d packed snow until their fingers were blue from the cold, but the snow had been too powdery. So they’d gone to the Christmas market at Alexanderplatz, where he’d bought her a candied apple. He was going to spend Christmas with her and Veronika, as he always did, and he’d bought her a new dollhouse. It was larger than the shabby plastic house she had, the house whose chimney had broken off. The new one was made out of wood with neat decorative edges along the spine of the roof, a checkered floor in the kitchen, a small fireplace in the living room, and a lamp that lit up both floors when you pressed a small switch on the back. The proportions were wrong. The doors and the window were too big and the rooms too small, but that didn’t matter: Beatrice would be ecstatic. She was now eight years old and had grown to be a tall, lanky girl. Veronika didn’t have much money, so Peter spoiled her with gifts her mother wasn’t able to give her. At least they had a nice home in Ahrensfelde. Everything was new and in order, unlike in Prenzlauer Berg, where the electricity often went out and the water was frequently cut off.

  This evening the water was running fine, though. He wet his comb under the faucet and ran it through his hair. He carefully parted his hair and adjusted his tie several times before he left the apartment. Fat snowflakes were falling as he stepped out onto the street, and he thought of Beatrice again. This was good packing snow. They could have built a big old snowman here, and the comb in his back pocket could have served as its mustache. He recalled the small gift box in his pocket and smiled.

  People were already drunk when he arrived at the Christmas party. The department director, Colonel Tauber, was wearing an elf’s hat and a woolen holiday sweater depicting reindeer that he’d already spilled something on. Peter heard Jan Grebe speak much too loudly at the bar. Peter generally tolerated him well enough, but not when he’d been drinking. A small circle of people had gathered around him as he roared with some boastful story. Peter took up his position, hesitatingly, on the other end of the room. Maybe it had been a mistake to come? He never drank, after all, and actually found drunk people quite unbearable. They were unpredictable and vulgar.

  As people drank, danced, and groped, Peter felt increasingly ill at ease. Then Tauber clinked his glass, and the music ground to a halt. A bowl containing slips of paper with everyone’s names was passed around; the name you drew was the person you were to exchange gifts with. Tauber walked over to Peter.

  “Aren’t you going to cut a rug, Körber? You can’t hide in this corner all night.”

  Peter smiled with some effort and drew a slip of paper from the bowl. He opened it, hoping that it would be a man without a mustache or at least not one of the secretaries. The note read Kerstin. Tauber laughed lewdly, nudged him in his ribs, and continued on with the bowl. Peter glanced around for Kerstin and discovered that she was standing only a few feet away. Her features were mild, but her big eyes always made her appear slightly startled. He noticed that she’d curled her dark hair so that it framed her face softly.

  He’d thought the gift he now had in his pocket was a funny idea, but he suddenly didn’t like it anymore. With a male colleague—most of the department—he would have had a good laugh, but no, he’d drawn a woman’s name—and Kerstin’s to boot. Now he was just embarrassed, but he couldn’t not give her a gift. He turned to her. She swayed gently to the music. Her beautiful hair fell across her tight-fitting floral shirt, which emphasized her shoulders and breasts. When she noticed she had an audience, she became self-conscious about dancing. He flashed the piece of paper with her name on it, and she smiled. Deflated, he handed her the gift. To his surprise, she smiled broadly. She wore the fake mustache. It was the same color as her hair.

  Her gift to him was small and square. Inside was a silver Christmas ornament, and suddenly Peter was taken back to his childhood. He recalled a Christmas in Friedrichshain. Like today, a thick layer of snow covered the city. The apartment smelled of marzipan and dried fruits. His mother was baking Dresdner stollen, which was a treat they enjoyed only during the holidays. On the buffet in the dining room, Veronika had arranged a winter village using cotton balls for snow and a small pocket mirror for a frozen lake. The tiny figures wore elfin hats that she’d sewn herself. The branches of their Christmas tree spread wide in the living room, making the room seem even smaller. The tree sparkled with glass ornaments, braided straw hearts, and glittery tinsel that his mother smoothed out every year so that it wouldn’t be creased the following year. She had her heart set on getting a glass ornament made from the finest Thüring glass because it would complete the tree. Peter knew that his father had bought her one, and he knew exactly what the gift box looked like.

  He also knew that his mother had sewn a tracksuit for his father. The shiny material had been expensive, and it came only in red, but the needle didn’t break once—as it often did with the coarse material she normally used. His mother trembled in expectation as his father began to unpack his gift. As she sat there, she became a child in Peter’s eyes, no older than Veronika or himself. Georg impatiently tore the paper and ripped open the box. He stopped in mid-movement and stared disbelieving at the red cloth. Then the veins in his temples began to throb visibly as he held up the clothes, snorting. Peter and Veronika had admired their mother’s work before she’d wrapped it, but now neither one of them dared to speak.

