Sisters of Berlin

by Juliet Conlin

  22

  When she arrives at Gärtnerstraße, Sara is already there, standing in the soft misty rain. Nina gets out of the car and pulls her hood up over her head. She goes around to the back of the car and takes out some folded-up cardboard boxes. Sara hasn’t spotted her yet; she’s smoking a cigarette, stamping her feet to keep the cold out. She’s wearing a leather jacket and jeans, hair pulled into a ponytail, and has perfectly applied crimson lipstick. She looks like she’s just stepped out of a fashion magazine. When she looks up and sees Nina, she flicks the cigarette into the kerb.

  ‘Hi, honey,’ she says and gives Nina a peck on either cheek. The smell of tobacco smoke that lingers on her is repellent and oddly pleasing at the same time. She takes a couple of boxes from Nina. ‘I’m early, for a change. They’ve blocked off half the bloody streets for these celebrations, so I allowed myself plenty of time to get here.’

  ‘I’m so glad you came.’

  ‘No worries.’ Sara looks up at the sky. ‘I hate Berlin at this time of year,’ she says.

  Nina unlocks the door to number 31 and holds the door open for Sara. They step in and Sara looks around the stairwell. Two worse-for-wear prams are secured to a hook in the wall with bicycle locks. The walls are graffitied and there is a faint odour of damp. A dull syncopated thudding can be heard from somewhere above. Sara pulls a face. ‘Pretty grim.’

  ‘Cheap, though.’

  ‘Well, it would have to be.’ Sara goes up the stairs without touching the banister.

  ‘We’ve got until the end of the month to clear the flat,’ Nina says. ‘The landlord agreed to terminate the rent contract early.’

  ‘I suppose it’s always good to have a deadline.’

  They reach the second floor. Nina puts the key in the lock, closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths.

  ‘Take your time,’ Sara says softly.

  Nina turns the key and pushes open the door. Then she switches on the hall light. The smell of disinfectant has all but vanished, and there is a cold draught coming from the living room.

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s freezing in here,’ Sara says, following her in.

  It occurs to Nina that she forgot to close the window after her previous visit. She rushes into the living room, dropping the boxes on the way. ‘Shit,’ she says and shuts the window. She looks down at the floor. The rain has soaked the wooden floor, marking out a dark wet semicircle. It will have to be fixed before she hands in the keys to the landlord.

  Sara comes over. ‘We should switch all the radiators on,’ she says, ‘let it dry out a bit.’

  Nina nods and turns the knob on the heater under the window. The radiator lets out a gurgling, knocking sound. She worries that it might be broken, but she places her hand on top and after a few moments, feels the heat.

  Thankfully, the boxes of papers and files are standing far enough from the open window to be undamaged. Nina looks at them and says, ‘I think I’ll start in the bedroom. Sort out her clothes.’

  ‘Whatever you like,’ Sara says. ‘I’ll see what needs to be done in the bathroom. Shouldn’t take long, hopefully.’ She places her hand on Nina’s arm. ‘This is good. Believe me, you’ll feel a lot better afterwards.’

  Nina gives her a hasty smile and heads into the bedroom. The light in here, like in the rest of the flat, is dusky. She switches on a lamp to give the room some structure, take away the shadows and fuzzy edges, and walks over to the wardrobe. She pulls open the double doors and the smell of Marie – a sweet, herbal, jasmine smell – slaps her in the face. The blood drains from her head, she’s dizzy, out of breath, her heart drums a slow, drawn-out rhythm on the inside of her chest. She backs slowly towards the bed and sits down. Her muscles have turned to water. She doesn’t understand – doesn’t understand why now, why she didn’t notice the smell this acutely before. She starts to shake, feels the need to lie down. She lets her eyelids slide shut as her mind clouds over. Everything is distant – her body weighs nothing, she is floating, drifting along the rush of blood in her head. Then Marie’s voice:

  ‘Nina, Nina.’ Softly. In sing-song.

  She smiles.

  The voice again: ‘Nina. Are you all right?’ But now the voice is closer, harder. ‘Nina.’

  It takes a concentrated effort of will to open her eyes. Sara is standing over her, her red lips stark against her pale face.

