“No, I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have made such a big deal of getting you to dig. But why didn’t you just say you were claustrophobic?”
He shrugs. “No one likes to admit their weaknesses, do they?”
I can understand that. “Go back to playing the spy,” I say, slapping him on the back. “It’s what you do best.”
Sabine
November has arrived and with it comes the first really cold weather of winter. Now when I wake up in the morning I can see my breath misting and when I climb out of bed the linoleum floor feels damp as well as cold. In the bathroom I hop from one foot to the other whilst I wait for hot water to come out of the tap. The pipes bang and clank like a tuneless percussion section of an orchestra.
We need to fetch coal from the cellar for the Kachelofen. Herr Schiller used to carry coal up from the cellar for all the neighbours, dismissing our thanks with a wave of his big, paw-like hand and saying that the exercise kept him fit. But now we must do that job for ourselves. Brigitta offers to help me. We take a metal bucket down the stairs to the ground floor and open the cellar door. The light is on. Someone must be down here already. We descend the flight of wooden steps and find our own section of the cellar, separated from those of our neighbours by wooden partitions.
I raise the lid on the bunker and peer into the blackness. This is a dirty job which will leave us with coal smudges on our hands and clothes if we are not careful. We start to shovel coal into the bucket, the coal dust making us both cough. We have almost filled our bucket when, from another part of the cellar, a coal bunker lid slams shut. A moment later there is a cry of pain, like a wounded animal.
We drop our shovels and run around the wooden partitions in the direction of the sound which has turned into a high-pitched moaning. Frau Lange is standing with a large bucket of coal by her feet, hands to her back, her eyes screwed tight shut.
“Are you all right Frau Lange?” I ask.
“Of course I’m not all right.” She opens her eyes and glares at us. “I’ve injured my back trying to lift this bucket of coal.” She rubs her lower spine with one hand and points at a full bucket of coal with the other.
“Would you like Brigitta and me to help you carry it upstairs?” I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it seems like the only thing to do in the circumstances.
She looks at us in surprise. “Yes. Thank you. That would be very helpful.”
Brigitta frowns at me, but I tell her to help me lift the bucket. We carry it between us, up the cellar stairs and up to Frau Lange’s apartment on the second floor. I’m not surprised she injured her back, it weighs a tonne. Frau Lange hobbles behind us.
We stand aside whilst she unlocks her door. “Bring that inside, will you?” she asks. We follow her into her apartment.
Brigitta and I have never been inside Frau Lange’s apartment before. As we follow her down the entrance hall and into the living room, I’m struck by how different it is to our rather shabby apartment. The modern, rectangular sofa and square chairs have been arranged with geometric precision around a beige rug. There’s a tall bookcase with hardbacks and paperbacks arranged according to height and all the spines perfectly flush with the edge of the shelves. There are no pictures on the walls but there is a black and white photograph on top of an otherwise empty sideboard. It’s a picture of a good looking, young man with thoughtful eyes and a playful smile on his lips. It’s no one I recognise.
We take the bucket over to the Kachelofen in the corner of the room and put it down on a black iron grate. There’s a moment of awkwardness when no one knows what to say. Frau Lange leans against the sideboard, rubbing her back with one hand. Her other hand is near the picture of the good looking young man.
“He looks nice,” says Brigitta. I put a hand on her shoulder to silence her, worried that Frau Lange will think her impertinent.
“My husband,” says Frau Lange. “His name was Bruno.”
This is more information about herself than Frau Lange has ever volunteered in the past.
“Was your husband killed in the war?” It seems only polite to ask and is the most obvious explanation for his non-existence. If they were divorced she wouldn’t have a picture of him prominently displayed in her living room.
Frau Lange shakes her head. “No, he wasn’t killed in the war. He was killed before the war even started.” Frau Lange isn’t looking at us but is directing her gaze towards the photograph. “Bruno was a good man,” she says nodding her head. “He was a committed Communist. Like all Communists in the 1930s, he opposed Hitler. He thought the Nazis were evil, and he was right.”
