The Wall Between

by Jesper Bugge Kold

  Light slants through the small window. “Let the damn day come,” he says aloud, and as he does so, he realizes that he’s become Peter. He’s pissed his pants and crawled home on all fours, and who knows but maybe that’s only the beginning. He and his father are one and the same person, though his father’s body has perished and his is still alive—or rather lying on a cold floor fighting for—or against—his own existence. If the pain wasn’t thundering through his head, he’d shake it in resignation.

  Then Bea appears. He’s filled with sadness at the thought that he’ll never see her again, never speak to her, never study her broad mouth or fine blond eyebrows, or see her spit nicotine gum into her palm. It’s an unbearable thought, but one so strong and malignant that it’ll plague him for the rest of his life. He wishes he could change the timeline so that he might nullify the line that runs through his life. Remove Peter, forget Veronika, save Bea.

  He thinks of Coca-Cola. There’s one in the fridge that probably doesn’t have much fizz left, but it’s cold. The fridge is miles away. First he has to cross the hallway, and to get there he has to stand up. He gives up.

  He vomits, forcing the last of it from his body. He finally stands. His belly is empty and his head heavy. He tries to avoid seeing his reflection; he knows how his face appears: puffy, wrenched up, dead flesh on a skull, glossy-eyed, lips swollen.

  The sink is littered with glass shards. He sees himself in the shards, his face in tatters, like his state of mind. He doesn’t recall smashing the mirror. It must have happened during the night. He washes his face, wipes his eyes, and attempts to rinse the night away as the water swirls down between the shards and becomes a kind of abstract art. He scrutinizes the rest of the smashed mirror above the sink; he glances at his knuckles and figures out the connection. That means seven years bad luck in addition to the already insurmountable crosswind he’s facing. He hocks in the sink, and that’s when he sees it—behind the glinting shards of glass still attached to the wall. A compartment.

  He inserts his hand cautiously. He feels around, making sure not to cut his arm on the mirror, and touches something metal: a cold, square box. He pulls it out. It’s a small, dented tin box the size of a child’s lunch box. The red paint is peeling, and he thinks of Bea’s nail polish. His curiosity is piqued. The box rattles as he opens it. On top is a sheet of paper folded up several times. He removes it, then sees several medallions underneath.

  He unfolds the paper and reads.

  This medal is awarded to Peter Körber in recognition of his honest, conscientious, and dutiful work for the Ministry for State Security.

  It is signed by Erich Mielke, Ministry for State Security.

  He removes the medallions one by one, studies them, and puts them back in the box. Medals of honor, prizes, and distinctions from the Free German Youth, Felix Dzerzhinsky Guards Regiment, and Ministry for State Security. Some of them are shiny, while others are dull.

  He sticks his hand in the compartment again and feels a strange object made of metal. He pulls out a pistol. The shaft feels good against his palm, and it scares him to suddenly have a weapon in his hand. Alarmed, he hurries to return it. His wrist brushes against some pieces of paper, and he pulls out three envelopes, two brown and one white.

  Dear Kerstin, the white envelope reads. As he opens it, he realizes it must have been opened many times, because the glue is no longer tacky. It’s a letter from his father to Kerstin Hopp. The language is simple and yet expressive, too. Peter declares his love to her, and judging by Peter’s language, he clearly didn’t doubt that Kerstin had feelings for him as well. He writes about how happy he is that she’ll soon be moving in with him. Andreas feels a surge of sadness, because he knows that Kerstin left his father. Peter must have saved the letter, venerating it as a memory of a woman he’d loved. Maybe he sat with it pressed against his chest while thinking of her? Maybe his pining for her was what caused him to drink? But even the thought of alcohol makes him nauseous again.

  Then he flips over the brown envelopes. They’re both addressed to Grigor Pamjanov. He stares at them in wonder. His first inclination is to mail them to the Russian. It’s none of his business what two old friends wrote to each other, but then again, why were they hidden?

  He gets the soda from the fridge and sits down with the two brown envelopes. When he unscrews the cap, the bottle makes a faint whoosh. As the liquid cascades down into his belly, he immediately feels better. His hangover yields to curiosity.

