Puzzle People (9781613280126) (24 page)

36

Berlin
August 2003

Kurt yanked the battery from the back of his cell phone and then reinserted it, hoping this would give his phone a jolt of juice so he could put a single call through to Annie. But his phone was as powerless as he felt. He looked up to see Herr Adler and the two women disappear inside the office building.

Kurt barged into the building close behind them, as if the place was on fire. The trio was already most of the way up the stairs.

“Herr Adler!”

The boss, already on the top stair, spun around. “Herr Hilst? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is something the matter?”

“I have a file you need to see!”

Herr Adler sighed. “Can it wait? I have a phone call to make.”

“But this will only take a moment, Herr Adler. It’s very important.”

Herr Adler exchanged looks with Frau Steinweg, who just shrugged. Frau Holtzmann folded her arms across her chest, rolled her eyes, and snapped her gum.

“Herr Adler, the file is one you really need to see,” said Kurt as he reached the top stair.

Heaving another sigh and slumping his shoulders in resignation, the boss followed Kurt into his office.

The commotion had died down. Annie heard Kurt bellow the name
Herr Adler
several times, and she wondered if he had overdone it. She got the message: Herr Adler was in the hallway. But now everything had gone quiet, although she wasn’t sure if the hallway was entirely clear. Where were Frau Steinweg and Frau Holtzmann?

She got her answer one moment later. She heard whispering directly outside of Herr Adler’s office. She pressed her ear against the door and listened, and two women’s voices seeped through. She didn’t hear a man’s voice—not Kurt’s, not Herr Adler’s. But she did hear the women speak her name and Kurt’s. Then their voices rose, and she heard distinct words—bits and pieces of sentences.

“Herr Adler . . . thinking of splitting them apart . . .”

“Getting too cozy . . .”

“Good idea . . .”

“Things are very strange . . .”

“Herr Hilst is very strange.”

“. . . in love will do things.”

Annie knew the two women were talking about them. It sounded like Herr Adler was planning on keeping them apart, moving them to different offices. Of course, that would be a moot point if she was caught inside his office, for she would lose her job. She wondered if she could be criminally prosecuted for this. She tried to ignore the words “in love.”

The hallway went silent. She put her hand on the doorknob. Should she turn it? If the two women were still standing outside the door, they would hear the knob move, and she would be dead. But she had to take a chance at some point. Kurt couldn’t keep Herr Adler away from his office indefinitely.

She turned the handle. Paused. No reaction from the hallway. So far so good. She eased it open, just a crack. Putting her eye to the opening, she spotted Frau Steinweg and Frau Holtzmann. They were still in the hallway, but they had drifted down to Frau Holtzmann’s office. They were standing just outside the office door, still knee-deep in gossip.

Slowly, silently, Annie closed the door. Still trapped.

Herr Adler made a move for Kurt’s office door. “Let me know when you find the file. I’ve a phone call to make!”

“Wait! I found it!”

Pausing at the door, Herr Adler made a slow pivot. He tightened his tie and groaned. “I really don’t have time for this.”

“But it’s important, it’s something you need to see. It has to do with the murder case that Frau O’Shea talked to you about.”

Herr Adler scowled. “Why would you have material on the murder case? I thought all of those files were coming from Frau O’Shea’s bag.”

“That’s what’s odd about it.” Kurt snagged a random file from his stack, one holding half a dozen documents. This should keep Herr Adler busy.

Herr Adler yanked the file from his hands, tossed him a warning glance, licked his finger, and opened the folder. On the top was a reconstructed sheet of paper loaded with fine print.

“I’ll take this to my office and read it after I make my phone call.” Herr Adler made another turn for the door.

“But shouldn’t you make sure it’s the right file?”

Herr Adler’s patience had just run out. Kurt could see it in his glowering eyes. “Are you telling me you don’t even know if this is the right file?”

“No . . . I think it is . . . I just . . . just wanted you to be sure.”

Two steps forward and Herr Adler slammed the file against Kurt’s chest. “You read it. If it’s the right file, bring it to my office!”

Kurt almost blurted “Wait” once again, but Herr Adler gave him such a blistering glare that he didn’t dare push it any further.

“I’ll do that, sir,” Kurt said, following Herr Adler to the door.

Kurt poked his head out the door. The hallway was empty. But where was Annie? Surely she had taken her only chance and escaped.

“I’ll bring the file right down to you, Herr Adler!”

