Oranges for Christmas

by Margarita Morris

  I collapse forward, hands on knees, and try to catch my breath. My heart is hammering in my chest. Hans puts his hand on my back.

  “Are you all right?”

  I straighten up, nodding. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  But Hans isn’t looking at me. He’s watching the Factory Fighters as they arrest the angry man and his friends. His eyes narrow.

  “I have to get out of this country,” he says, under his breath. “I can’t stay here. Not now.”

  I know how he feels, but I don’t know how we can leave with the barbed wire in place and security so tight.

  We walk back to Stargarder Strasse in silence, no longer holding onto each other. The events of this morning and what I’ve just seen at Alexanderplatz have left me feeling stunned. As we walk, I remember all those times when Dieter tried to persuade us to follow him to the West and the excuses we gave – I only have a couple more years left at school, Brigitta will miss her friends, Mother wants to be near where Father and Oma Klara, our grandmother, are buried, we’re lucky to have an apartment and a good neighbour. Now I realise how short-sighted we were not to have gone when we had the chance. But how were we to know? Our leader, Walter Ulbricht, said no-one had any intention of building a wall. I know now we were wrong to believe him. I make a decision, there and then, not to trust anything I’m told by any Party official in the future but only to trust what I see with my own eyes and feel in my own heart.

  When we reach Hans’ building we stop. He looks at me as if he’s about to say something. He reaches forward with his hand, then stops himself and thrusts his hands into his pockets. He clears his throat. “Well…I should go and let Mother know I’m still alive.” He smiles weakly at his attempt at humour.

  “Sure.”

  He doesn’t move, so I say, “Will you tell her what we saw? About people being arrested?”

  “Absolutely,” he says nodding his head. His light-heartedness has vanished and he looks deadly serious. “Everyone needs to understand what is happening to this country.”

  “Of course.” I turn to go. I won’t be able to tell Mother what we saw, it would worry her too much. “I’ll see you around.”

  I walk back to our building and climb the stairs. There’s no sign of Frau Lange this time. Herr Schiller’s apartment is also quiet when I walk past.

  We spend the evening quietly, no one wanting to talk about the events of the day. At bedtime I unzip the yellow dress and let it slide onto the floor. I return it to its hanger in the wardrobe and climb into bed. Brigitta is already in the top bunk. I lie down on the bottom bunk and listen to her turning over. I can tell she’s thinking about something.

  “Sabine?”

  “Ja?”

  “I think Herr Schiller is going to help us leave East Berlin.”

  I wasn’t expecting her to say anything like that. “What makes you think so?”

  “Oh, it was just the way he looked at us as he was leaving. I’m sure he’s got a plan.”

  I think she’s been reading too many fairy tales in which the brave prince rescues the imprisoned princess, but I just say, “Goodnight, Brigitta. Try and get some sleep.”

