Claudia and I join Werner at the table. The beer bottles from Friday night have been cleared away. Harry doesn’t sit down but paces the room like a caged animal.
From his pile of papers Werner pulls out a detailed map of Berlin and spreads it on the table. The route of the Wall is drawn in red ink, like a river of blood running through the city, along roads, cutting off side-streets, dissecting train and tram lines, crossing the river and the canals.
“I’ve been thinking about the best place to dig,” says Werner. “We can forget about the Tiergarten area, it’s too open and central. We can’t dig all the way under the Brandenburger Tor or Potsdamer Platz. And Neukölln is out because of the Teltow Canal. We need somewhere where there are houses close to each other on either side of the Wall. Here in Kreuzberg is a possibility, or Wedding in the French sector might work.”
He points to a street on the map in the Wedding district. “Here is Bernauer Strasse where the border runs along the edge of the houses.”
I nod my head in agreement. It’s where I saw the old lady jumping to freedom from her first floor window.
“This would be an ideal area for us to dig,” explains Werner. “Many of the houses in the East are now empty or soon will be. People who have escaped in the last week say that compulsory evacuation orders have been issued to those still living there. If we can find a suitable building in the West, we could dig a tunnel from the cellar to a building in the East. What do you think?”
“Sounds good to me,” I say. I turn to Claudia. “What do you think?”
Before she has a chance to reply, Harry interrupts.
“Have you made a decision yet?” He’s impatient to be off. It’s clear that details bore him. Claudia rolls her eyes at me.
“I guess so,” says Werner to Harry.
“Right then, let’s go.”
So the four of us take the S-bahn north to Wedding and start exploring the streets, looking for suitable properties – empty houses or shops to rent.
Harry takes the lead, striding down Bernauer Strasse, his long coat flying open behind him. Metal helmets of the East German border guards are just visible above the Wall that blocks off the side-streets on the eastern side.
On the western side of Bernauer Strasse, not far from the junction with Brunnenstrasse, we find a shop with its front window boarded up. A hand painted sign above the window reads Bäckerei, bakery. There’s a cardboard notice propped up in the window with the words, To Let, and a phone number to call.
“This could work,” says Werner looking up at the deserted property. There’s no sign of life in the neighbouring properties either. I suspect living directly opposite the Wall is not popular.
Opposite the bakery are buildings with bricked up windows and, a little further along, the Wall running across the junction with Brunnenstrasse. The Wall also runs across an area of ground where there’s a gap in the buildings. A bomb must have landed during the war and wiped out a couple of properties. Beyond the Wall, where the bombed houses used to stand, we can see the buildings on Schönholzer Strasse which runs parallel to Bernauer Strasse.
“We could dig to the basement of one of those houses on Schönholzer Strasse,” says Werner. “They are about one hundred metres from the border. We don’t want the tunnel to emerge too close to the Wall.”
As we look in the direction of Schönholzer Strasse, we see a guard marching past the Wall, the top of his helmet the only visible part of him. We’d be digging right under their feet.
Harry takes a notebook from his pocket and jots down the phone number. Then we move on, not wanting to arouse suspicion by hanging around too long.
We don’t find any other suitable properties on Bernauer Strasse or the streets immediately behind it, so we go into a café where there’s a phone and Harry calls the landlord to ask about renting the bakery. The landlord agrees to meet us there in an hour.
When we return, the landlord is waiting for us inside the bakery. He is an old man with a stoop who introduces himself as Herr Becker. He must be a little deaf because we have to repeat our names for him.
Herr Becker regards us with some surprise and not a little suspicion. We clearly don’t fit his image of what bakers look like. He shuffles around showing us the shop front and the kitchen out the back with the huge bread ovens. Claudia listens with interest to a speech about how many loaves can be baked in the ovens at any one time, whilst Harry strides around impatiently, opening doors and examining the yard out the back.
Harry comes back in and interrupts Herr Becker. “Could we see the cellar please?”