Herr Adler, his back to Kurt, grunted and waved his hand in dismissal. Kurt pulled back into the office and closed the door most of the way, leaving it open just a crack so he could hear what happened in the hallway.

Suddenly, his office door swung inward and slammed him in the side of his face, the edge cracking him hard in the cheekbone. Staggering backward, Kurt wondered if Herr Adler had returned with a vengeance. Instead, Annie strolled into his office with a coffee cup in one hand and a glass of Pepsi in the other. The front of her blouse was doused with spilled coffee.

“I’m sorry, Kurt, so sorry.”

He sat down on the edge of her desk, rubbing the side of his face, which stung as if he had been slapped. He maneuvered his jaw to make sure everything was still in working order.

“It’s my fault,” he said. “My fault entirely. My phone was dead . . . I thought . . . I was afraid . . .”

Annie set down the coffee and the Pepsi and then closed the office door. She rushed to his side and examined the side of his face. She kissed his cheek twice, pressing her lips against his skin for an extended time on the second kiss.

“You’ll live,” she whispered.

They embraced, and Kurt buried his head in her hair. “You’re safe. Don’t do that to me again. Not again. I love you too much.”

This wasn’t the way he envisioned himself telling her that he loved her. He couldn’t even believe he had said it. It was almost as if the words had been spoken by a third person in the room, and he was simply listening in—just another eavesdropper. They remained in their embrace for half a minute, and he wondered if the words had even registered with her. Didn’t they call for some sort of response? But he had said, “I love you
too
much”—rather than a simple “I love you.” Worded that way, maybe his declaration didn’t require a response.

Annie pulled away from him, and he waited for her to return the emotion. She looked down, running a finger across the palm of her left hand. Then she looked him in the eyes, and he thought this was it. She smiled. A good sign.

She raised her left hand and held it in front of his face. A telephone number was scrawled across her palm, and it looked like she had poked herself with the pen in the very center of her hand.

“What?” He wasn’t expecting this kind of response.

“It’s a telephone number for E. F.”

He didn’t know what in the world she was talking about.

“E. F. Elsa Fleischer. That’s Elsa Krauss, her married name. I found this telephone number in Herr Adler’s planner. He met with E. F. yesterday at noon—the exact time we saw him with the woman. I say we call her.”

He stared at the number until she lowered her hand and gave him another hug. Was that her answer? What kind of answer was that?

37

West Berlin
November 9, 1989

Katarina could not believe it was happening.

When her cousin Hilde called and told her that the borders were opening, the two of them collected Peter, who was grading papers, and they all went immediately to the Brandenburg Gate to see the event with their own eyes. They approached the Wall, which bulged around the Brandenburg Gate, a massive stone structure built for emperors, and were astounded by the sight. People stood on top of the Berlin Wall itself, for the top of the Wall was flat along this stretch.

Hilde stopped and began to cry. Katarina embraced her and couldn’t hold back the tears either. She didn’t even try. Peter put a hand on each of their shoulders and didn’t say a word. It was all so surreal. One day earlier, if Westerners had climbed up onto the Wall like this, the border guards would have picked them off as if they were taking target practice.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming! Tell me!” Hilde said, smiling and wiping away her tears.

“It’s not a dream.” Katarina grabbed Hilde’s hand and pulled her forward. “Tonight, we climb the Wall!”

Hilde let loose with that delightful laugh of hers, and she let herself be dragged into the throng. Peter followed, with the biggest grin on his face that Katarina had ever seen. Katarina would not have passed this up for the world. She felt like dancing, like screaming, like singing, so she let out a whoop, and Hilde kept laughing uncontrollably, and even Peter couldn’t hold back a shout as they moved through the crowd.

“I’ll give you a boost,” Peter said, holding out his interlaced fingers and raising Katarina, then Hilde, up and onto the Wall. Jubilant strangers on top of the Wall took their hands and lifted them up while Peter raised them from below. Then the men extended a hand for Peter, and suddenly they were all together, standing on top of the world, it seemed.

They looked out across the plaza in front of the Brandenburg Gate. The upper half of the gate was illuminated, and the statue of a horse-drawn chariot, perched on top, stood out starkly against the dark sky. The plaza was empty and glistening with moisture, and a line of East German guards stood at attention, just staring into the darkness. They had to be confused and astonished. There was a party taking place on their wall! Right in front of their eyes, and they could not do anything to stop it.