  He tears open one of the envelopes. He doesn’t owe Pamjanov anything. There’s a postcard inside. He stares at an image of the pyramids.

  Welcome to lovely Egypt appears in red letters across the desert sand. There’s a note on the reverse side, and the writing is the same as on the envelope, but it’s not addressed to Grigor. He begins to read.

  Dear Beatrice,

  My work has now brought me to Cairo, where I’m sitting at a café and writing this postcard. The sun is hot today, and Egyptian beer doesn’t slake your thirst like German beer. I’ve ordered food from the menu, but I don’t know what it is I’ve ordered, and while I’m waiting I’m writing to you, my daughter. I miss you and promise that we will meet one day. I’ll write again soon.

  I love you.

  Your father, Wolfgang

  Andreas sets the postcard down on the coffee table. His hangover returns with renewed vigor, and he begins to tremble. Now he realizes that Wolfgang didn’t flee. He concludes that he never existed. He was a figment of the imagination, a construction that Peter and Veronika created with Pamjanov as messenger, but why?

  Now he hears Pamjanov’s words to Bea: “I was supposed to send these postcards. They were for you.”

  It makes sense now. Bea had wondered what the Russian had meant, but Pamjanov had just acted as if it was all some joke. A new city, a new postcard for Bea, no questions asked.

  Andreas pulls his legs up underneath him and crouches in a fetal position, even though doing so hurts his diaphragm. He’s overcome with a sense of helplessness. They are a family of liars. Peter, Veronika—even Bea, who’d told her mother she was a dating a guy named Martin because she didn’t have the courage to tell her she was a lesbian. Even Andreas is lying, if only to himself, since he refuses to admit that he can’t go on like this.

  It’s time for him to go home, time to forget Berlin. His apartment in Denmark hasn’t been sold yet. Lasse—a stylish, cocky real estate agent—keeps claiming that he’s finally found the right buyer, but maybe there’s no longer a seller.

  He understands now that Peter maybe wasn’t a victim. Of all that he’s learned about his father, multiple things point to him being an unscrupulous man: stealing Bea, Nina Lachner’s death, his mistreatment of Ejner, his fabrication of Wolfgang. Andreas thought his father had been killed by a cold-blooded murderer, but now he realizes that many people may have had good reason to kill him.

  35

  PETER

  West Berlin, November 1989

  Peter glanced at his watch again. Kerstin must be returning from her walk soon. She’d promised him that she wouldn’t be gone long. A half hour, no more. He should have gone with her, but her gentle, insistent voice had convinced him to stay: “I’ll be back soon.” Those words still reverberated in his head.

  He lay on his bed in their shabby hotel room, staring up at the multitude of small cracks in the ceiling. A rust-speckled pipe ran along the wall into the adjoining room, the radiator thumped loudly, and the bathroom smelled thickly of corrosion. The bed was too hard, and the sheets were no longer white. The only positive thing he had to say concerned the toilet paper; it was soft, layered, and ornamented with butterfly patterns. The November sun made a bright stripe across the wall where there was a gap in the wallpaper, not much of a gap, but enough to recognize the difference in the pattern. He didn’t like those kinds of mistakes. They were a sign of shoddy morale among workers. The painter had been either sloppy or incapable of carrying out a simple piece of work, though
it ought to have been child’s play. That was the West in a nutshell. Laziness or incompetence—or both.

  Where had she gone? It occurred to him that she might run away, but then she would have taken a duffel as well as all the Deutschmarks in his coat pocket.

  To pass the time, in the hotel lobby he’d bought a faded postcard with images of the city’s attractions: Wilhelm Memorial Church, Charlottenburg Palace, the Victory Column, Brandenburg Gate. He flipped the card over and began to write. Dear Bea. He described the city using the same language he’d just read in a brochure that now lay on the nightstand. I love you. Your father, Wolfgang. He got up and stuffed the postcard into the liner pocket of his coat. He would send it when he had the chance. For the next few weeks, he wouldn’t need Grigor as a go-between. Why did he even write these postcards? To protect her from the truth? To give her hope? Maybe a mixture of both—or maybe it was for his own sake. Without even being consciously aware of it, he’d dreamed of faraway places. With every new postcard, he’d experienced a new place, or at least that’s how it felt.