The landlord mutters something inaudible to himself and, for a moment, I’m worried he’s going to throw us out, but then he shuffles over to a row of hooks on the wall and takes down a large metal key. He uses the key to unlock a door at the back of the kitchen. He fumbles for the light switch, flicks it on, and stands aside to let us go down first. The staircase is a steep, wooden one and creaks in protest. At the bottom we find ourselves in a large cellar. There are piles of old furniture stacked in one corner and shelves for storing sacks of bread flour.
Claudia engages Herr Becker in a conversation about the ample storage space in the cellar, whilst the rest of us walk into the middle of the room and kneel down to examine the floor.
“Bare earth,” says Werner quietly to Harry and me.
“What’s that?” asks Herr Becker shuffling over to us and cupping one hand to his ear.
“Nice big space down here,” says Werner.
“Hmmm,” nods the old man.
We also check out the living accommodation above the shop. There are three bedrooms, a living room, a small kitchen and an even tinier bathroom. We will need to live on site so there isn’t too much coming and going which the border guards would be sure to notice.
It’s time to get down to business. We can’t afford to pay what the landlord is asking – one hundred Deutschmarks a month. I don’t know if we can afford to pay anything, come to think of it.
Harry tries to sweet talk the old man into accepting less. “Look,” says Harry in his most genial voice, “the street is half empty. Business is down, understandably, since the Wall went up because half the customers can’t get here. How about we agree on fifty Deutschmarks a month and shake hands on it?” He takes his wallet out of his coat pocket.
Herr Becker stands there, unmoving, looking from one of us to the other.
For a minute no one speaks and I can feel the blood pulsing in my temples. Herr Becker suddenly seems to come to a decision.
“I might be old and deaf,” he says, “but I’m not stupid. You’re not going to open a bakery are you?”
Harry starts to protest, but Herr Becker puts up his hand to stop him. “Save your breath, lad.” Herr Becker turns to look out of the window. The helmets of the border guards are visible on the other side of the Wall. When Herr Becker speaks again, his voice starts to crack. “There’s only one reason why a group of young people like yourselves would want to rent an old property like this so close to the Wall. You’ve got some sort of plan up your sleeves for getting people out of East Berlin. Well, I say, good luck to you. You can put your money away. I don’t want it.”
Herr Becker hands the key over to Harry. “Take it. The place is yours until you’ve done what you need to do. Just don’t let those bastards over there catch you.”
Sabine
Matthias and Joachim are attracting lots of attention. People stare and point at them as they walk around the school. Word has spread quickly about their decision to wear black as a political protest. They are receiving a lot of support from their fellow students, but the staff are not amused by it.
The last lesson of the day is Marxism-Leninism with Herr Schmidt, my least favourite teacher.
A short, colourless man with a blotchy, bald head, Herr Schmidt strides towards the desk at the front of the classroom. His weasel-like eyes flit around the room and his nose twitches as if he intends to sniff out dissent at fifty pac
es. His eyes narrow on Matthias and Joachim sitting at the back of the classroom. I glance at them both. They stare straight back at him, defiant and unrepentant. I expect Herr Schmidt to say something to them, but he doesn’t. Instead he looks as if he’s making a mental note to exact revenge at a later date.
“Open your exercise books,” says Herr Schmidt in his rasping voice. “We will begin by examining some heroes of Socialism and their contribution to our society.”
He walks over to the side of the classroom where four portraits of Communist leaders and thinkers are pinned to the wall.
First in this line of socialist demi-gods is Karl Marx sitting on a carved wooden chair, his right hand tucked inside the lapel of his jacket, a gold watch just visible on a chain. His frizzy, unkempt hair and beard make him look like a mad scientist. Alongside Marx is a portrait of his collaborator, Friedrich Engels whose enormous handlebar moustache and beard completely obscure his mouth to the extent that I can’t help wondering if he ever managed to eat soup without getting into a terrible mess.
