Oranges for Christmas

by Margarita Morris

  “Stop or I shoot!” The guard raises his right arm and fires a warning shot into the sky. But at the same time a series of fireworks explodes on the other side of the Wall and the gunshot is lost amongst the bangs and explosions.

  “Stop!” The guard shouts the command a third time.

  Hans pays no attention. His right leg is pressing down on the barbed wire. He’s trying to squeeze his upper body through the gap. His left leg is still dangling on this side of the Wall. The dog jumps up, trying to bite Hans on the ankle. Hans kicks the animal away.

  The guard has walked forwards and is now standing directly between me and Hans. He positions his feet squarely on the ground, raises his right arm, supports his right wrist with his left hand and aims the gun at Hans. The dog returns to the guard and stands motionless at his side, ears pricked, its breath misting in the cold night air. The guard takes a deep breath and pulls the trigger.

  It’s as if time slows down. The steel bullet slices through the swirling snowflakes, splitting the air molecules. It hits its target and in the flash of a brilliant white rocket, a shower of red sprays out against the snow.

  Hans balances for a moment on top of the Wall, face frozen in astonishment. His body jerks, then he tumbles to the ground. He’s still in the East.

  I feel as if someone has launched a hand grenade into my chest. I turn from the door and throw up over the floor of the deserted building. My head is spinning, my ears are ringing and I keep retching until my throat burns and I can’t breathe. I stagger to the wall, thinking I’m going to faint.

  After a moment, when I realise I’m still conscious, I creep back to the door, open it a crack and peer outside.

  Five guards are now standing in the middle of the street looking at Hans who is lying on the ground, curled on his side. No one approaches him. No one touches him. No one goes to see if he is dead or alive.

  I want to run to him, help him, but if I do the guards will shoot me without a second thought. They’ll think I was planning to escape with him.

  Then something unexpected happens. Faces appear on the other side of the Wall. People in West Berlin must have heard the shots. They must be standing on something, maybe chairs from the nearby café, in order to see over the Wall. Their faces reveal shock, horror, disgust. And anger.

  Then I hear a sound like an animal caught in a trap, a moaning and choking noise. It’s Hans! He’s still alive. He’s lying on his side, curled on the ground and he’s making a dreadful high-pitched wailing noise. He’s calling for help.

  The West Berliners shout at the guards.

  “He’s alive!”

  “Fetch help!”

  “Take him to hospital, you fucking idiots!”

  One of the Westerners, a man who looks like he’s had a fair bit to drink, tries to climb over the Wall into the East.

  Two of the guards point their guns at him. “Get back! You are breaching the national border of the German Democratic Republic.”

  He points a finger at the guards. “Commie bastards!”

  The guards prepare to fire. Someone else on the Western side pulls the drunken man back and he disappears from view.

  The other onlookers continue shouting at the guards, telling them to fetch help. But none of the guards does anything. Instead they stand around, looking at Hans and shrugging their shoulders. A couple of them walk back to Checkpoint Charlie.

  Someone drops something over the Wall, some sort of package. I think it’s a first aid kit, but Hans is in no position to use it and the guards refuse to help him.

  Instead of dealing with Hans, the guards turn their attention to the crowds leaning over the Wall.

  The crowd is becoming even more abusive, shouting insults at the guards.

  “Commie arseholes!”

  “Stasi pigs!”

  “Murderers!”

  The guards threaten to shoot if the crowd doesn’t go away.

  Hans lies forgotten.

  As the argument between the guards and the Westerners intensifies, I watch Hans, listening out for his cries, looking out for any sign of movement. The snow is falling on him, settling on him like a veil and I realise that his cries are becoming fainter and fainter. I strain my ears to hear his voice but it is no longer there. He is silent.

  I cannot feel my hands or my feet because of the cold. But more than that, I can no longer feel my heart. Something has died inside me.

  A senior looking border guard arrives. The others stand to attention as this new arrival takes control of the situation. He orders two of the junior guards to pick up Hans’ body and carry him away. As they lift him up, Hans’ right arm hangs limp and lifeless.