  ‘Nina. What’s the matter?’ She sits down on the bed and puts her hand on Nina’s forehead. ‘Are you sick?’

  Nina sits up and tries to ignore the dizziness.

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ she says. Her irregular heartbeat is making her nauseous. Perhaps she should take some Atropine, just to get over the worst of it. ‘I felt so overwhelmed, all of a sudden.’

  Sara looks over to the open wardrobe. ‘Maybe all this is just too personal,’ she sighs. ‘The clothes, I mean.’ She turns back to look at Nina. ‘Why don’t you let me sort them out? I can easily bag the ones to throw out, and see which ones you might like to re-sell. Or is there anything you’d like to keep?’

  Nina swallows, but the tightness in her throat remains. ‘No. Just – just the green dress. I wanted to give that one to Bekka.’

  Sara gives her a matter-of-fact hug and gets up. ‘Right, then. Leave this to me. I’ll finish up in the bathroom first. You can go and make a start in the living room. You’ll have to decide what to do with the papers and whatnot.’

  Nina stands up slowly. It was a mistake not to eat anything today. Six hundred calories is what her body needs to keep ticking over; anything less is pushing it.

  ‘Are you really all right?’ Sara asks. ‘I mean, as much as I think you should get this over with, I don’t want to bully you into doing anything if you’re not feeling well.’

  ‘No, I’m just tired. It’s – like you said, I have to get this done.’ Nina leaves the bedroom.

  In the living room, the air is stuffy. Mildewy. Nina spots a patch of black mould in the corner of the ceiling. That feeling of guilt, never far from the surface, twists and rises inside her. She should never have encouraged Marie to take this flat. She should have got her somewhere nicer – cleaner – and offered to pay the difference, until Marie was on her feet. She had the money back then, the regular income, never having to think twice before buying a new pair of shoes. It makes her stomach turn to think she might have condemned her sister, then made such a monumental mistake, setting up her own practice. And now. Now it’s all falling to pieces.

  She kneels on the floor – it’s draughty down here – and opens one of the boxes. Just a load of official-looking papers, bills, the rental contract, bank statements, a number of membership agreements: a local gym, a writers’ affiliation, Greenpeace, the Youth Hostel Association. She closes the box. She might as well take it as it is; she’ll have to sort through it properly at home and cancel any outstanding memberships. She can hear Sara rummaging in the bathroom, opening cabinet doors and the clink of glass. The glass that holds Marie’s toothbrush. She suppresses the urge to cry and instead opens the next box. It’s full of books, non-fiction, novels, poetry collections. She’s not sure why the police took these; perhaps they thought they might find notes or slips of paper between the pages. But that’s irrelevant now. She doesn’t need to sort this box; the books can be donated. She shoves the two boxes she’s looked through aside. There are three more.

  Sara pops her head round the door. ‘D’you have any bin bags?’ she asks. ‘There’s lots of stuff in the bathroom that can just be dumped.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Sara inclines her head. ‘I’m not throwing away anything important,’ she says. ‘Please, you can trust me.’

  Nina takes a breath. ‘Of course. There should be some bin bags in the kitchen. In the cupboard under the sink. But I have some in my car, if –’

  Sara smiles and is gone.

  Nina covers her face with her hands, runs her tongue over her lips. She’s very thirsty; perhaps it’s all the dust. She takes a deep breath and opens
another box. It’s full of lever arch files, which, on closer inspection, turn out to be handout material and notes from Marie’s time at university. Why did she keep these? Was she planning on going back and finishing her degree? There’s so much they never discussed. Nina closes the flap and shoves the box across the floor. It hits the wall.

  Sara comes in with two glasses of water. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘Thirsty work.’

  Nina takes a glass and finishes it in one go.

  ‘More?’ Sara asks.

  Nina shakes her head. ‘D’you think you might let me have a cigarette?’

  Sara frowns but doesn’t say anything. She goes out to the hall, gets her handbag and takes out a pack of Gauloises. She pulls a cigarette halfway out of the pack and offers it to Nina. ‘If you must.’

  Nina takes the cigarette and leans over to light it off Sara’s lighter. She inhales and is surprised that she doesn’t need to cough. Sara pulls the corners of her mouth down and then lights her own.

