This Terrible Beauty: A Novel

by Katrin Schumann

  She knows already that it is too late, that she has forfeited control of her life: the undertow has caught her, and she is compelled onward.

  But the next time they see each other, they are subdued, as though wrestling with what this connection they’re forging will mean to them. How it will disrupt their lives. He has started writing, he tells her, but he will not divulge his subject.

  His teeth gleam at her; he is playful, his excitement palpable, and she thinks that what they are actually doing is creating beauty.

  And then she finds a list of names. It is on her dressing table in the bedroom, scrawled in Werner’s hand on a crumpled sheet of paper:

  Adalbert Zweig

  Margit Bayer

  Stefanie Krug

  Silke Shröder

  Nils Wolf

  Beke Franse

  Gisela Keller

  Everyone on the list is familiar to Bettina. Stefanie works alongside her, just as Christa does. Nils was in her class at school. Silke is the ticket taker at the train station, and Beke works in Johann’s butcher shop in town. For a long time she just stands there, holding it, uncertain of what this means. Has Werner left it on her table on purpose, to warn her, or is this accidental? He has been working more and more closely with the secret police, but she also believes he holds no real power. After all, he wasn’t able to help Christa, was he?

  She has arranged to meet Peter Brenner at the youth center in half an hour and is impatient to leave, yet now she is rooted to the spot.

  There is no question of confronting Werner. Since the moment he entered the fish shop, he revealed himself to be both patient and relentless. He pursued her so insistently, and she quickly succumbed. When he set his mind to something, he achieved it. After years of being constrained by his physical limitations, he had learned to be dogged and deliberate. What can she ask him? Showing interest in this, revealing fear—it seems to her that this will only cause more trouble.

  But truth is, the man also has a soft heart. In the evenings he often leans back on the couch with Eberle curled up on his chest, one hand stroking the orange fur and the other holding a book of poems. Sometimes he braids Bettina’s hair for her or massages her feet when she’s tired from standing at the factory all day. He is a man who dreams of grandeur only to find himself mired in the everyday. She thinks back to the early months of their marriage, their tentative outings to do reconnaissance after the Russians came. Working together to find a way to survive in their new world. The weekend afternoons playing cards and listening to Brahms and Mozart on the radio in the living room. The careful, polite lovemaking.

  Guilt buzzes through her, a current reaching into every last part of her body. What has she started? Surely Werner would never do her, or anyone she knows, any harm. But she senses that there is more to him than he has allowed her to see, or perhaps than he is even aware of himself. She thinks of their outing, when he snatched the camera from her, yanked her arm till it hurt.

  He is just a man, after all. A man whose wife is taking risks that would make him blanch in fury, a man who does not like to be surprised. She suspects that she has no idea what he might be capable of.

  19

  The streets of Bergen, Rügen’s largest town, are bustling with children in uniforms running to take up their positions in the parade and adults doing last-minute errands before the shops close and the streets become too crowded to navigate. It is the first of March, the Tag der Volksarmee: the founding day of the National People’s Army.

  Werner has gathered with some coworkers from the town hall to join in the festivities. The main square has been renamed Karl-Marx-Platz, and there is a large fountain ringed with benches at one side. The redbrick houses with their crowstepped gables loom high over the square. Traffic has been diverted, and crowds are gathering for the beginning of the march. As Werner gazes at the marchers in their various uniforms, a sudden memory comes to him: The smaller square in Saargen and its disastrous tree planting during the war. The bombs dropping down on them all.

  Worst of all, for him, those two soldiers who harassed him and called him a cripple. Because he couldn’t fight! A sense of righteousness rises inside him, gripping his throat. He showed those bastards, didn’t he? Every day since then has been better than the last, and once again he’s standing amid a large raucous crowd, but this time he is one of those in charge.