Then there are two twentieth-century practitioners of Marxism: Vladimir Lenin of Russia and our own leader, Walter Ulbricht. They are more restrained than Marx and Engels in their facial hair, both sporting trimmed moustaches and goatee beards. With his arched, black eyebrows and black pointy beard Lenin makes me think of Mephistopheles, the devil from Goethe’s Faust. Ulbricht’s face is less easy to read. On the surface he looks benign enough with his bald head and silver-rimmed glasses, but I sense that underneath the bland face is a heart of steel. After all, this is the man who said, “No one has any intention of building a Wall.”
Marx, Engels, Lenin and Ulbricht observe the lesson from their vantage points like school inspectors come to ensure that Herr Schmidt sticks to the party line.
They needn’t have worried. Herr Schmidt recites Marxist and Leninist doctrines like a model pupil. In his monotone voice he drones on about the ideas of Communist ideology and we are obliged to write down everything he says. I find myself scribbling phrases like dictatorship of the bourgeoisie (which Herr Schmidt indicates is bad by the scorn in his voice) and dictatorship of the proletariat (at which Herr Schmidt purrs like a cat) without understanding what half of it means. If anyone so much as glances out of the window, Herr Schmidt pounces on them with a verbal attack like machine-gun fire.
“Matthias, a socialist society requires the co-operation of all its members, and that includes you.”
“Joachim, since you do not see the need to write down what I am saying I can only assume that you are already familiar with Lenin’s programme for the Bolshevik Party as outlined in his April Theses of 1917. Maybe you would care to enlighten the class?” Shuffling of paper from the back of the classroom. “No? Do I take it that you are not, after all, familiar with Lenin’s theories? Then maybe you would do me the courtesy of taking some notes.”
“Monika, the concepts of Marxism-Leninism, which I have just explained in great detail, are not to be found on your fingernails, the length of which, I might add, would prevent you from doing any serious manual work, which is the noblest type of work in our society.”
Monika, who is sitting across the aisle from me, blushes scarlet and hides her hands with their elegant, long nails, under the desk.
I keep my head down and long for the bell to ring.
I’m beginning to wonder if the school bell has broken when Herr Schmidt’s monologue is interrupted by its strident buzzing. The class exhales a huge sigh of relief. No one can get out fast enough. Astrid drags me through the door and out into the street.
“Mein Gott,” she says. “I thought that lesson was never going to end. I still haven’t told you everything that happened on the camping trip.” She links arms with me as we walk down Greifenhagener Strasse and embarks on a story about a midnight hike in the forest when I hear my name being called.
“Sabine!”
I turn around to see Hans running to catch up. Astrid frowns.
“Hi,” I say to Hans.
We continue walking, Hans falling into step beside me. Astrid is silent.
“You were telling me about a hiking trip?” I prompt her.
“It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t anything important.”
When we reach the corner of Stargarder Strasse Astrid loosens her arm from mine. “Well, I’ll leave you two in peace,” she says, glancing from me to Hans. She heads off towards Schönhauser Allee.
Hans looks bewildered. “Did I interrupt something?”
“No, don’t be silly.”
“Sabine, you know what Herr Keller said this morning about military service?”
“Yes?”
“Well I’m not going to do it.”
I’m not surprised by this. I wait for him to continue.
He leans close and speaks in barely more than a whisper. I can feel his breath tickling the skin on my neck. “I’ve found a group in West Berlin who can organise false identity papers. They say it might take a while, but still, it’s a start.”
“That’s good,” I say smiling at him. We’ve reached my building.
“I’ll let you know,” he says, giving me a wink.
I watch him as he walks away down the street, then I go inside and climb the stairs to our apartment.
Brigitta is already there, lying on the top bunk, reading.
“How was school today?” I ask.
“Nicht gut,” she says. Not good.
“Oh, why?”
She lays her book to one side and explains how the nice Fräulein Peters who was supposed to have been her teacher this year is no longer at the school and instead they have a new teacher called Frau Wolf who’s a real dragon. Brigitta pulls a face and mimics a wild animal, fingers curled into claws either side of her face.