Then two young West German men did the unthinkable. They jumped down from the Wall, onto the eastern side, and began striding across the open plaza toward the Brandenburg Gate, toward the guards. They strolled east nonchalantly, as if they were on an evening walk, one of them carrying a satchel under his right arm. Thousands of eyes were on them as they reached the Brandenburg Gate and talked briefly with three border guards—who waved them through! The two men walked through the Brandenburg Gate and into the East. A roar went up from the crowd on the Wall.

This emboldened the Western crowd, and people began to trickle down from the Wall. First, three people, then a group of four. All eyes were now on the line of border guards, armed to the teeth. Would they do anything? Would they stop the crowd? Would they shoot?

“Let’s go!” said Katarina, and she was already climbing off the Wall, onto the eastern side, before Hilde or Peter could put up any protest. “Come on down,” she said.

“I’ll break my neck,” said Hilde.

“I’ll help you down,” said Peter.

He gave Hilde a steadying hand as she crouched and then dangled her legs from the Wall before dropping down. Katarina caught her from below and kept her from staggering over. Two seconds later, Peter was on the ground with them, and he slapped an arm around each of their shoulders.

“Well, ladies, shall we go for a walk?”

“We shall,” said Katarina.

Together, they walked east. Together, they crossed the border, and their world turned.

November 12, 1989

Peter was exhausted. It seemed as if he had been partying now for three days straight—not an easy thing to do for a man who had just turned fifty years old. Katarina and their two girls—Hannah, twenty-one, and Salina, twenty-three—were still at the Wall having the time of their lives. Katarina was pushing fifty as well, but she had as much energy as the two girls, running on pure adrenaline. Tonight she was taking them to Gethsemane Church, the locus of protest in East Berlin; it was Berlin’s counterpart to St. Nicholas in Leipzig. They were attending an event being held by New Forum, the protest group in the East that had just been legalized.

Peter had to hand it to the churches. They had been marginalized throughout the forty-year history of the German Democratic Republic—not exterminated, but made insignificant. But in the end, during the very month that the GDR was celebrating its fortieth birthday, they played a key role in bringing the entire edifice crumbling down. It was almost enough to make him believe in Providence. Almost. Katarina had given up on getting him to go to church, although she had succeeded with one of the girls. The oldest was too obsessed with boys to give God a passing thought.

Peter took a seat in his favorite recliner and nursed his drink. He often fell asleep in the recliner after a hard day of grading papers, but today he was still too wound up. Yesterday, they had witnessed something extraordinary—an impromptu concert by Mstislav Rostropovich, the Soviet cellist, perhaps the greatest cellist of the century. He had been an outspoken critic of the Soviets, a man who sheltered the dissident writer Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn in his home. Dressed in a dark blue suit coat and seated in a chair in front of a slice of the Wall, the small bald bespectacled man played a Bach suite. Directly behind him, on the graffiti-splattered Wall, was the incongruous image of Mickey Mouse and the greeting “Welcome to East Berlin” with the word
East
scratched out.

Peter retrieved an album of Bach,
St. Matthew’s Passion,
and placed it carefully on the turntable. Then he closed his eyes, hoping for sleep. Bach had been a cantor at St. Thomas Church in Leipzig, and he had performed at St. Nicholas, so he would have been amazed by the role those churches played this past year. Peter closed his eyes and let the strings and the voices carry him off to the cathedral in his head.

In tears of grief, dear Lord, we leave Thee.

Hearts cry to Thee, O Savior dear.

Lie Thou softly, softly here.

Rest Thy worn and bruised body.

At the grave, O Jesus blest,

May the sinner, worn with weeping

Comfort find in Thy dear keeping,

And the weary soul find rest.

Sleep in peace, sleep Thou in the Father’s breast.

Peter shot forward in his chair at the ringing of the phone. Disoriented, he looked around at the darkened apartment. The album had reached the end, and it made a soft thumping sound as it continued to spin with the needle going nowhere. He looked at the clock. It was nine thirty, which meant he had slept only about a half hour, but he was so groggy that it felt like it was the dead of night, and the phone seemed very loud. He was tempted to let the recorder take the call, but it might be Katarina, might be one of the girls. So he groaned his way out of the chair, crossed the room, and picked up the receiver.

“Hermann,” he said.

“Herr Hermann?” came the voice. A man’s voice.

“Yes.”

“Is Katarina there?”