“Yes, of course,” I say. If this is a test to see if my family supported the Nazis, then I want her to know that my conscience is clear on that front.
“You’ve heard of the fire in February 1933 that destroyed the Reichstag Parliament building?” she asks.
“Yes.” Although it was years before I was born, the Reichstag fire is one of the most infamous events of the early years of Hitler’s dictatorship. Father often talked about it. I wait to see what Frau Lange has to say on the subject. When she speaks there is real bitterness in her voice.
“We thought at the time, and I still think to this day, that the Nazis started it themselves and then blamed it on the Communists.” She looks past us, at a place deep inside her memory that only she can see. “Of course the fire was a ploy to give the Nazis an excuse to arrest hundreds of Communists, trade unionists and intellectuals from the university – the sort of people that the Nazis detested. That particular time Bruno and I managed to escape. We were lucky. But things got worse. In May the Nazis started burning books in the Opernplatz. They burnt anything they considered subversive to their political ideas. They didn’t believe in free speech.” I glance at her bookcase and notice volumes of Brecht and other authors banned by the Nazis. “Then in June 1933 the Nazis stepped up their campaign.” Her voice rises in pitch. “They carried out raids and abducted over five hundred Communists from their homes. I was out at a meeting the night they came to our apartment. I returned home to find that the door had been broken down and Bruno was gone. I knew he’d been taken.” Her eyes well with tears. “There was nothing I could do. I hid with friends for two weeks. Then I escaped to Poland and eventually to Russia. It was only safe for me to return to Berlin after the Soviets had liberated the city.”
I never expected her to tell us so much about herself. I suppose it’s her way of thanking us for helping her with the coal.
“Would you like me to put some coal in the Kachelofen for you?” I ask.
She looks startled as if she’d forgotten we were still there. “No thank you. I can manage now.” Her old, closed look has returned.
“We’ll be off then,” I say. She nods curtly in our direction.
We leave her standing there, looking at the portrait of her dead husband, and go back to the cellar to fetch our own bucket of coal.
Dieter
We’ve dug as far as the border with East Berlin, but Werner isn’t happy.
“We have a serious problem,” he says when Claudia and I report for duty in the morning. “There isn’t enough oxygen in the tunnel. When Harry had his panic attack the other day, it was exacerbated by the fact that not enough oxygen’s getting through.”
“How do we fix that?” asks Claudia.
“We need to install a ventilation system,” says Werner. “I’ve sent Harry off to see if he can source some pipes and an electric ventilator which we’ll fix up in the cellar. It should take us about a day to get it sorted.”
Great, I think. More delay to the project. But without oxygen we’ll be going nowhere fast. Still, we’ve made it to the border and are now digging right under the feet of the border guards patrolling the Wall.
Harry turns up later that morning with metres of piping which he managed to pick up cheap from a factory that had closed and a second-hand ventilator that a contact let him have for a song. I have to hand it to him – he migh
t be useless at digging but he’s resourceful when he needs to be.
Under Werner’s technical guidance Claudia and I install the piping in the tunnel whilst Werner gets the ventilator cleaned up and running. By the end of the day we’ve got a functional air conditioning system and we’re ready to start digging again. I can hardly wait.
Sabine
I pull the scarf up around my face to keep out the biting wind and make my way, head bowed, to the shop. We need bread, if there is some that isn’t stale, and milk, if there is any that isn’t sour, and vegetables although I don’t expect to find anything other than the usual bruised and limp specimens.
As I approach the shop I’m surprised to hear the chatter of voices. I look up and see a queue of women outside the shop, all talking excitedly. I recognise Frau Klein from the hairdresser’s on Pappelallee. I join the back of the queue, curious to see what has brought so many people to the shop.
“I haven’t seen anything so bright and beautiful for months,” says Frau Klein to the woman next to her. The queue shuffles forward and I crane my neck to see what she’s talking about. In the corner of the window is a crate of oranges. Piled high in a bright golden pyramid, they look like a gift from the gods.
