by Fox J Wilde
Three large men, all in immaculately-pressed uniforms, charged in and grabbed her roughly. One took control of each arm and the remaining grabbed her legs. Then, the three of them began marching down the hallway with her slung between them like a sack of garbage. If Lena were of a mind to, she might have attempted to witness the route they took. She had gotten used to the convoluted nonsense-routes to her interrogation sessions; but here was her chance to finally see where the corridors actually led. In her unfortunate state, however, she couldn’t be bothered to care. She knew she was on her way to be tortured, interrogated, shot, or worse. Here, there were things worse than death. Lena was sure of that.
When they finally entered the interrogation room, the three guards dropped her unceremoniously on the floor like a rotten sack of meal. Her interrogator stood inside, and he looked very upset.
“Leave us!” he screamed at the three guards. Oddly, they scooted out of the room, almost fearfully.
“I…I…I’m…” Lena started, but he cut her off.
“Shut up, you fucking whore!” he menaced over her, spit flying about. “You fucking whore! We know what you were doing! We know about your shows…about your secret meetings! We know you have conspired against the State. Admit it! Admit it now or I swear to God I will make your life a testament to pain!”
Lena believed he would, but she had no idea what he was talking about. “Secret meetings!?” she thought to herself, “What secret meetings?!”
“That’s right!” he screamed again, “We know about your little resistance! Did you think we wouldn’t find out?! You and that boy, Hans Schmidt!”
“Oh my god,” Lena thought to herself. She really didn’t think about Hans anymore, but at the mention of his name, concern filled her. What had happened to him?! What had they done?
“Oh, make no mistake...” he screamed even louder, “We have him—we have all of your traitorous little friends. He’s still alive...for now. But if you don’t start talking right now, I’ll make sure he never sees another day! I’ll kill him right in front of you! I’ll bring him right in front of you and I’ll shoot him right in that precious face you love so much! The last you will ever see of him is a big, gaping hole filled with teeth and gore! Don’t think I won’t do it!”
“Hans is still alive?!” Lena thought to herself. For all the good it would do, her heart filled with relief and a small amount of joy knowing that he wasn’t dead.
“That’s right!” her interrogator menaced in an even more dire tone as he crouched down next to her. He was inches from her unprotected face, and the madness in his expression was plain to see. “He’s still alive, rotting in a black cell. He hasn’t left his cell since he arrived…since we tortured him, at least. He hasn’t seen a human face or heard a human voice…I’ve been told he screamed like a girl for few nights—and then he went silent. The guards slide his food tray in, but it comes out uneaten. To be honest with you, Lena, none of the guards really know if he’s alive. His cell reeks of feces, I’m told! Several of the guards have cast dice on whether or not he finally killed himself, or if he’s simply lost his mind. Personally, I think he’s just lost his mind…poor, mindless little Hans; muttering to himself, quivering like you, and crying for his wretched girlfriend!”
“That will be quite enough, Lieutenant.” an older male voice spoke from the back of the room.
Lena turned to see who the new voice belonged to. She was surprised to see an older man, perhaps in his late fifties to early sixties, rumpled and balding with gray hair. He immediately struck Lena as a man who slept long and soundly at night and awoke as early as he wished with a minimum of fuss. He wasn’t dressed like the other guards. He wore a slightly wrinkled suit with a slightly wrinkled tie. Everything about the man seemed…relaxed.
“She knows, Sir!” her interrogator practically whined.
“I’m sure she does, Lieutenant,” the man said reassuringly, “and we’ll get the information from her eventually. But for now, I think our young charge would do well with a good rest.”
“Yes, Sir.” the Lieutenant responded grudgingly—no doubt he was upset at having his plaything removed from him in such a matter. “So, now what?” he asked insolently. “We just stop interrogating her? She’s a criminal!”
“Of course she’s a criminal, Lieutenant. As I recall, she has already confessed and has showed contrition. No doubt she feels terrible about her crimes against the State. But she is also a child and couldn’t possibly have known the far-reaching extent of her actions.”