“Who is speaking?”

“This is Stefan Hansel.”

Dead silence. The name woke Peter up—a splash of water in the face.

“My wife is not home at the moment.”

“Oh.”

Another stretch of silence. Peter began to wonder if they had lost connection.

“Well . . . this message is as much for you, Herr Hermann, as for Katarina,” said Stefan. “I wanted to know if I could meet with both of you.”

“After all these years, do you think that’s wise?”

“I don’t know if it’s wise or not, but it’s necessary. I need to talk, I need to confess.”

Peter rolled his eyes. He knew the type: Spend most of your life stabbing people in the back, and then look for quick and easy forgiveness in the end. Peter did not give out forgiveness so freely, especially not to Stasi informers. He had been pressured to inform an eternity ago, when Elsa had been imprisoned, and he had almost given in that day in the Free University library—so he understood the temptation on one level. But he had ultimately said no. Of course, he had been living in the West at the time, where denying the Stasi was easier.

“Maybe it’s best to leave the past buried,” he said. “The last time you and Katarina had any contact, you betrayed her. I’m not sure she’d like to see you.”

“And I wouldn’t blame her.”

“After the foiled escape attempt, she was not allowed to work with the Kappel Group again. They didn’t trust her. They didn’t trust her link to you. And that devastated her.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Stefan said. “But even though I have much to atone for, bringing the Vopos to the cemetery that day isn’t one of them.”

“I know. I’ve heard your claims before. But I don’t believe them.”

“I’m not asking you to. I just want to tell Katarina I’m so sorry.”

“It’s easy to say you’re sorry. It’s just a word.”

“But it’s not easy to mean it. Could we meet? Tomorrow? Let me show you I’m sincere.”

“So this meeting is more for your sake than for Katarina’s? It’s always about you, isn’t it?”

“No, that’s not what I mean. Don’t you think Katarina would want to know how I feel? Could we meet at Café Mauer on Lehrter Strasse? I need to talk to her—to both of you.”

“I don’t know . . . it’s been an exhausting few days.”

“Talk to Katarina. I will be at Café Mauer at eight o’clock tomorrow night. Would you please give her this message? I think she’d like to know.”

“So you’ve seen the light after all these years? Pretty convenient now that the Wall is coming down.”

“This isn’t a decision I made in the past week. I’ve been paying the price for my decision to deny the Stasi for more than a year now. It wasn’t convenient, and it wasn’t easy.”

Peter rubbed his eyes. He was still half-asleep and in no mood for fools. He knew he wasn’t being fair, but he didn’t feel like empathizing. “I’ll give Katarina the message.” That was as far as he would go in reaching out to a rat.

“Thank you, Herr Hermann. Tomorrow evening. Eight o’clock at Café Mauer.”

“I will tell her. Gute Nacht.”

“Gute—”

Peter hung up the phone. He hated the idea of Stefan Hansel intruding into their lives after all these years, and he hated him for what he had done to Katarina. After the incident in the cemetery, Katarina had lost a lot of her zest. She slowly regained it over the years, and it had returned with the fall of the Wall. And now Stefan wanted to reenter their lives?

He had a lot of nerve.

Elsa stared at the television news in shock. Everything was about the Wall. Images of people dancing on the Wall flickered and flashed around the world. Hundreds of thousands of East Germans poured into West Berlin. West Berliners lined the sides of the streets and waved as Easterners in their Trabants drove across the border, honking their horns and leaning out of windows and waving back. It was a Trabi parade. A television broadcaster, perched on the Wall, leaned down and talked to the row of green-clad border guards lined up on Pariser Platz on the eastern side.

“Your government seems to be changing every day,” the television man said to them. “Where do you think it’s going?”

One of the border guards, a deadly serious look on his face, licked his lips and stepped out of the line. “That’s the government’s problem,” he said, and his stony look suddenly cracked into a wide smile. As the West Germans perched atop the Wall applauded, he strolled back to the line, smiling all the way. A few days ago, such a statement would have landed the border guard in jail.

Cut to an interview with a studious-looking young German man. “If there’s someone who was asleep for eight weeks, and he woke up and you told him what happened here, he’d think you are crazy,” the man told the broadcaster.

Cut to clips of the American actor David Hasselhoff standing on top of the Wall singing to a mass of partygoers. His leather jacket was draped in lights that flickered on and off like a Las Vegas sign, and he was singing, “I’m looking for freedom!”