“Where have they come from?” asks a woman in a chequered headscarf.
“They’ve been imported for Christmas,” says Frau Klein knowingly. “To cheer us all up.” There are wry smiles at this, no one quite sure if she is being sarcastic. The queue moves forward a few more paces.
After about ten minutes of waiting outside, I finally make it into the shop. Frau Maier, the shop keeper, is rationing out the oranges to ensure as many people as possible are able to buy them. When it’s my turn I pick three large oranges, one each for Brigitta, Mother and myself, laying them carefully in my basket. The skin is firm and unblemished. They are perfect. Then as an afterthought I ask Frau Maier if I can have two more for the Mann children. Michaela never did get the cake we had planned to make.
“Of course,” says Frau Maier, passing me two more plump fruits.
I do the rest of my shopping, not really caring about the poor quality of the vegetables on display or worrying about the age of the milk. I pay at the till and hurry home.
On the way upstairs I stop at the Mann’s door on the first floor. I haven’t seen Frau Mann for ages and wonder if her husband has been able to find work. Herr Schmidt always tell us that this country has zero unemployment thanks to the Communist system, but what he fails to mention is that no one will employ you if the Stasi tell them not to. I hope that Frau Mann will not be too proud to accept a couple of oranges for the children. I knock on the door and wait. There is no answer, so I try again.
“There’s no point waiting,” says a voice behind me.
I turn and see Frau Lange coming down the stairs.
“Why is that?” I ask, dreading what she might say.
“They’ve gone.” She inclines her head towards the Mann’s door.
“Gone?”
“Yes. And good riddance too. They didn’t believe in the socialist society.”
I feel like saying that the socialist society didn’t believe in them because no one would give Herr Mann a job, but Frau Lange doesn’t wait to hear my reply. I stare at her back as she disappears through the door, thinking how can she be so heartless?
I turn away from the Mann’s door and climb the rest of the stairs, the five oranges suddenly feeling heavy in my shopping bag. Brigitta meets me in the kitchen to help unload the shopping.
“Oranges!” she says delving into the bag and pulling out two golden spheres. She holds them up, one in each hand.
I feel bad about the Manns and can only hope that if they have tried to escape then they have done so successfully, but seeing Brigitta’s face light up at the sight of the oranges makes me smile.
I hunt in the cupboard for a bowl that isn’t chipped, and we arrange the oranges inside. Then I place it in the centre of the kitchen table. They are the most colourful objects in the room and they are giving off a tangy, citrus scent.
Brigitta puts her nose up to the fruit and sniffs them. She hasn’t tasted fruit like this in months.
“We’ll save them for Christmas,” I say.
Dieter
It’s my turn to do lookout duty. Andreas is back so it makes sense for him to dig. We’ve passed the border now and are crossing Brunnenstrasse in a diagonal line, right under the boots of the border guards.
I climb up to the roof and sit huddled behind the parapet, blowing on my hands to keep them warm. The weather has turned bitterly cold and dark clouds are gathering in the sky. At least the tunnel stays a constant six degrees above zero and you soon get warm digging. Up here, there’s no protection from the wind or rain. I expect we’ll soon have snow.
I pick up the binoculars and look to see what’s happening on the other side of the Wall. As usual two guards are patrolling at Brunnenstrasse. I expect they’re as bored as I am. I lay the binoculars to one side and wrap my arms around myself in an effort to keep out the wind. I’m so tired I shut my eyes for a moment. Nothing ever happens on lookout duty.
There’s a rumbling in the distance, like thunder.
Scheisse, I think, not a storm!
That’s just my luck to be stuck up here in the middle of a downpour. I look up at the sky. It looks like it’s going to chuck it down any minute. I pull my collar up around my neck. I wish I’d thought to bring a hat. The rumbling stops for a moment. Then it starts again, only this time it’s louder and it doesn’t sound like thunder any more.