  He stood by the window, looking for her. It was afternoon now, and the street below teemed with people bustling up and down the sidewalk, their breaths visible in the cold like empty speech bubbles. He noticed a billboard with three erect penises for something called Dildoking. He shook his head in despair. What was he doing here? What the hell was he doing here? He was already looking forward to going home.

  In the distance, a radio was playing soft and catchy pop music. It sounded like pastel-colored plastic, drums like cotton balls and guitar and bass run through a distortion filter. He watched the building across the street, but the windows in the gray, concrete structure simply stared back. The city was one big advertisement for Coca-Cola, Mercedes, and Kodak. A glimmering world where people were pampered. They had the same products in the GDR—they just went by other names: Coca-Cola was Vita Cola or Club Cola, Bounty was called Bon, Milky Way was Fetzer, and Nutella was Nudossi.

  She would have to return soon. He lay back down on the bed, thinking the time might pass more quickly if he slept a little. Perhaps in her excitement she’d wandered off and lost track of time. If he fell asleep, he’d wake up to her soft lips kissing him.

  Tomorrow, he would find a better hotel for them, a hotel without grime and mildew. The hotel here in Wedding was cheap and ugly.

  He couldn’t sleep. He went back to the window and peered out at the darkness. He was so close to the glass that his reflection disappeared.

  When he awoke the next morning, the place beside him in bed was still empty. He waited another day. By the time the streetlamps came on again that night, he was certain: Kerstin wasn’t coming back.

  It was like a punch in the gut. The truth cracked the walls, made his head pound. It was unbearable. Had she been plotting her escape from the moment Tauber asked her to go to West Berlin? Or did she only get the idea when they arrived at the hotel?

  Either way, she had deceived him; she had used him and exploited her position. For a moment, he worried that something had happened to her, but he knew that wasn’t the case. She’d dreamed of all this, even if it meant living without him.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and tried to hold back his tears as he tied his shoelaces with trembling hands. He snatched his coat from the hook behind the door, then went out. Not to search for Kerstin, just to walk. He’d been at the hotel for two days now; he’d tramped down the stairs and dined in the smoky restaurant only to return to his room and wait. For two days he’d not spoken to anyone. For two days he’d only thought of Kerstin. Two days alone with his thoughts.

  The air was cool, and the sky was heavy with clouds, but there was no rain. Now he saw the city as it really was. Their ostentatious Mercedes-Benzes, their BMWs, their Audis spinning around the city’s streets mocked everyone who could afford only the tram or the sidewalk. Behind the scent of aftershave, it was a false and brutal place. No one turned a sharp eye on the wealthy when they exploited others, because it was the right of the wealthy to exploit others. So they grew richer and the masses grew poorer, and their greed slowly gobbled up the world. He cursed his own blindness. He’d believed that he would be able to work in West Berlin, if only Kerstin was with him. He cursed again.

  Though he had nowhere to go, he walked on, from one neighborhood to another, walking until his feet and knees ached. Then he turned around to head back to the revolting hotel room in Wedding. He saw a street sign, Brunnenstrasse, and turned down it—even though the street name only made him more homesick—and there he found it, at the far end of the street.

  The evening was illuminated by the floodlights along the Wall, a blinding streak, like daylight cutting into the darkness. The floodlights sliced holes in the sky. The cones of light and their luminous darts drifted across the city, and above the Wall, he recognized the TV tower in the distance. He walked toward the Wall, right up to it. On the West Berlin side, it had been desecrated, painted with ugly drawings, crude slogans, and defamations of the GDR. For West Berliners the Wall was a source of amusement, but for East Berliners it was a shield against the very people who’d mocked it. Their lack of respect simply underscored its legitimacy. He set his palm against the cold concrete. For his whole life, when he’d stood on the other side of the Wall, this part of the city hadn’t existed. Now the other side was unreal. He was so close to home and yet so far.