  My legs won’t hold me up any longer. I slide to the floor and sit, sobbing in the hallway. I am dead.

  Dieter

  The kitchen door flies open and crashes into the wall. Claudia is standing in the doorway, clutching a newspaper in her trembling hand. Tears are rolling down her face.

  “Die Arschlöcher!” she shouts.

  I jump to my feet and rush over to her. “Whatever’s the matter? What’s happened?” I went to bed at about three this morning. It’s now eight o’clock and far too early for crashing doors and hysterics.

  I lead her to the table. “Coffee please Werner. And make it strong.”

  “Coming right up,” says Werner, trying to sound cheerful, but looking at me in alarm.

  “Now tell me what’s happened,” I say to her.

  She slams the newspaper down on the kitchen table and points to the front page. “Look at this!”

  The headline, printed in large, bold letters, is “Tot!” Dead!

  “He didn’t stand a chance!” She spits the words out.

  “Who didn’t?” asks Werner, placing the mug of hot coffee on the table in front of her.

  Claudia’s chest heaves with sobs.

  I put my hand on her arm. “Just take a deep breath and tell us.”

  She nods her head. “There was a shooting. Last night. At midnight.”

  Midnight, I think. I was so happy last night at midnight. But in another part of the city someone was being shot.

  “Where was it?”

  “At the Wall,” Claudia says. She’s more in control of herself now. “Near Checkpoint Charlie. A teenage boy. Just a kid. He made a run for it. Nearly got over too. But they gunned him down and he fell.”

  “Scheisse!” I say, taking hold of her hands. They are still trembling.

  I glance at the picture on the front of the paper. It must have been taken by someone in the West, looking over the Wall. There’s a figure lying on the ground, curled up on his side. In the background, a group of border guards are just standing there, like dummies.

  This is nothing but cold-blooded murder and I can see why Claudia is so upset. I’m upset too, but it makes me want the tunnel to succeed even more.

  I turn her face to look at me. “Listen,” I say, “that’s why we’re doing this. That’s why we have to keep digging the tunnel. We mustn’t give up. That’s why we have to get our friends and family out of East Berlin.”

  She looks at me, blinking away the tears. “I know. I know.”

  Sabine

  I wake up. I’m back home in my own bed. For a split second I feel safe. And then the events of last night come rushing back to me: Hans, holding me in his arms, kissing me, running towards the Wall and then…I cry out at the awfulness of the memory. The door opens and Brigitta appears.

  She runs over and hugs me tight. I hug her back. I don’t ever want to let her go.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up,” she says at last, pulling away from me and giving me a searching look.

  “Thank you,” I nod. I have a vague memory of returning home in a state of shock and screaming my head off for an hour or so.

  “We gave you something to help you sleep,” says Brigitta, pointing at a bottle on the chest of drawers.

  “I see.” My mouth is dry and I have a splitting headache. I’m not sure ho
w coherent I was last night, so I ask Brigitta, “Did I explain what happened?”

  Brigitta nods. “I’m so sorry.”

  I can feel the hot tears welling up in my eyes.

  Brigitta leans forwards and whispers. “You’ve got a visitor.”

  “Who?” My first thought is that I was spotted last night near the scene and the Stasi have come after me.

  “It’s Astrid. She’s heard the news.”

  “Oh.” I’m surprised Astrid’s heard about it so quickly but I suppose these things travel fast. She’ll be worried about me, knowing how fond I was of Hans. I touch my fingers to my lips. Our first kiss. If only it hadn’t been our last.

  I ease myself out of bed. “I’d like to see Astrid. It will do me good.” I throw on some clothes and go to the living room where Astrid is sitting, reading a copy of Neues Deutschland.

  As soon as she sees me she lays the newspaper aside and rushes over, throwing her arms around me.

  “Sabine, you poor thing. I’m so sorry about what happened to Hans.”

  She’s smothering me and I can’t talk for the moment.

  “Here, drink this,” she says, passing me a mug of tea. “Brigitta made it for me, but I hardly touched it.”

