By the end of the day we’re exhausted. I make us each a mug of coffee and we collapse at the kitchen table. Claudia lifts her mug with two hands, puckers her lips into a rosebud and blows gently over the surface of the hot liquid. She has a smudge of dirt on the tip of her nose. We’ve been working side by side for hours, but I still hardly know her.
“You said your brother and sister live in East Berlin with your aunt,” I say. “How come?”
For ages she stares into her mug of coffee. When she starts to speak it’s in a quiet voice.
“My parents were killed in a car crash eighteen months ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” She gives me a wan smile. “My younger brother and sister, Axel and Bettina, went to live with our aunt in the Pankow district of East Berlin. I stayed here to continue my studies in sociology at the university. At first it didn’t matter that they were in the Soviet Sector and I was in the West. They were being looked after and I visited them every weekend and took them things like sweets which they couldn’t buy easily in the East. And they came to see me in the school holidays. But since the Wall went up, I can’t go over there and they can’t come here. If I don’t get them out of East Berlin, I might never see them again.”
She looks at me with her big, hazel eyes which are brimming with tears.
“Don’t worry,” I say, laying a hand on her arm. “We’ll get them out. All of them.”
Sabine
The protest started yesterday by Matthias and Joachim is growing. Half the class have come to school today dressed from head to foot in black. One of them is Hans. He walked into the classroom this morning wearing black trousers and a black sweater. Matthias and Joachim have become, in the eyes of many, heroes. Even Monika has eschewed her usual pretty colours for a black blouse and black skirt which make her look much older. Astrid refuses to join in, saying they will all land themselves in serious trouble. I just don’t have anything black in my wardrobe.
At registration Herr Keller stands at the front of the classroom eyeing us one by one. I’m sure he’s making a mental note of who is wearing what.
When I arrive home from school Frau Mann, from the first floor, is in the hallway, removing some letters from her post box. She starts flicking through them. She’s a thin woman in her thirties but looks older, one or two strands of her dark hair already turning grey. Olaf and Michaela, the children, are standing nearby, Olaf sucking his thumb and Michaela twisting a strand of fair hair around her fingers.
“Guten Tag, Frau Mann,” I say. She is a much nicer neighbour than Frau Lange.
She looks up sharply, stuffing the letters into her coat pocket. “Oh, Sabine,” she says with a sigh. “You startled me.” Her eyes dart past me, out of the door, as if she’s expecting someone else to walk in.
“Is everything all right?” I ask. She’s clutching her coat close to her, even though the weather is still very mild.
She glances across at the children, then she leans close to me and speaks in a hushed voice.
“Nicht gut,” she says shaking her head. Not good. “Helmut can’t find a job.” Helmut is her husband, a big, jovial man but hardly ever around because he’s usually at work.
“Oh?”
“You know, he used to work…” she drops her voice even lower so I have to almost lip read, “over there.” She means West Berlin. I nod my head to show that I understand her meaning. “But now, he isn’t allowed to cross the border to go to work and he can’t find a job in East Berlin. He’s applied for lots of positions, but no one will take him. I think the Stasi must have something against him.”
“That’s terrible.”
Frau Mann looks as if she’s about to say something else but then an upstairs door opens and closes and there is the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Frau Lange appears. She looks from me to Frau Mann and back at me, as if she’s drawing some significant conclusion about the fact that we are having a conversation together.
“Guten Tag, Frau Lange,” I say. I’m determined that she should see we have nothing to hide.
The simple rules of courtesy force her to acknowledge us with a short, sharp Guten Tag, but she doesn’t stop to chat.
“I must go,” says Frau Mann, glancing towards the children. She ushers them out of the building and I’m left standing there, wondering how they’re going to manage if Herr Mann can’t find a job.
Dieter
I’ve moved out of the apartment I shared with Bernd, although most of my clothes and things are still there. I’ve also handed in my notice at the Hotel Zoo. I want to dedicate myself totally to the tunnel project and getting Sabine, Brigitta and Mother out of East Berlin. What little money I’ve saved, I’ve put into the collective pot for buying equipment and food.
On Thursday evening Harry calls a meeting in the upstairs kitchen to discuss the plans.
Werner arrives carrying a battered old leather briefcase from which he pulls out a sheath of papers and his map of Berlin. He rolls the map out on the table and Harry, Claudia and I listen as he talks us through the details.
Werner has drawn up plans for a tunnel that extends from the bakery on Bernauer Strasse to number seventeen Schönholzer Strasse. The tunnel will be one hundred and twenty metres long.
“This is a profile of the tunnel,” says Werner taking another piece of paper from his briefcase. “We need to dig down vertically four metres before we dig the horizontal tunnel. At the other end we’ll dig a slope upwards at an angle of thirty degrees. It’s the only way we can reach the surface safely and it also means the escapees will be able to slide down into the tunnel, making their escapes faster.”
I’m impressed with Werner’s work, but Harry is in an argumentative mood.
“How high will the tunnel be?” he asks.
“Just over one metre,” says Werner.
“So people will have to crawl out?”
“It would take too long to dig a taller tunnel.”
“And how long is it going to take to dig this one?”