“She knew what she was doing, Sir!”
“I disagree, Lieutenant. As you’ve no doubt noticed over the last few weeks, young Lena is only a child. You’ve skillfully established and informed her of this fact, as well as made her come to see that she and her peers are both impressionable and ignorant. How could these youngsters possibly grasp the sheer scope and breadth of their actions?”
“But Sir!”
“No,” the old man said while folding a handkerchief, “she is merely a young person in need of education. Perhaps this is something I can help her with.”
“But Sir...” he protested again.
“No ‘buts’ about it, Lieutenant.” the older man interrupted him, “You’ve done an exemplary job and now you are relieved. Perhaps you can find some other prisoner to interrogate.”
Her previous interrogator thought about this for a few minutes with a look of consternation on his face. After much thought, however, he seemed give in, offering only a disgruntled “Yes, Sir.” followed by a pronounced stomping out of the room. This was followed with an even more pronounced slamming of the door.
“Ah, the joy of the Lieutenant.” the old man began, breaking the ice. Lena didn’t have a response—she simply cowered on the floor, awaiting some sort of beating, kicking, or otherwise.
“You needn’t fear me, young Lena.” the older man began again, “I have no interest in brutalizing you. I’ve often found that the carrot works far better than the stick in most cases. With you, I aim to prove that. Especially since the stick seems to have been liberally applied already.”
“S-sir…pl-pl-lease…please…I, S-sir, I only...” Lena began, “that i-is…S-s-sir…I-I...”
No matter how hard Lena tried to say something, no proper words found their way to the surface. All Lena knew was that she should always say ‘Sir’ no matter what—it seemed the best way to ensure her survival. And yet, something about the man made her want to trust him. He had already stuck up for her against the vile Lieutenant, perhaps he meant what he said.
“There’s no need to worry, young Lena.” he reassured her again, “You will be perfectly safe with me. As long as you tell the truth and be honest with me, there’s no need to fear anything. You have my word.”
“S-sir…th-th-thank y-you…S-sir…I...”
The man considered her for a moment, nodding his head as if coming to an understanding. He smiled wryly for a brief second, then, leaned over and gently helped Lena to her feet, supporting her all the way.
“Lena, I’m going to give you a gift,” the man said with an impish smirk. “Anytime you and I are together in this room, you needn’t call me ‘Sir’. You may instead call me ‘Grandfather’. When I’ve earned your trust, you may feel free to even think of me in such a manner, should you wish.” Then, with a wink he added, “This shall be our little secret!”
“Y-yes…S-sir…I mean, Gra-grandfather…S-sir...”
“Just Grandfather, Lena!” the old man laughed, “I think this shall be appropriate for the both of us.” Before continuing, the older man leaned in closer and whispered in her ear with an expression so impish that it bordered on prankster, “Especially since it will very much upset the Lieutenant!”
“Bang bang bang!”
The sound of a fist beating on her new cell’s door was still jarring; but much less so. These new accommodations were significantl
y larger than the black cell, sitting at around ten by seven feet. It was painted a sort of pinkish white, had an actual cot, contained a blanket that didn’t smell like piss and fear, and even had a window—yes, a window!—that offered her a small view of the city. It was a view she relished. This wonderful window was more entertainment than she had received in who-knows-how-long and was probably a better view than the average hotel (iron bars notwithstanding).
The other half of her entertainment included a few scant books. Most of them were propaganda books about ‘Commonwealth Advocacy’ (whatever that meant), news clippings about the GDR’s latest successes in advising the American space program, and brochures for joining one of the GDR’s world-renowned sports teams. None of these interested Lena in the slightest. However, a few of the provided reading materials were music magazines. Her new interrogator had made a few efforts to get to know her and win her loyalty appropriately. He had even managed to smuggle in a rock rag from West Berlin! It was a conservative magazine, sure, but it was still filled with images of skinny-clad warriors with their long hair and crazy-looking guitars. She treasured this above all the other comforts she had been allowed.