  I spend most of the night lying awake, thinking of Dieter on the other side of the barbed wire, wondering if he’s thinking of us.

  ~~~~

  Chapter 2 - Forbidden Territory

  Sabine

  The next day Mother has already gone to work when Brigitta and I get up. We go into the kitchen for breakfast. As we eat the last of the Schwarzbrot, I turn on the radio, hoping to hear that the barbed wire has miraculously disappeared, that the Western Allies have ordered its removal, that it was all a bad dream. But I am disappointed. Restrictions are tighter than ever. Thousands of East Berliners who work in West Berlin are not being allowed across the border. They are being told to find a job in East Berlin.

  I switch the radio off. I don’t want to hear any more at the moment. Right now, there is nothing we can do but try and get on with our lives.

  We are almost out of food so after breakfast I tell Brigitta we are going shopping. I remove the shopping bag from the hook on the kitchen door and prise the lid off the biscuit tin where we keep our Ostmarks. We have twenty Marks left until Mother is paid at the end of the month. At least food is cheap in East Berlin, if you can find any to buy that is.

  We make our way to the corner shop with the worn wooden sign that reads Lebensmittel – Food. The shop used to be named after its owners – Herr and Frau Maier – a couple of old Berliners, stalwarts who have lived in this neighbourhood all their lives and know everything that is going on. People would say, I’m popping down to Maiers’ to get a few things when they just wanted to catch up on the local gossip. But the Communists did away with traditional shop names and replaced them with functional ones so now the shop is optimistically called Lebensmittel in the expectation that it might sell something edible.

  Brigitta collects a basket at the door and we wander around the shop looking for things to buy. In the tiny fruit and vegetable section Brigitta picks up some potatoes, but soon puts them back. They are speckled with black dots and are already sprouting green shoots.

  “Those ones at the back are not so bad,” I say. She chooses four potatoes which are less blemished than their comrades and puts them in the basket.

  The carrots are covered in a white film so I leave them.

  “How about an onion?” asks Brigitta. She picks one up but it squashes in her hand, leaving a trail of white pus on her fingertips. I wonder where Herr Schiller finds decent vegetables for his fry ups. I choose the least mangy looking white cabbage on offer and put it in the basket. There is no fruit of any kind. I can’t remember the last time I tasted an orange.

  We move on to the shelves of tinned food and stock up on imported Polish meat. Finally we go to the shelves filled with identical green and brown bottles. Some of them contain beer and others contain tomato juice. It’s impossible to tell them apart without reading the faded labels. I select one that claims to be tomato juice and we make our way to the check-out. Then I have an idea.

  Herr and Frau Maier are the only people I know who have a telephone. It’s in the office at the back of the shop and they are happy to let people use it for a few Pfennig. I could try ringing Dieter at the hotel. He doesn’t have a phone in his apartment, but the hotel does. He gave me the number once, so that I could contact him in case of an emergency. I have it written down in a leather-bound notebook I keep in the chest of drawers in our bedroom. The notebook was a present from Oma on my sixteenth birthday. I wish now I’d thought to bring it with me, but it won’t take long to go home and fetch it. The thought of speaking to Dieter cheers me up.

  I recognise the woman in front of us in the queue. She works in the hairdresser’s on Pappelallee. She doesn’t know me but I think her name is Frau Klein. She lifts her basket with both hands and puts it down by the till. It is laden with tins of meat and speckled potatoes.

  “Guten Tag, Frau Klein,” says Frau Maier as she taps the prices into the till. “How are you today?”

  Frau Klein runs a hand over her tightly permed hair and sighs. She leans close to Frau Maier and drops her voice.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m worried about what will happen to the business. We get a lot of customers from West Berlin, but they won’t be able to come now.” She gives Frau Maier a meaningful look.

  Frau Maier understands her. She shakes her head and makes a tutting noise with her tongue.

  “I tried to phone my sister this morning,” continues Frau Klein as she loads the potatoes into her shopping bag. “You know, the one who lives in Spandau?”

  I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but I’m standing so close I can’t help overhearing. My ears prick at the mention of Spandau. It’s an outlying district of West Berlin.

  “But I couldn’t get through,” says Frau Klein. She glances around the shop as if she expects the Stasi to have planted listening devices in the cabbages, then continues in an even
lower voice. “The phone lines to West Berlin have been cut.”

  I feel the blood draining from my face. The lines have been cut? If that’s true then there’s no way I can contact Dieter. I look at Frau Maier, hoping that she will contradict what Frau Klein has just said, but Frau Maier nods her head. “I know. I tried the phone myself this morning. I couldn’t get through either.”

  So that’s that then. There’s no point me asking Frau Maier if I can use her phone.

  Frau Klein finishes loading her shopping into her bag and takes out her purse to pay.

  “I’ll have to write to her I suppose,” she says as she hands over some crumpled Ostmarks.

  Frau Maier puts the notes into the till and counts out the change. “Just be careful what you write,” she says dropping the coins into Frau Klein’s hand. “The Stasi open all letters between East and West Berlin. They read everything.”

  Frau Klein nods. “Don’t worry, I will.” Then she lifts her shopping bag off the counter and walks out, taking with her any hope I had of contacting Dieter.

  Dieter

  I walk into the hotel kitchen early on Monday morning, straight into a heated row between the hotel manager Herr Pohl, a short, rotund man prone to angry outbursts, and the chef, a fiery Italian called Signor Settino.

  “There are guests who have been waiting over half an hour for their morning coffee,” shouts Herr Pohl, turning beetroot.

  “Is not my problem!” exclaims Signor Settino, throwing his hands into the air. “Eh, I ava no staff. Da waiters can-not get to work. Dey live in East Berlin. Dey can-not cross de border.”

  Signor Settino catches sight of me. “Ah, Dieter, please take dis coffee upstairs.” He indicates a tray of silver coffee pots with a wave of his hand. “Now, scusi Herr Pohl, I ava work to do.” He turns away from the hotel manager who looks flustered and bewildered.

  I do as I am told. We won’t just be missing waiters today. There are chamber maids, reception staff, porters, who all live in East Berlin. None of them will be able to get to work. All over West Berlin there must be shops, offices and hotels missing half their employees. The Grenzganger, those who live in the East and work in the West, will have to find jobs in East Berlin. Instead of working in a smart western hotel or shop, they will probably end up in some rundown Trabant factory.