I grab the binoculars and look down Brunnenstrasse. Because of the angle I don’t have a clear view straight down the road, but I can see for about fifty metres. I shift my position to try and get a better view. The rumbling noise increases. Then two army trucks appear in my line of vision and behind them, a tank. It’s the caterpillar tracks of the tank on the road that are making the thunderous noise. It’s loud even from this distance. I can feel the tiles on the roof vibrating.
I watch, transfixed, as the vehicles trundle down the road and come to a stop about ten metres from the border. A dozen or so soldiers jump down from the trucks. Two of them have guard dogs, large vicious-looking brutes, straining at their leads. The dog handlers walk up and down, right above the tunnel, and the dogs go berserk, barking and pawing at the ground.
Stupid animals, I think.
Then I come to my senses, throw the binoculars to one side and grab the radio. I jab at the buttons, trying to make contact with Werner and the rest of the team down below.
“Can you hear me? Can you hear me? There’s a tank. Stop work immediately. Repeat, stop work immediately.”
I’ve no idea if I’m getting through. Although we tested the radio equipment at the start, we’ve never actually needed to use it for real. After an agonising few seconds, there’s a crackle and Claudia’s voice comes over the airwaves. “Message received.”
I reach for the binoculars once more. The soldiers have moved away from the location of the tunnel and are gathering at one spot. One of the dogs is barking and pulling at its lead. It knows there’s something going on a few metres away, under the earth. But the soldier holding its lead isn’t interested in that patch of ground and gives the animal a sharp kick with the toe of his boot. The dog howls then shuts up. It knows it’s beaten.
Two of the soldiers have long metal bars. They bend down and wrench open a manhole cover, then four of them descend into the sewer. The others stand guard around the hole, rifles at the ready.
Everyone waits.
After a few moments the guards around the manhole jump to attention. There are screams and shouts. I watch in horror as, one by one, a group of East Berlin escapees are hauled out of the manhole and dragged off to the waiting trucks. They were trying to escape through the sewers and didn’t quite make it, poor sods.
Then I almost cry out as I recognise the last four people to emerge from the tunnel. It’s the family who live in the
same building as Sabine, Brigitta and Mother. I think their name is Mann. The children, a boy and a girl, are lifted out of the hole, followed by their mother and father. The children look confused and frightened. Frau Mann is in tears. Her husband tries to comfort her, but he is dragged away by one of the guards and shoved into the back of one of the trucks. Frau Mann and the children are taken to the other truck.
The soldiers replace the manhole cover and return to their vehicles. Then they drive away, taking their prisoners goodness knows where, probably to some godforsaken work camp to live out the rest of their days in captivity and drudgery.
Sabine
Christmas Day dawns cold and miserable. Normally we would stay inside warming ourselves around the Kachelofen but this year Mother, Brigitta and I join the crowds at the Church of Reconciliation in Bernauer Strasse.
We wrap up against the freezing cold and gather with dozens of other East Berliners outside the church which lies in East Berlin, no more than a few metres from the Wall. With half its congregation in West Berlin and unable to access the building, the church is now closed. The government of East Germany has no interest in the spiritual welfare of its citizens.
There are crowds of people on both sides of the Wall, waving white handkerchiefs to each other. I have no idea if Dieter will show up, but I wanted to come here just in case.
The Wall, here, is about one and a half metres high and built of concrete blocks, crudely cemented together. Not everyone can see over the top. Children in the East are standing on wooden crates, those in the West are sharing small step ladders. The border guards on this side of the Wall are patrolling, looking tense and nervous. They wouldn’t normally allow people so close to the Wall, but they seem to be making an exception for Christmas.
We squeeze our way to the front. A kind man offers us the use of his crate and we huddle together, looking over the Wall into a sea of faces in West Berlin.
“Fröhliche Weihnachten!” Merry Christmas! People on both sides shout to each other, whether they know the people they are talking to or not.
Oranges for Christmas Page 17