  There is a sense of order to the scene despite the sheer number of children and placards and soldiers and horses and swaying banners in red, black, and yellow. The children’s infectious enthusiasm, the way their keen eyes dart about as they seek out orders about where to go and what to do, the lift of their mouths, the banter and chatter—it’s electrifying. Like streaming water, they begin to disperse and sort into orderly lines. Werner muscles his way through the onlookers to the front of the wooden platform by the Kaufhaus, where seats have been reserved for government employees. He is with Comrades Hoffenmayer, Dagenbert, and Fritz. Leading the way, he hoists himself onto the rickety wooden steps—his leg has been hurting him today—and chooses a seat near the front.

  The half-timbered houses that surround them are still damaged, chunks of plaster and brick missing everywhere, but on a day like today it is almost possible to believe the war never happened. It is clear and very cold, high winds snapping the banners on their poles and stirring the naked branches of the lindens.

  Toward the back of the crowd are the unions, each group wearing sashes sewn from brightly colored nylon to distinguish themselves: the metalworkers, the carmakers, the teachers and sports coaches, the shipbuilders, the electrical-equipment union, and then ahead of them the farmers’ collective. Then come the children, identical in their white shirts and red neckerchiefs, wearing jaunty blue hats and holding up banners. The older ones in their blue shirts. Their high-pitched voices rise above the din; it isn’t until the parade begins that they will become earnest and silent.

  In front of them are the horsemen whose steeds have been trained to prance, lifting their quivering legs high in the air and moving slowly and gracefully. The smell of horse manure is pungent; the deep clop of the horses’ hooves reverberates on the stones around him. At the front are ten or twelve rows of soldiers in their blue uniforms, standing at attention, their rifles angled against their shoulders, eyes locked. A smaller group of men in white jackets and white caps stands at the very front.

  The band is tuning up its instruments, and then silence. A few minutes later there is a whistle, and the band begins a marching tune. Loudspeakers from the government buildings amplify the sound as the marchers rustle and shift, and the procession begins, gently at first, to move forward. It is an army, but one of great beauty. It is not about violence or fear but about pride and hard work. The vast formation takes up almost the entire square; it will have to winnow itself down in order to make its way through the streets. A regular citizen stands on the sidelines on a small ladder, holding a banner: Mit den Millionen gegen die Millionäre—“Millions against the millionaires.”

  The parade takes a full fifty minutes to empty from the square, and all the while Werner wrestles with a lump in his throat, unwilling to give away how much the sight of all these people working together moves him. In the seven years since the Russians took over the island—and half of his country—they have transformed the local and regional authorities, injected money into the farms and factories, trained teachers and civil servants, and managed to attract disillusioned former National Socialists into the fold of a new political order. Over the years, Werner has come to understand that it was not the Nazis who were to blame for the misfortunes of his country but the capitalists with their incessant drive for power. With every year that the DDR finds its feet, further refining its systems of checks and balances, the country’s economy is getting more and more robust. Many years earlier, Werner joined the ruling Communist party, the SED; on his jacket lapel, he wears his pin with pride. It shows two hands clasped together, a symbol of unity. After all, isn’t that wha
t they are striving for? Isn’t there strength in unity?

  So here he is, in this jubilant crowd, and those bullies who tormented him in front of Bettina, who cared about nothing but their own fun and games, where are they? Though he doesn’t like to admit it to himself, sometimes he thinks with horror of the boy he killed, remembering the greasy glide of knife into flesh, but at moments like this he knows his actions were justified. He knows that to be on the side of the winners, you must protect, at all costs, what you believe in.

  On his way to the car that will take him and his colleagues back to Saargen, Werner is joined by his superior Franz Josef Bieder. Now BV director of Stasi field operations, Bieder is often in East Berlin. Upon seeing the man, Werner experiences an uncomfortable tug in his gut. To compensate for this embarrassing yet instinctive fear, he smiles and nods his head in deference.

  “Hallo, Nietz,” Bieder says. His face has become fleshy with age, making the stationary eye with its glass pupil even more prominent. “Excellent. Just the person I wanted to see. Come with me, will you? I’ll have my car take you back later.”