“That depends what the soil is like. If it’s mainly sand it will be quick to dig, but if we find clay it will take longer. If we work around the clock I reckon we can get the job done in about four months.”
Harry whistles through his teeth. I thought he’d be happier than this.
“Look,” I say, “the sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll be finished.”
Harry ignores my comment and continues interrogating Werner.
“What about noise? Is there any chance the East Germans will be able to hear us?”
“We won’t be able to use any noisy machinery,” says Werner, “but we already knew that. That’s why it’s going to take such a long time to dig. And there’s another thing, because we’re so close to the Wall I think we should have someone on lookout on the roof at all times, so if the East Germans become suspicious we can stop work and lock the cellar immediately.”
I’m dismayed that we have to keep a lookout the whole time, but I remind myself that we are planning to invade enemy territory, and if the East Germans caught us digging under their feet we’d most likely be shot.
“Whatever you say,” says Harry, although he doesn’t sound convinced.
“Good,” says Werner in a tone which draws that conversation to a close. Claudia gives me a look to say, glad that’s settled.
“Just one last thing,” says Harry. “I’ll be going in and out of East Berlin because we can’t send letters by post – the Stasi steam open and read everything. But I can’t visit every escapee personally. We need a contact in the East. Someone who is beyond suspicion. Someone that the Stasi have never had any reason to monitor.”
“My girlfriend Marion is plucky enough to do it,” says Werner, “but the factory where she works is crawling with Stasi informers. She’d never get away with it. What about your friend, Harry?”
Harry shakes his head. “Manfred is an actor. He’s too well known. They watch people like that extra closely.”
/>
“My aunt has never had any trouble with the Stasi,” says Claudia. “But she’s busy all day working at the hospital and looking after my brother and sister in the evenings.”
“Don’t worry,” I say excitedly. “I know just the person.” Everyone turns to look at me. “My sister Sabine could be our contact in the East. The Stasi have never had a reason to suspect her of anything. She’d be perfect for the job.”
“What’s she like, this sister of yours?” asks Harry.
“Well she’s seventeen and still at school, but don’t let that put you off. She’s very mature and sensible. She’s never been in any sort of trouble with the Stasi, or anything like that.”
“Hmmm,” says Harry. “Well, if she’s the best we’ve got, she’ll have to do.”
I’m disappointed by Harry’s reaction, but I try not to let it show.
“I’m sure she’ll be great,” says Claudia confidently.
I think so too. And so will Harry once he’s met her.
Sabine
The atmosphere at school is deteriorating. Hans and the other boys are coming under increasing pressure from the Headmaster to sign up for military service. So far they’ve all refused. Most of them are wearing black in support of the protest started by Matthias and Joachim. And there are men I don’t recognise in the corridors. Dressed in suits of grey, they must be Party officials, probably Stasi. And they are watching us.
When the final bell rings on Thursday, Astrid grabs me by the arm.
“Come on, let’s get out of here. It feels like we’re under surveillance.”
“We are.”
“Well I’ve had enough of it.” She hurries me outside. “Want to come back to my place for a bit?”
“Sure.”
We head off towards Schönhauser Allee where Astrid lives in a modern apartment with her parents and younger brother, Frank. As we walk, Astrid does a merciless impression of the politics teacher Herr Schmidt, knitting her eyebrows together and preparing to launch into a lecture of Marxist political theory. It feels good to laugh.
When we reach her building we climb the stairs to the first floor. The stairwell is bright with electric lights that don’t run on a timer and looks, and smells, as if it has been newly painted. She opens the door to the apartment and I follow her into the lounge as she embarks on another impersonation of Herr Schmidt.
Frank is lying on a red rug watching Meister Nadeloehr, the only children’s programme on television. Like most young boys his age he is dressed in the uniform of the Young Pioneers, blue shorts, white shirt and a blue neckerchief.
“Shhh!” he says, frowning at us. Astrid ceases her chatter for a moment and we stand there watching the flickering screen. A man with a bouffant hair-do and dressed in a frilly white shirt and dinner jacket is singing a song about fairy tales whilst pretending to play a guitar that looks like a plank of wood. Then he starts to pack a rucksack so he and his teddy bear companion can go hiking in the forest and watch animals through a pair of binoculars. I think, is this really the best East German television can do for kids?
“Papa will want to watch the news when he gets in,” says Astrid. Frank sticks his tongue out at her.
I once asked Astrid what her father does for a living but she just said he had a boring job working in an office.
“Astrid, is that you?” calls her mother from the kitchen. The smell of Bratwurst and Apfelstrudel wafts into the room. “Tea will be ready in half an hour. Oh, hello Sabine, will you stay for something to eat?”
It’s tempting, but I’ll have to go home and prepare food for Brigitta, so I thank Astrid’s mother for her kind offer, but say I can’t stay long.
Astrid is lucky the apartment is large enough that she doesn’t have to share a bedroom with her brother but has her own modern furnished room overlooking Schönhauser Allee. She takes me there now and we sit on her bed which is much softer than the bunk bed I share with Brigitta.
I ask Astrid what she makes of all the Party officials roaming around the school.