  ‘Well?’ she asks. ‘How does it taste?’

  ‘Awful. And incredible.’ Nina’s mind is afire and the tips of her fingers are fizzing. The second drag is better than the first, getting through to those hidden crevices of cravings that have been lying dormant for so many years.

  ‘Enjoy,’ Sara says. ‘But make it your last.’

  They sit and smoke in silence. After several minutes, Sara holds out her hand for Nina’s glowing stub, takes it carefully between her fingers and crosses the room to open the window. She tosses both stubs out.

  ‘I’m more or less done in there,’ she says. ‘There’s a bag of clothes that are still wearable. They can go to charity. I can deal with that, if you like.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And then there’s the stuff that can be thrown away, underwear, T-shirts, stuff that’s just too – worn.’

  Nina clears her throat.

  Sara sits back down beside her on the floor. ‘Do I sound horribly efficient?’ she asks with a look of genuine concern. ‘It’s not – it’s not as though I don’t care.’

  ‘I know,’ Nina says. She feels a rush of love for her friend. Her emotions are so close to the surface these days, it’s painful. ‘And I don’t think you’re horribly anything. I couldn’t do this on my own.’

  Sara gives her a concerned smile. ‘How are you getting on in here?’

  Nina shrugs. ‘One box can go straight in the bin, one can go to a bookshop and the other one I have to take home. Tie up some loose ends.’

  ‘Good, you’re getting there, then. So what’s left?’

  Nina nods in the direction of a shelf lining the wall. ‘The things on there. The picture frames I’ll keep, the rest of the books can go in a box for the bookshop, um –’ Her voice falters. She clears her throat again. The zippiness from the nicotine is ebbing away. ‘My father’s contracted a house clearance company. They’ll be in next week to empty the place. We have to get out any personal items before they turn up.’

  ‘You know, I think your parents are asking a lot of you, to do all this on your own,’ Sara says.

  Nina frowns. She hasn’t thought of it like this. ‘I suppose so. But they’re getting old, and –’

  ‘Hey,’ Sara interrupts gently. ‘You don’t have to make excuses. Besides,’ she gets up and wipes the back of her jeans with both hands. ‘You have me to help you.’ She looks around. ‘Right. I’ll start packing. You get back to the boxes.’

  It feels nice to have someone in charge. Someone who will tell her what to do while expecting nothing in return. Nina pulls a box closer and opens it. It’s the same one she took the journals and photo album from the last time she was here. It is only half full now and she takes out everything and places it on the floor. Among the items is a clear plastic bag containing photocopies of letters. Letters from Jakob Fraunhofer. A sticker on the bag states that the originals have been retained by the police for purposes of an ongoing enquiry. Her hands are shaking and she pictures him, lips working away as he writes, in dense, spiky handwriting, his love and desire for Marie. She looks over to Sara, who is emptying books off the shelf and dropping them into a box by her feet.

  Sara turns around. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She smiles and turns back. Nina slips the bag into her handbag. She can’t read them here, not with someone else present. The writing journals are next. A dozen or so; leather bound, surprisingly expensive-looking, the pages filled chaotically and margin-to-margin with Marie’s inky writing. Between the journals, Nina finds a manila envelope stuffed with clippings, flyers and other papers she imagines were Marie’s research material. It is marked “Sakoku” – whatever that means, someone’s name perhaps – and contains material on a single theme: the GDR Ministry for State Security, the Stasi. Printouts of old newspaper articles, photographs of stern-faced grey-haired men sitting at desks or waving to crowds, and a batch of photocopies of typed documents with individual words, clauses or even whole sections blacked out. She presumes they might be Stasi files, but Nina can’t be sure. Her eyes are blurry and skittery from her blackout – if that’s what it was – in the bedroom.

  ‘Urgh,’ Sara says suddenly. ‘Vile bunch.’

  Nina startles. Sara, standing behind her, dips her head towards the black-and-white photo lying on top of the envelope.

  ‘Party officials. Should’ve shot the lot,’ she says dryly. Her parents fled East Berlin in the mid-1970s, in the modified chassis of a West Berliner’s car. The lives of their aunts and uncles, cousins, grandparents – those who stayed behind – were never the same afterwards, the Stasi made sure of that. Sara has an elderly uncle who spent ten months in the political prison in Hohenschönhausen. He still suffers from debilitating panic attacks, but because he’s in the advanced stages of dementia, he doesn’t have a clue as to why. Little wonder that Sara’s views are so unforgiving.