  Bieder’s office is off a narrow corridor on the fifth floor of a handsome brick building next to the square. Vast swaths of beige polyester are drawn halfway across the windows, and light comes from a fluorescent strip over his desk. The air is thick with the opaque pall of cigarette smoke. Lined up against one wall are six large metal filing cabinets.

  “Take a seat,” he says, settling into an armchair and waving a hand toward the couch. “I have a proposition for you.”

  Werner pulls out a cigarette from a case he keeps in his suit pocket and sits down. On the wall behind Bieder hangs an enormous woven tapestry in which portraits of Marx, Engels, and Lenin appear in shaggy orange and black.

  “You have been in town administration for many years, Comrade. It’s a small town, but you built up your skills. You have shown yourself to be steadfast and unwavering. When the DVdI was disbanded to make room for the MfS, we had a clear directive, and we’re continuing to work tirelessly at fulfilling that directive. You are aware of the details?”

  “Of course, some of them. Especially the most recent ones you shared some months ago.”

  “Yes, and your pursuit of those persons of interest, how is that going?”

  “Coming along nicely. I’m doing the research—political leanings, habits, associations, and so on. As you requested.”

  Bieder leans forward and picks up a thick folder, sliding it over toward Werner. On the cover it says: Bundestags-Drucksache 12/3462, S. 97–107. “I took the liberty of copying sections relevant to you. Part of our mission is protecting ourselves from sabotage from the outside and from the inside . . .”

  “Yes, I understand. I’ve been in OTS for some time now,” Werner says, leafing through the document. “What do you need me to do?”

  Bieder explains that Berlin is launching a massive surveillance-improvement initiative, which requires funding, careful administration of said funds, and a discreet presence overseeing the finances. He gestures with his hand, taking in the gloomy office, the overflowing ashtray, and the hulking file cabinets. “How does a position here in Bergen sound to you? I work mostly in Normannenstraße now, in Berlin, and we need you here, not in Saargen. I think you’ve earned it. Married, yes, but no dependents; is that right?”

  “No children yet.” Werner can’t believe what he’s hearing: This would be his office?

  “So we’re looking into something else, Nietz. A rumor about you, something that happened during the war.”

  Werner’s hand, cigarette clasped between two fingers, stops on its way to his mouth.

  “No fear, good man,” Bieder says with a bark of a laugh. “I can’t say much yet, but I can tell you we’re conducting an investigation, and it seems you may be in for some more excellent news soon.”

  Leaning forward to grind out the cigarette that now tastes like a bucket of ash in his mouth, Werner presses his lips together. The best strategy when you’re flummoxed is to keep quiet. He wills his shoulders to descend, his muscles to relax. Everything is fine. Bieder just likes to wield his authority.

  “A promotion is exciting, eh? What will your wife say?” Bieder stares at him with one eye as the other quivers ever so slightly. “We need you to begin your work here as soon as you can disentangle yourself from your responsibilities in Saargen.” He rises and opens the doors of a mahogany closet where bottles of liquor are lined up. There is Kristall vodka with its familiar blue label, Nordhäuser, Doppelkorn, Goldbrand, and cherry whiskey. And then there are brands Werner has never set eyes on before, and it begins to dawn on him that Bieder is quite right—this is just the beginning of a life he could never have dreamed of for himself.

  “I’ll take a Goldi,” Werner says, and when he is given the glass—pale yellow brown, no ice—he happily sucks it down in one lukewarm gulp.

  But in his own home he is no king, not even a prince. That night, Bettina’s brooding sister and her one-armed husband come over. No one thinks to ask Werner about how the parade went, and he has no chance to tell them about Bieder’s promise of a promotion and a move to the Bergen office. Clara sits on the Biedermeier couch, her long narrow face mottled. Sometimes it’s hard for Werner to see how his wife and this woman can be related. Clara is older by only two years but already looks thoroughly worn out. He used to find her quite attractive, but recently she has taken to wearing her hair down, pinned back hastily on either side, and this is rather unbecoming. And she has become far too thin, shapeless.

  “I can’t stand them, that filthy family in the house with us. And next . . . what will it be next?” Clara takes a breath and continues when no one offers a comment. “Doesn’t it make you angry? I mean, this business of not owning anything?”