“Are you decent?” a heavy female voice said on the other side of the door.
These were the two best aspects about her fine new accommodations, all things considered—all female guards and the complete lack of punishment positions. Gone were the days of motivational pepper-balls, punishment loaf, choking gas, and that damn fire hose. She didn’t even have to complete ‘cheer fitness’ and these days she was actually allowed to spend a few hours walking around outside. She didn’t ever get to talk to anyone, of course, but at least she was able to breathe fresh air and feel the damp cool of winter on her cheeks.
“Yes, ma’am!” Lena responded loudly, yet politely.
“Please stand up and face the wall.” the voice ordered impatiently.
Lena complied quickly. It was best not to take her serendipitous circumstances for granted—especially since she knew what was coming. Two female guards entered and she was handcuffed and promptly led out of her cell (with no bag over her head!!!). She knew where they were taking her—her daily interrogation. But honestly, they didn’t feel like interrogations anymore. Certainly not in light of her former interrogator and his torments. In her new interrogation sessions, she was able to smoke and listen to music. She was able to talk about her friends, her family, and her old band-mates. She was even able to talk about punk rock and what the scene meant for her. She tried her best not to give away names or crucial details when she could help it. When ‘Grandfather’ felt she was holding back, he merely said, “When you’re ready to trust me, we’ll talk.” and then moved on to a new subject.
The vast majority of the time, he preferred to move on to the subject of music. Lena was suspicious at first, assuming he was simply trying to build rapport with her. Yet as time went on, Lena was surprised at not only how well-versed in music the man was, but how passionate. Truth be told, he knew far more about music than she did by a decidedly wide margin.
“As you know,” Grandfather began one day, “most of the precursors to punk rock stemmed from The Velvet Underground, a pet project of Andy Warhol. He was, of course, one of the—if not the most—influential artists of our age. And when he set about...”
“Sir, uhh…Grandfather sir?” Lena interrupted awkwardly, “Who’s Andy Warhol, and what’s a velvet underground?”
“You…you can’t be serious.” her interrogator had responded in disbelief, “The soup cans? The Marilyn Monroe? Silk-screening?”
“Who’s Marilyn Monroe?”
“You...” he said, pausing as if he had just watched the Hindenburg explode, “you…don’t know who Marilyn Monroe is either?”
“No sir…Grandfather...”
“What in the world are they teaching you in school these days?!”
“How the GDR invented the cure for polio.” Lena answered honestly.
“Balderdash!” he exclaimed, laughing. “In any case, Andy Warhol practically invented the ‘cult of personality’ by definitively inventing ‘pop art’. He was responsible for making the mundane and trivial aspects of artists and actors (and politicians, by extension) just as important as the things they portrayed. Towards this end, Warhol kept a stable of what he called ‘super-stars’ in his Factory—a clique of troubled young people that he used as tastemakers for what would eventually become a social revolution. However, he was also searching for a new sound that he could use to represent the underground S&M, leather and gay scenes of 1960’s New York. This is how he ended up with The Velvet Underground and eventually The New York Dolls, who...”
“Grandfather sir...” Lena interrupted again, “What were the New York Dolls, and what’s S&M?”
The sudden cocktail of sadness and upset wrought on his wizened old face made Lena cringe with embarrassment. Lena was still getting to know his moods and couldn’t possibly know what it took to genuinely upset this man. That said, he honestly looked as if he had just witnessed Lena kicking a puppy down a flight of stairs.
“Lena...” he spoke softly after mopping some unseen sweat from his forehead, “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you were locked up in this horrible place. No one your age should ever be allowed to play punk rock music without knowing all of this. So, sit down, shut up, and listen—I have an entire course to teach you!”
On top of being a punk aficionado, her new interrogator was also a huge Patti Smith fan. She was a poet, loosely connected with Andy Warhol, that had apparently been incredibly influential to the punk scene.