  Then Georg unleashed a series of profanities. His color was blue, the club color was blue, how dare she! He clenched his fists, emitting cascades of spit, and nearly knocked over the tree as he searched for his gift to her. He took it with him as he left, slamming the front door. She never got the ornament.

  “Let’s sit,” Kerstin suggested.

  Peter nodded and shoved his gift into his pocket. He held out a chair for her an
d sat next to her. They talked for a long time. She laughed and innocently brushed his knee, and he casually touched her forearm. The hours flew by as they talked and talked. Behind her somewhat reserved façade was a woman who made him laugh, who gave him gooseflesh, who made him yearn for more.

  Peter and Kerstin looked over and watched Jan Grebe making a spectacle of himself on the dance floor; his shirt had come loose, and his pants were falling down, revealing his crack. He danced crazily to a disco tune, while Ursula, a beautiful, big-chested woman from administration, tried to keep up with him, laughing. Jan must have noticed Peter and Kerstin watching him because he pulled Ursula over to their table when the song ended. She was soft and drunk, and her breasts hung over the table. There was no mistaking Jan’s intention: he wanted Peter to see that he was leaving the party with the most desirable secretary. Ursula smiled, her lipstick smeared, and her blue eye shadow and the alcohol made her eyes seem dull.

  Feeling uncomfortable, Peter stood. “I’ve got to get going.”

  Jan laughed as though he’d won some competition and put his arm around Ursula. Peter politely said his good-bye to Kerstin. He was going to shake hands with the flushed and perspiring Tauber, but Tauber instead pressed him into his damp sweater. The colonel tried to persuade him to stay longer, but Peter gave him a friendly, preemptive nod. Then Tauber turned and forgot all about Peter.

  In the cloakroom, he ran into Kerstin again. She already held her coat across her arm. Peter wanted to say something nice to her, give her a compliment that might lead somewhere, but he didn’t know what to say. She beat him to the punch.

  “Come home with me,” she said. Then she took a step toward him and embraced him.

  Peter got his coat and turned to see if Jan had noticed them, but he wasn’t there anymore.

  On the street, a taxi pulled up to the curb. It stopped right where they stood, and Ursula leaped out. She tumbled onto the sidewalk, her skirt yanked up to her thighs, and her knees sank into the deep snow. Snowflakes melted on her permed hair as she dropped on all fours and threw up profusely, forming a crater in the snow with her vomit—a mashed-up holiday meal consisting of remnants of sausage, duck, red cabbage, kale, Thüring-style potato buns, and Christmas cake. She sobbed as she threw up, then belched and threw up once more. Jan walked around the car, visibly annoyed. He looked enviously at Peter as Peter helped Kerstin into what had been his taxi, the one that was supposed to bring him home to Ursula’s naked, hot body.

  Kerstin gave the driver her address, and the taxi rolled tentatively through the quiet, snow-covered streets; they had the entire city to themselves. They stopped on a street in Hohenschönhausen. Full of anticipation, he followed her up the narrow back stairs. Her round behind swayed beautifully in front of him, and something stirred in his pants.

  Kerstin stood in the door to her living room and laughed because she was still wearing her fake mustache. He was overcome with desire and welcomed the warm feeling that spread through him. It had been absent for far too long. He’d been missing a woman’s touch for years, and now his entire body quivered. She walked over to the couch, where he sat like a schoolboy waiting to be called to the principal’s office. Then she bent over him and gave him a hesitant kiss. Her mustache tickled his lip. He had an unobstructed view down her shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and he saw her breasts, which were small and pointy.

  Then they went to the bedroom and stood on either side of the bed, undressing. Peter wasn’t looking at Kerstin; he was only listening. He heard the zipper of her skirt, the unbuttoning of her shirt buttons. He unzipped his pants, and his erection slipped free, relieving his pain. He felt exposed with his penis standing at attention, and he hoped she would turn off the light. Just then he heard a click, and the ceiling light went off. Carefully he lay down and saw her shadow leave the room. A moment later, she appeared as a silhouette against the hallway light. He saw the curve of her hips and the gentle movement of her breasts. She crawled into bed next to him. The bed was narrow, and they were close, suddenly so close. She was naked, and her pubic hair tickled his thigh. She was warm and soft. Slowly she leaned over him, her forearm resting on his chest. Her mouth drew near, and he moistened his lips. She tasted sweet and warm. Her hand glided from his chest down to his belly—sending shivers down his spine—and then continued downward. The hairs on his arms and legs stood as her hand found his penis and carefully rubbed it up and down. He closed his eyes. Her fingertips played with him. Everything in him contracted, and before he could stop her, he came on her hand in thick spurts. He nearly cried in shame over his lack of self-control. What should have been something special was about to turn into a pathetic disaster. What would she think of him now? What would she do? He turned away from her, holding his breath.