She shrugs her shoulders. “It’s like I said on the first day back. Matthias and Joachim are causing trouble for everyone.”
“What do you think will happen?”
“How do I know? Anyway, who cares? Want to hear my new record?”
She jumps up off the bed and goes over to a record player in the corner of the room where she has a collection of discs. We spend the next half hour listening to music. But I can’t get the sight of those Party officials out of my mind, stalking the corridors of the school like predators on the hunt for prey.
I’m still thinking of predators on the way home when I turn into Stargarder Strasse and notice a man walking along the pavement towards me. My first instinct is to keep my head down. But there’s something about him that makes me want to look. He’s not like one of the locals in their drab factory clothes. And he’s not like one of the grey-suited officials roaming the school corridors. He’s tall with blond hair swept back off his face and he’s wearing a long overcoat which flaps behind him in the breeze. As we approach one another he reaches a hand into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a map which he starts to unfold. I’m almost level with him now and am just about to walk past when he turns to me.
“Entschuldigen Sie, bitte.” Excuse me. His German is tinged with a foreign accent that I can’t quite place. Possibly American. He holds up his map. “I’m looking for the Jewish Cemetery in Prenzlauer Berg and I have become a little lost. I wonder if you could point me in the right direction please.”
This is odd, I think, a foreigner wandering around East Berlin, looking for the Jewish Cemetery. It was all but destroyed by the Nazis. And how come he is in East Berlin anyway? Then I remember, westerners, like Americans and Britons, are still allowed through the checkpoints. He fumbles with the zig-zag folds of the map and opens it on a page nowhere near where we actually are. He holds the map open in front of me and I see a small envelope in the folds of the paper. What is going on here? The envelope has my name on it. I recognise the handwriting and feel a little dizzy.
“Take it,” he whispers. Then in a louder voice, pointing at the map, “Am I anywhere near here?”
I don’t know what to make of this strange man with the foreign accent. I reach for the envelope and slip it into my pocket whilst saying, “No, you’ve gone completely astray. If you’re looking for the Jewish Cemetery you need to go back down this road,” I point at the map with a trembling finger, “and keep going until you reach this crossroads. Then it’s two blocks away.”
“Vielen Dank.” Many thanks. He folds the map and tucks it back inside his coat. “You have been very helpful.”
He gives me the faintest of winks with his right eye. Then he strides away in completely the wrong direction for the Jewish Cemetery. He doesn’t look to me like a man who is lost. He obviously knew exactly who I was.
I hurry home and run up the stairs two at a time. I shut myself in the bedroom and rip open the envelope. Inside is a short message from Dieter. He explains that the man I’ve just met is called Harry. He’s half American, half German. And, this is the bit I re-read a dozen times before it starts to make sense…Dieter, Harry and some others are going to dig a tunnel into East Berlin so that we can escape.
A tear splashes on the paper and I realise that I’m crying. Dieter is coming for us. He is going to rescue us.
Dieter
It’s late when Harry returns from East Berlin. He saunters into the kitchen, takes his coat off and throws it over the back of a chair.
“How did it go?” I ask him. I’m desperate to hear if he managed to make contact with Sabine. I want to know how she is.
“Oh, easy as always,” says Harry running his fingers through his hair. “Those guys at Checkpoint Charlie make a big show of examining my passport and acting like they’re not going to let me through, but they have to and they know it.” He laughs.
He’s always like this when he’s been to East Berlin. He relishes the thr
ill of walking into enemy territory; of plotting against the East Germans. In war time he would have made a good spy. But I don’t want to hear about the antics at Checkpoint Charlie.
“What about Sabine?” I say. “Did you see her? How was she?”
“Hey, she’s not bad looking your sister, is she?” He gives me a wink. Claudia cuts herself as the knife she’s using to chop vegetables slips in her hand. She swears under her breath.
Harry’s words annoy me, but I let them go. “So you saw her then?”
He nods. “All sorted. I’ve given her your message. And you were right.”
“About what?”
“She’ll make a great contact. She won’t get on the wrong side of the Stasi.”
Sabine
At last it is Friday and the final lesson of the day. Unfortunately, it is Marxism-Leninism with Herr Schmidt.
I’ve been delayed, talking to Frau Nijinsky, the Russian teacher, about which Russian novels I should be reading so I rush into Herr Schmidt’s classroom at the last minute. The only seat left is at the front, in the middle. No one wants to sit right under Herr Schmidt’s nose. I’m hot from rushing so I take off my cardigan and fling it over the back of the chair. Then I retrieve my exercise book and pencil case from my bag. Just in time.
Moments later Herr Schmidt enters the room, strides up to his desk and slams down a copy of Das Kapital. There are red blotches on his bald head. The class falls quiet. He’s standing so close I can smell stale tobacco and sweat on him. I keep my head down, pretending to be interested in re-reading the notes I took in Wednesday’s lesson.
Herr Schmidt makes a sound in his throat as if he’s swallowed Sauerkraut laced with barbed wire. This is the signal that the lesson is about to begin. With a sigh I turn to a fresh page in my notebook and write down today’s date. Herr Schmidt starts to talk.
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