  I gulp the tea down. “Shall we go for a walk?” I say. I feel like I need some fresh air.

  “Of course, if you’d like to,” says Astrid picking up her newspaper and folding it under her arm.

  I fetch my coat and we walk down the stairs and out into the street. Last night’s snow has settled on the ground, covering the city in a sparkling layer of white, hiding the blood stains. I thrust my hands inside my coat pockets. I didn’t think to bring a scarf.

  We set off down Stargarder Strasse but I don’t want to walk past Hans’ building so I cross over and turn down Pappelallee. I lead the way, Astrid follows. Neither of us says anything.

  Eventually we come to the small park with the nineteenth-century water tower, where Hans outlined his escape plans to me. I can still picture us both, sitting on the grass. There’s an old wooden bench by the path. I’m too weary to walk any further so I wipe the snow off with my sleeve and sit down. Astrid perches on the edge of the bench, watching me with a worried expression on her face. I know she’s waiting for me to speak.

  “If only I could have stopped him,” I say. This is the thought that has been nagging at me ever since I woke up. I should have done more.

  “Ach, Sabine,” she says coming closer and putting an arm around me. “You mustn’t blame yourself for what happened.”

  I shake my head. “I tried to persuade him not to do it, but he couldn’t wait.”

  “Well, why would he wait? He wanted to escape and no one else was going to help him.”

  “That’s not true,” I blurt out.

  “What’s not true?” asks Astrid looking puzzled.

  I’ve said more than I intended to. I bite my lip.

  “What’s not true?” asks Astrid again.

  “It’s not true that no one was prepared to help Hans escape.”

  “Hang on,” says Astrid, “that’s too many double negatives. Are you saying Hans knew someone who could help him get out?”

  I stare down at my feet and nod my head. What does it matter now?

  “But who?” asks Astrid. I can hear the astonishment in her voice.

  “Me.” My voice sounds small and pathetic in this empty place.

  “No kidding! But how?”

  There’s nothing for it, so I tell her about Dieter and the tunnel. I don’t tell her where it is because I’m not entirely sure myself.

  “That’s amazing,” says Astrid staring at me with her mouth open. “Just imagine digging a tunnel all the way under the border. Like real adventurers.”

  I feel she’s taking the whole thing rather lightly. “They’re taking a huge risk,” I say. “It’s not some game. If they get caught they’ll go to prison.”

  “Of course,” she says. “Still amazing though. It’s very brave of Dieter. So why didn’t Hans just wait for the tunnel to be ready?”

  I shrug. “Lots of reasons.” I haven’t got the energy to explain to Astrid about the problem with the identity papers and Hans’ fears that the Stasi were onto him. Fortunately Astrid doesn’t press me for more details. She seems lost in thought.

  A few flakes of snow start to fall. I think of Hans, running towards the Wall, jumping up to it, almost making it over the top and then lying at the bottom, shot and dying. I wonder if his mother has heard what happened. I feel so sorry for her. I promise myself that when I make it to West Berlin, I’ll find out where she is and go and see her. I want her to know that Hans died fighting.

  Dieter

  I go into the kitchen to grab something to eat before I start my digging shift and find Harry sitting at the table, drinking coffee with a man I’ve never seen before. Even though the stranger is sitting down I can see that he’s tall. He’s also very blond – the perfect example of a Teutonic male. There’s a black, leather holdall on the floor at his feet.

  “Dieter,” says Harry, “this is Rolf.”

  Rolf stands up and comes over to shake my hand, all but crushing my fingers in his firm grip. “Pleased to meet you, Dieter.”

  “Hi,” I say. I find myself a bit intimidated by his blue eyes which have a way of boring into me. I extract my hand from his. We’ve done our best to keep the tunnel project secret, so I’m wary about this newcomer. Harry, on the other hand, seems perfectly relaxed. Maybe they’re old friends.

  “Rolf was just telling me about his girlfriend who lives in Prenzlauer Berg,” says Harry. “He’s desperate to get her out of East Berlin. He wants to help with the tunnel.”