  I’m busy all morning, serving in the restaurant, helping to carry guests’ luggage and taking kitchen deliveries. Herr Pohl has shut himself in his office where he is drawing up plans to recruit new members of staff to replace those he has lost.

  At one o’clock I slip away from the kitchen where I’ve been peeling potatoes for the last hour and go to the hotel lobby where the receptionist, Kerstin, is checking the bookings register.

  “Guten Tag, Kerstin.”

  She looks up from the register and gives me a shy smile. “Dieter, how are you?”

  “Fine. I was just wondering, my sister Sabine hasn’t phoned has she? I thought she might try to get in touch, because…” My voice trails away.

  Kerstin tilts her head to one side and looks at me sympathetically. “I’m sorry, haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “The lines to East Berlin are dead. We can’t phone them and they can’t phone us.”

  Verdammt! Damn!

  I clench my fists. I can feel the anger welling up inside me. Not only have the Communists imprisoned their people, they’ve cut off all lines of communication. I could write to Sabine but the Stasi would be sure to open the letter and read it. I need to find another way of contacting Sabine but at the moment I’ve no idea what that is.

  Sabine

  Over the next few days we follow the situation on the radio. As Mother predicted, America, Britain and France have done nothing to force the removal of the barbed wire. In places, teams of Factory Fighters have started building a solid Wall out of concrete blocks and the rubble from bombed buildings. And we still don’t know where Herr Schiller has gone. We haven’t seen him since he brought us the fried cabbage and potato to share. I listen out for him whenever I pass by his door and once or twice I’ve knocked, but there’s no response. Brigitta still believes he’s plotting an escape plan for us all. I wish I shared her optimism, but I don’t.

  I go for walks, drawn to the border like a moth to a flame. I see what this Wall is doing to ordinary people. A mother in West Berlin holds her newborn son up to the barbed wire so that an older woman, probably his grandmother, can kiss his tiny, wrinkled forehead. A young bride in a satin knee length dress and holding a bouquet of flowers, stands with her new husband in West Berlin and waves at a middle-aged couple (her parents?) in East Berlin who are leaning from a third floor window.

  One day I go to Bernauer Strasse. I’ve heard about this street from snippets of conversation in the shop. On one side the houses are in the West and on the other they are in the East. The road itself and the pavements, on both sides, belong in the West. Before the border was closed, people living on the East side only had to step outside their front doors to find themselves in West Berlin. Now those doors are locked and guarded and the ground floor windows bricked up.

  I approach Bernauer Strasse from one of the side roads. There’s a small group of men and women standing nearby, talking. I stop not far away and look towards the border. I can’t access Bernauer Strasse itself because the side road is barricaded with barbed wire. They haven’t yet started building a wall here. Three border guards with rifles slung over their shoulders are patrolling the wire. On the west side, protesters are shouting at the guards, calling them concentration camp guards.

  There’s nothing unusual in any of this. I’m about to leave when a noise in a nearby side street attracts the attention of the guards. Two of them go to see what the disturbance is about, whilst the third guard stays by the barbed wire. But there’s something odd about him.

  He’s a tall, slim young man, wearing the full soldier’s uniform complete with knee-length boots and metal helmet, but he doesn’t hold himself rigid the way his comrades do. If anything, he appears nervous. He goes up to the wire, touches it with his bare hands, and then walks away again. He repeats this a couple of times. One of the guards who went to examine the disturbance shouts, “What are you doing?”

  “Just inspecting the wire,” says the young soldier. “It’s starting to rust already.”

  “Forget it,” replies the other guard, “It’ll be replaced by concrete tomorrow.”

  The young guard steps away from the wire, but half a minute later he’s back and this time I see quite clearly what he is doing. He is pressing the wire down with his hand, lowering the height of it. The other two haven’t noticed.

  The young guard walks away from the wire once more, looks around and suddenly makes a run for it, sprinting towards the wire, then leaping into the air and launching himself over the top, his arms outstretched for balance. His rifle dangles from his right shoulder. For a moment he seems suspended in mid-air. A camera flashes in the West. He lands on his feet. There are shouts of joy from the protesters on the other side. He is ushered into a police van and driven away. Safe.

  The other border guards suddenly wake up and run back to the barbed wire, rifles at the ready. But they are too late. The young soldier has gone. In a single leap, he has risked his life in a bid for freedom, and he has won.

  My heart is pounding at what I have just seen, at the idea that it is possible to escape, if you have the courage and take your chance wherever you find it.

  I head for home, keen to tell Mother and Brigitta what I have just seen. As I enter the apartment I am met by a familiar smell of tobacco and fried cabbage. I rush into the kitchen and find that we have a guest. Herr Schiller has returned.

  He must have just arrived because Mother is busy making a mug of tea for him which she sets down on the table. She is frowning and her lips are tightly drawn. I wonder what the matter is. Brigitta, however, gives me a smile and a wink as if she knows some special secret.

  “
Sit down,” says Brigitta to me. “Herr Schiller has some exciting news for us.”

  I join Herr Schiller and Brigitta at the table. Mother takes the fourth chair, her hands clasped so tight that the knuckles of her fingers show white.

  Herr Schiller drinks down his tea in big, slurping mouthfuls. He is wearing an old check shirt stained with oil. His hair is a mess and his hands are covered with scratches. He has a bandage on the thumb of his left hand. I wonder what on earth he’s been doing to end up in that state.

  When he has finished the tea he puts the mug down on the table, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at each of us in turn. “I think I can get us to West Berlin,” he says in a hushed voice. “That is, if you want to come with me.”

  Brigitta jumps up in her seat. “Yes, we do, don’t we Mother? Sabine? We want to be with Dieter.” Her cheeks are flushed with excitement.

  I’m so surprised I don’t know what to say for a moment.

  Mother looks pale. “Will it be safe?”

  I think of the guard I saw today jumping over the wire. He was lucky he wasn’t shot and killed. Everywhere I’ve been in Berlin, the barbed wire is guarded by armed men.

  “Will we escape through the sewers?” asks Brigitta, her eyes wide. “Michaela Mann said she heard her parents talking about people escaping through the sewers.”