  Then he heard her voice and felt her arms around him. She practically rocked him back and forth, whispering to him so softly that he couldn’t make out the words. He said nothing, lying still, almost petrified. A short time later, she fell asleep.

  The next morning, Peter woke to Kerstin humming in the bathroom. She emerged with a towel wrapped around her waist. Her wet hair was glistening, her face beaming, and below her towel her knees shone. In the light of the morning, freckles were visible on her cheeks and forehead. He recalled last night’s disaster, but felt a kind of lump inside, happiness perhaps. He didn’t say anything and just looked at her, smiling. He thought of a riddle and asked her, “What gets wetter the more it dries?”

  She shook her head. She didn’t know.

  He pointed at the towel.

  She let it fall to the floor, tore back the duvet, and lay down on top of him.

  Two months later, Kerstin moved into Peter’s apartment on Kopenhagener Strasse. Unlike Martina, she wasn’t interested in interior design. Other than her clothes, she brought only a few things, including a conch, some letters Peter had written her, and some cassette tapes by the American singer Patsy Cline.

  It had been Kerstin’s idea that they move in together, but Peter was easily persuaded. Although he hadn’t really been looking for a girlfriend, since his job took up all his time, she was everything he could have dreamed of. For the first time ever, he was truly in love, and he surrendered to it completely. He thought about Kerstin constantly. She’d fallen in love too, and together they were frisky, sometimes forgetting their age and acting like teenagers. They kissed each other in public simply because they couldn’t help it, and he was delighted that everyone could see that she was his.

  32

  ANDREAS

  Berlin, February 2007

  Back on the street, his throat burns, and his knuckles are throbbing. The fresh wind that sweeps through the complex of buildings wakes him from the peculiar trance he’s been in for the past few minutes. He knows he’s been yelling—that’s clear from the pain in his throat and the rush of blood to his head, and he knows he left Veronika crying on the floor when he exited the apartment.

  For a moment he imagines himself beating her furiously. His fists work like pistons against her soft body, which fights back at first but then simply absorbs the pounding. She is a repulsive, awful person—a fraud.

  His desire for revenge had threatened to overwhelm him, but now he feels only relief because he left before it was too late. Though it had taken all his willpower, he’d suppressed his urge to pummel her and instead just yelled at her until his throat nearly burst. The wall of the stairwell had received his enraged pounding instead.

  What she and Peter did is unforgivable. Criminal, but only then does he realize that she had no way of knowing that he and Bea had discovered the truth. He pictures her lying on the floor with her sweatshirt hoisted up on her fat belly, sobbing and pleading without understanding the reason for his angry explosion, but he can’t go back, not now, not ever. He starts toward the train station. Although Veronika has most likely given Bea everything she was capable of giving her, he can’t imagine that he’ll ever want to see her again. She’s of no consequence. She means n
othing—only Bea means anything. Or meant anything.

  He tries to imagine her in a coffin: lacerated by the collision, her legs broken, her head twisted—and her peeling nail polish. She deserved better. What was she thinking when it happened? Was she thinking about her biological parents?

  He takes the train and gets off at a random station. He looks around for a tavern. Not a café, not a bar, but a tavern, where he can sit in a corner and hide in the cigarette smoke and disappear. He finds what he’s looking for. No one pays attention to him when he enters. He orders a beer. The bartender is the jovial type, but Andreas can’t be bothered to talk to the man and crawls onto a chair in a corner.

  He hears the sound of dice rolling on another table. A man and a woman, perhaps a married couple, look like they are about to have a fight over the game.

  Andreas drinks from his pint. There are burn marks along the edge of his table—traces of long-forgotten cigarettes. He reads a rune carved by a man name Rudi, who sat here with his knife in 1995.

  A dwarf approaches his table. Andreas just wishes to be left alone, but the man wants to play pool. An unlit cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth, and he has a scar from a botched harelip operation underneath his nose. He holds the cue out to Andreas, who raises his hands to signal he’s not interested, then sets his face to show that he wants to be alone. The dwarf wobbles back to the pool table, rests his chin on the edge of the table, and breaks so hard the balls clink loudly around the table.

  The first beer tastes good, but it takes too long to get drunk with beer. He wants to get drunk fast; he wants a rush in his blood, a ticking in his head, now. He wants to hold his grief at bay and drink his sorrows away. He orders two whiskeys. They sting his sore throat, but he doesn’t care.