  “Really?” I ask, spooning a heaped teaspoon of coffee into the least dirty mug I can find. There’s no denying another pair of hands would come in useful, but how do we know we can trust this guy?

  As if he was reading my thoughts, Rolf turns to me and says, “I know I must look a bit suspicious, turning up here like this. But, believe me, I just want to get my girlfriend out of East Berlin. There’s no future for her there. The Stasi are pigs.”

  “So how did you hear about us?” I ask.

  “Oh, you know,” he shrugs, “I’ve seen Harry around the place. You can’t miss him really, can you? I got chatting to him in a bar the other night. I thought, someone like him must be involved with a group helping people escape and it turns out I was right.”

  Damn you, Harry, I think, always swanning around in your American greatcoat. No wonder people notice you.

  I don’t really have much choice but to accept Rolf’s story. The fact is, he’s here now and he knows we’re building a tunnel, so we might as well make use of him, see what he’s made of.

  Harry finishes his coffee and stands up. “Maybe you could take Rolf down to the basement and show him the ropes? And whilst you’re doing that, I’ve got something for your lovely sister.” He tucks a white envelope inside his coat. “Off into the lion’s den once more. I hope I bump into Sabine this time. It’s boring just leaving envelopes in the post box.”

  I ignore his comments about Sabine. For a while after his panic attack in the tunnel Harry was unnaturally subdued but recently he’s been back to his ebullient self. If anything his mood grows more exuberant with every centimetre the tunnel progresses. The last few days he’s been exploring the area around Schönholzer Strasse, working out how he’s going to get the escapees into the house. He told us last night he’s found a café on Ruppiner Strasse where they can all gather. The plan is for him to be the courier, go into the café and give a secret sign to indicate that it’s safe for people to make their way to the house on Schönholzer Strasse.

  He checks he’s got his American passport. “Bis bald!” he says slapping me on the back. See you soon!

  As soon as Harry has gone, Rolf stands up, rubbing his enormous hands together. “Are you ready to show me the tunnel?” he asks.

  Sabine

  It occurs to
me that I still have the key to Hans’ apartment. I find it hiding in the corner of my coat pocket. Frau Winkler didn’t want it back. I sit at the kitchen table for more than an hour, turning the key over between my finger and thumb, trying to decide what to do. I don’t know if I’ll be running a huge risk going back there, but in the end I decide I will.

  I tell Mother and Brigitta that I’m just popping out for a bit of air, then I trudge through the snow to Hans’ building. My biggest fear is that I’ll run into the Stasi. They must have identified Hans’ body by now and will have visited his apartment, expecting to find his mother. If there are Stasi men around, I’ll have to feign surprise that Hans is not at home.

  I climb the stairs to Hans’ apartment and knock on the door, just in case. To my relief there is no sound from within, so I slip the key into the lock, open the door and go inside. The familiar smell of beeswax greets me and a hundred memories of Hans come rushing into my mind’s eye. I lean against the door for a moment, screwing my eyes tight shut, unable to move. Then I remember that the Stasi could appear at any moment and I pull myself together, telling myself to get a move on.

  I walk, shakily, into the living room. I can imagine Frau Fischer sitting in her chair, reading the newspaper. I want to find something to take to her in West Berlin. I look around the room and catch sight of the photographs of Hans and his father on the small table by the side of her favourite reading chair.

  I go over to the table and pick up the picture of Hans. He grins back at me and I think my heart is going to break. His seventeenth birthday. I remember that day, back in June. We went to the cinema and saw some terrible film, but we still had fun.

  Outside in the street a car door slams, making me jump. I have to get out of here. I hide the photograph of Hans and the one of his father in my coat pocket and head for the door.

  On my way down the stairs I encounter two men in raincoats going up. I’m already on the second landing, so they can’t know where I’ve just come from. I stare straight ahead, pretending not to mind them. They will be going to Hans’ apartment to look for signs that he was in league with other potential escapees or groups in the West. I feel inordinately happy that I managed to retrieve the photographs before the Stasi got their dirty hands on them.