  He was overwhelmed by sadness at the thought that he couldn’t return for three weeks. He lived right there on the other side. So close, but he had to turn around and finish his job without Kerstin.

  He followed the Wall eastward along Bernauer Strasse, grazing his fingertips across its coarse surface. A younger couple looked at him curiously, and he quickly shoved his hand in his pocket. He followed the Wall as far as he could, but he had to veer around the train tracks in several places. He knew there was a border crossing close by. Although he couldn’t go across, he could longingly glance home.

  On Bornholmerstrasse he turned toward the border crossing, where Bösebrücke crossed the tracks. The border ran between the rails. He heard loud voices and figured there must be a party going on somewhere. Partying on a Thursday was typical of West Berliners. There was something shameless about being so carefree. No respect.

  He walked slowly toward Bösebrücke. The bridge was a heavy steel construction that resembled curved train tracks arching into the sky on either side of the broad boulevard. The center was divided by tramlines. The bridge was stitched together and bolted into the ground. When everything else was gone, it would still be standing, like the Wall.

  He glanced at his watch. Quarter past nine. It was time to return to the hotel. He stared across the bridge; the security on this side was pathetic. He realized now that the shouting he’d heard was coming from the eastern side of the Wall. He stood for a moment, suddenly hesitant. He thought he could see something on the bridge, figures approaching. He looked left and right; there was no one else around. They came closer, waving their hands above their heads, beckoning. He wanted to turn and leave, since he was uncomfortable at this demonstration. They were cheering, some were crying, and others laughing loudly. Probably some drunken West Berliners, but what were they doing on the bridge?

  He had to get back now, but a young woman suddenly ran toward him, her arms spread wide to embrace him. He stiffened as she fell into him. When she let go, she gave him a big, wet kiss on the lips. She held out her ID card. She was an East German. At that moment he realized they were all waving ID cards.

  She ran on, skipping, beaming with joy, and Peter stood stock still, confused. The bridge was once again empty, but the shouts continued to echo. His tired legs and his curiosity carried him out to the middle of the bridge. On the other side of the barrier, hundreds of people had gathered, maybe thousands. They were the ones who were shouting. Bellies pressed against the barrier, faces against the chain-link fence, screaming mouths, eyes filled with hope. The border guards stood facing the throng, their broad b
acks to Peter. It made no sense. What were all these people doing here? They didn’t actually believe they would be allowed to cross the border, did they? But what about that woman—and the others—who’d already crossed the bridge? He began to sweat under his winter coat.

  Something was happening, but he had no idea what. He’d been gone for only a few days, and already it seemed as though he didn’t understand his own country. He was exhausted, but he had to stay to see what was going on.

  He watched the border guards conferring. The superior officers walked back and forth; a new officer arrived, and another conversation followed. Peter looked at his watch again. It was 9:30 p.m. This would have to wait—it was time for bed. Tomorrow he would buy a newspaper and learn what this strange demonstration was all about. Western media loved to write sarcastic articles about his country, of course, those know-it-all journalists who believed they knew everything.

  Then it happened.

  The guards pushed the barrier aside. Peter raised his hands to his face as the crowd poured through the opening like a gushing torrent. Dumbstruck, Peter watched the inexplicable scene unfolding before him. Faces radiated joy and cheers filled the air. Smiling and laughing, the crowd spread out across the entire width of the street, singing, shouting, drinking from bottles they’d brought with them, toasting, grinning, and calling out hoarsely. Some cried. From the other side of the bridge, West Berliners streamed out to greet the newcomers. Peter was thunderstruck. The barrier had been set aside, and the guards were doing nothing. The two groups had now merged in the middle of the border crossing, and people had begun to embrace one another. He felt a surge of terror—nothing would ever be the same. Quivering with excitement, his countrymen and countrywomen were pouring into the very city he wished so desperately to leave, but nothing could stop them now. He watched as they poured in by the thousands.