  ‘But why did Marie have stuff like that?’ she asks, both hands reaching up to readjust her ponytail.

  Nina lifts her shoulders in a shrug. ‘I’m not sure. Research for her writing, I guess.’

  ‘Nasty,’ Sara says. ‘Either way, that morally bankrupt lot won’t do much to lift our mood.’ She gets up, her eyes narrowed with contempt. ‘Best get on with it – idle hands and all that.’

  Nina replaces the papers in the envelope and gathers up the journals to put in the box. If she’s honest, all she’s doing is procrastinating. She should just throw everything out – what use is it to her? It’s hopeless, all of it. She can feel the craving for another cigarette emerging in her brain, like a long-lost friend asking to be let in the back door.

  Sara has gone back to wrapping the picture frames in newspaper. One photograph, still standing on a shelf to her left, shows Marie perched on a log, in a striped top and shorts, with Lake Schlachtensee in the background, close to where they grew up. The lighting is all wrong and the frame is slightly off-kilter, but Marie always liked this photo because of the goofy face she’s pulling.

  *

  May, 2002

  ‘Sebastian’s asked me to move in with him.’

  Marie didn’t answer straight away and concentrated on rolling a cigarette. She’d started smoking a year earlier, at fifteen. Nina blamed herself. Anything she did, her sister invariably copied.

  Marie lit up and took a deep drag.

  ‘You don’t like him, do you?’ Nina said.

  Marie shrugged and exhaled. She pushed her feet against the ground, making the log wobble slightly. ‘Nah, he’s all right. A bit old for you, I reckon.’

  ‘He’s only thirty. That’s hardly old.’

  Marie gave her a look that suggested the opposite. ‘And he’s a bit up his own arse.’

  ‘Marie!’

  ‘But he is though, isn’t he?’

  Nina shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Mind you.’ Marie grinned. ‘It’s a nice, squeezable arse.’

  Sara places a newspaper-wrapped frame in the box next
to Nina.

  ‘Was she any good?’ she asks.

  ‘What? Marie?’

  ‘Yes. Her writing. I don’t read much, to be honest. Not as much as I’d like to. You know how it is.’

  ‘Her writing was wonderful.’ She runs her hand over the journal. ‘It glittered,’ she says distantly. ‘Quite sparse, you know, and dark. But unexpectedly funny in places. It always took me by surprise.’

  Sara licks her thumb and rubs some dirt off her jeans. ‘Maybe you could let me read something, one of her stories. You choose.’

  Nina is touched by her friend’s request, but struggles to find the words to explain that no one will ever read Marie’s stories. That Nina made a promise she intends to keep, and that very soon Marie’s work will be nothing but ashes. So, instead, she says, ‘I’ll see what I can find.’

  ‘Oh, and that box over there has loads of drawings in it,’ Sara says, pointing to the box closest to the wall. ‘They’re pretty impressive, too.’

  Nina is puzzled. ‘They’re not Marie’s. She didn’t draw. They must belong to someone else.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Sara says. ‘I’m talking about the charcoal drawings, the ones signed M. Bergmann.’

  Nina gets to her feet and pulls the box towards her. It’s the only one she hasn’t looked through, and she’d assumed it contained more files and the like. She opens it. Sketchpads lie on top of more lever arch files. She lifts one out and flips the cover back. Like Sara said, it’s in charcoal, a portrait of a child. The lines are a little smudged, and Marie has played with ideas of abstraction, cubist-inspired. But it is instantly recognisable. It’s a tender, careful drawing of Kai. Nina flips to the next page, and the next. All portraits, all of Kai and Rebekka, apart from one. She recognises the picture, from a photograph of Nina holding two-day old Kai in the hospital. Except that Marie has drawn herself holding him, not her sister.

  This time, she can’t hold back the tears. She cries quietly, urgently, and it is a good few minutes before Sara notices and comes to sit beside her, unspeaking, her arm wrapped warmly around her shoulders.