  Werner accepts a glass of schnapps from his wife. He sits back, takes a sip, and places the glass on a side table next to him. He will let this play itself out. He has no interest in becoming embroiled in arguments about socialist economic theory when people are so poorly informed.

  “Perhaps we have to think about the greater good,” Bettina says, pouring a glass for her sister and then one for herself.

  The radio hums softly, playing a pleasant marching tune. Werner reaches over to turn up the volume a notch. He will tell Bettina about his promotion later, after they’ve had a few more drinks. Clara’s complaining will surely set Bettina up to be delighted about his good news.

  The husband, Herbert, a shifty type who never seems to settle down, wanders the room. The two men have never felt the slightest inclination toward each other, and Werner suspects it is because he did not fight in the war. There is a camaraderie of sorts, something that cannot be celebrated but remains a reality, between German men who saw battle. A silent, tragic acknowledgment. Werner often senses this without being able to share in it. The lines of Herbert’s face are deep, his complexion pitted and sallow.

  “We want to tell you something,” Herbert announces. “We are thinking of leaving. I have no role to play in the mines anymore. What is there—”

  “Oh, that’s just disappointment talking,” Bettina interrupts. “Emotions. Listen, have you tried the new salt rolls they’re making at Studemeyer’s in town? I got some fresh yesterday . . .”

  “You mean leave the island? Or the country?” Werner asks, crossing one leg over the other. His black wool trousers shift up, revealing socks and pale ankles, as well as deep-red scars that bracket his legs from the braces he wore as a child. Recently he’s been experiencing painful flare-ups in his joints, but he doesn’t let on. “Are you in earnest, man?”

  “They’ll never come back from the Soviet Union, half the men from the mines I used to work with. Either dead in the earth or dead and forgotten in some prison somewhere. You know that, don’t you? They sacrificed everything,” Herbert says. “And even if they get to come home again, it’s not even really home anymore, is it?”

  “We lost the war, Herbert,” Bettina says. “There had
to be a reckoning.”

  “There’re all sorts of opportunities for DDR citizens,” Werner adds. “Trust me—I know. You must be adaptable. Have an open mind.”

  But the two women and Herbert act as though he has not even spoken.

  “Come help me bring in the laundry, Clara; then we can eat,” says Bettina, oblivious to her husband’s fidgeting. “I’ve some fresh sausage, and there was bread today, those salted rolls. We’ll have dinner in half an hour.”

  “Women,” Werner says under his breath as the sisters leave the room. He does not elaborate, but what he means is, How is it they always manage to grab the spotlight?

  20

  After the recent rains, the grass in the backyard is brown and soggy, spotted here and there with thick-stemmed crabgrass. A black tarp covers the vegetable patch. The sheets, towels, and clothing hang on a line that extends from the back of the house all the way to the shed. The women begin unclipping the laundry and placing it into a hamper. Each item is as rigid as wood.

  “Käthe Janklow said she saw you in Bobbin on Sunday,” Clara says. “What were you doing there?”

  Bettina hesitates and then keeps pinching the clips open. She knew that there were a thousand eyes on the lookout at all times, that nothing was easily hidden any longer, but she hadn’t realized her movements were this obvious. “That pretty church. I go there sometimes. It’s—I don’t know. Soothing, I suppose.”

  “My little sister getting religious? What a miserable winter it’s been. Can we resume our walks again on Sundays now that the weather’s finally going to improve?”

  “At least I’m not talking about leaving! I’m worried about you. That day, when I came by—are you all right?”

  “I’ll survive. But I may not be able to stick it out here.”

  “Clara, really, you can’t do that,” Bettina says. Although she doesn’t believe she can be serious with this talk of leaving, she also senses something alarming in her sister’s tone. Something has shifted, and Bettina’s not keeping up. She feels disconnected, but she also wants to protect Clara in some way. “Don’t talk about those things in front of Werner. Please, it’s . . . it’s not wise, all right?”