“Patti Smith has everything.” her interrogator gushed as if entrapped within a teenage crush.
“She’s edgy, gorgeous, intelligent…and she has that slightly-wounded, troubled, religious-dropout sort-of aura about her poetry. Listen!” he would yell, as he played ‘Gloria’ for the fifth time in a row. “Just listen to it! Do you hear how her voice builds momentum with the instruments?! It’s the single most glorious thing I’ve ever heard in my life!”
As much as he loved punk rock and its many stories, however, he seemed to like obscure, less mainstream scenes even more. It was as if, as a child, he had snuck into the attic and rummaged through several dusty old boxes only to stumble upon a priceless painting from a long-dead artist. He treasured this information as if it was his secret heirloom, imparting its whereabouts judiciously to the rare person he felt might appreciate the worth.
“Noise rock...” he pontificated one day, “found a lot of peripheral origins in the US with bands like Sonic Youth and the John Cale-era of The Velvet Underground. But where it got its purest start was more-or-less in the UK with the band Throbbing Gristle who was hailed as the first industrial band—really, they basically invented the genre.” Grandfather would pop on a record, and the two would listen to “Hamburger Lady”, “Something Came over Me,” and “Valley of the Shadow of Death.” These songs were filled with so many sounds that Lena had never heard or even considered to have existed, it made her head spin. Some were beautiful, others were decidedly not, but they were all new.
“Do you hear that?!” Grandfather would expound excitedly. “You know they recorded this in an old, rotting factory? Listen Lena…you can actually hear the furnaces and machines from the industrial district.” He would go on to describe the meaning behind the music. “It’s not so unlike your music when you break it down. Whereas punk rock seeks to annoy the royal or ruling class and sensibilities of the petit bourgeoisie by being irresponsibly loud and violent...pushing as many boundaries as possible... noise rock actually seeks to represent that same emotion through sound.”
He went on to describe the manufacturing crisis in 1970’s Britain and how the widespread poverty made the youth feel useless and stuck. “Noise rock”, he continued, “was engineered to sound useless and stuck! Whereas the Sex Pistols would famously state ‘There is no future, and
England’s dreaming,’ Throbbing Gristle took it a step further as if to describe to the bourgeoisie how it felt to be young and future-less.” He would additionally go on to talk about the Solidarity Movement in Poland and the Big Beat scene, along with the many other Warsaw countries that were beginning to ‘see the musical light’ along with their Western counterparts.
You see,” he said, “these movements are not so different from your punk and hip-hop scene in the GDR. All of these countercultures around the world follow an accurate sense of deep political unrest. Personally, I feel that social revolution, political dissidence and leftist movements are inextricably (and equally) linked to—and fueled by, and primarily expressed through—art. The state lets the young people down and the young people respond with—occasionally explosive—creative force.”
You agree with our punk scene?!” Lena whispered incredulously.
Well, yes and no,” he responded knowingly, “I agree with the fervor, but not with the dogma…or what you young people think passes for it, at least. I love the passion. What I don’t agree with is the misplaced sense of loyalty. You see, all of the young people in these countries have more than one thing in common. Yes, they are revolting, and yes, they have a right to. But whether they know it or not—and they don’t—they are actually revolting against the lack of a community…against the lacking of purpose. And I know it might not seem like it,” he added with a wink, “but moral degradation is to blame as well.”
Lena had made confused facial expressions when he had said that.
“I know you young people are all crazy horny,” he said with another wink, and Lena giggled. “But you have to understand that there’s an elegance in courtship. There’s a correctness to proper social demeanor. Then again, I don’t expect you to understand that at your age. What I would hope you would make the uncommon effort to realize is this: everything they are revolting for in the other countries are things that we are blessed to have in the GDR—community; a sense of morality; progression; a purpose. Perhaps the youth in other countries don’t realize that yet. But you, young Lena, are a leader. You, above all, I hope would have the good sense to realize that.”