“Frau Wolf says we all have to join the Young Pioneers,” moans Brigitta. This is the Communist youth organisation for young children. Mother never encouraged us to join these groups. She doesn’t trust them, saying they remind her too much of the Bund Deutscher Mädel, the girl’s section of the Hitler Youth which she was forced to join as a girl. She used to tell us horror stories of compulsory aerobic exercises, en masse, in the park where the girls were made to wear skimpy white dresses and were ogled by the male instructors.
“I don’t want to join the Young Pioneers,” says Brigitta, screwing up her face. “I hate their uniforms and the boys are horrible. They march around the playground pretending to be soldiers and shooting at all the girls.”
“They can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.”
Brigitta looks like she doesn’t believe me. “I think Frau Wolf is really the evil stepmother from Snow White,” she says. “She tried to teach us today that the people in West Berlin are evil, but I didn’t believe her because Dieter is in West Berlin and I know he isn’t evil.” She looks like she might cry.
I climb up onto the top bunk and sit beside her. “Let’s read a story together,” I say. “Which one shall we read?”
“Rapunzel.”
How appropriate, I think, as she finds the page. A girl imprisoned in a tower. Everyone in East Berlin is a Rapunzel now.
Dieter
Now that we have a place to dig from, Werner sets to work studying detailed maps of the area, working out distances and the best route for the tunnel to take. Harry has gone to source shovels, spades, pick-axes, buckets and a wheelbarrow. He says he knows somewhere he can get what we need for a fraction of the real cost. I offered to help him, but he waved me away. So Claudia and I take on the job of making the bakery living quarters habitable and tidying the cellar ready for the digging to start.
The bakery has been empty for months and is in a bad way. The shop is filthy and there are mouse droppings in the bakery kitchen.
Claudia pulls open the cast iron door of one of the bread ovens and sticks her head inside.
“We should try and get these working again,” she says, her voice echoing in the hollow space.
“What, are
you kidding?”
“Not at all,” she says turning to face me. She’s completely serious. “We’re going to need lots of food if we’re going to have the strength to dig a tunnel by hand”
“True,” I say. Werner has made it clear we won’t be able to use machinery for the digging because it would be too noisy and the East German guards would soon hear if there was drilling under their feet.
Upstairs is not much better than downstairs in terms of cleanliness. But at least there’s a double bed in one room and bunk beds in the other two. A family with kids must have lived here once. The beds mean that six people will be able to sleep at any one time. Harry has plans for us to work around the clock, in shifts, to try and get the job done quicker. In the kitchen there’s a small gas hob, a table and half a dozen chairs. The living room has a sofa with broken springs.
“Comfy,” says Claudia bouncing on the sofa and laughing.
But the cellar is where we need to start work. We make our way down the rickety wooden steps.
“These are not safe,” says Claudia pointing to a splintered tread. She’s right. It’s not the only one that’s broken. The steps won’t last long if dozens of students are stomping up and down day and night.
“I’ll fix them,” I say, keen to impress her, then immediately wishing I hadn’t offered to do that. I’ve never used a hammer in my life. Still, it can’t be that hard.
Claudia opens up an old bag of flour sitting on one of the shelves and peers inside.
“Scheisse,” she says turning away quickly. “It must be damp down here in the winter. The flour has gone mouldy.”
So the first thing we do is carry the heavy sacks of flour up the stairs and dump them in the yard out the back. Then we go back to the cellar and examine the pile of old furniture. There are three-legged chairs, a broken table, and an old chest of drawers.
In the afternoon we get stuck in using wood from the broken furniture to mend the cellar steps and cleaning the apartment. Claudia is full of energy and tackles every job as if she’s going into battle. She saws up the drawers from the old chest and I hammer the wood into the stairs. Upstairs in the apartment, she rolls up her sleeves and scrubs the work surfaces, floors and walls until the sweat runs into her eyes and she can’t see what she’s doing. I do my best to keep up with her, but she seems driven.
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