Puzzle People (9781613280126) (4 page)

4

Berlin
March 2003

Annie was pleased. On her fourth day among the puzzle people, she reconstructed twelve documents—two ahead of the average. She was quickly learning the tricks of the trade. First, she looked for similarities in paper type, grouping the paper by color. Then she looked for similarities in text. Was it handwritten? Typed? Did the type match? Was there numbering? She also examined the edges, separating jagged fragments from cleanly sliced pieces. Once she had separated the pieces into various categories, she worked away like she would on a normal jigsaw puzzle. Assemble the edges first and then work your way to the middle. Her speed all depended on the number of pieces that a document had been ripped or shredded into—a number ranging anywhere from four to twenty.

“Herr Adler is impressed with your output,” said Herr Hilst, entering the office with a coffee in one hand and a can of Pepsi in the other. “Keep this up and you’re going to put us all to shame.”

“I had a lot of practice with puzzles all my life,” Annie told him. “It was all I had to do growing up as an only child in a strange country.” She realized that her words didn’t come out quite right. “By
strange,
I didn’t mean
strange
country. I meant foreign.”

Herr Hilst laughed as he handed her the Pepsi. “I know what you mean. Besides, we Germans are a strange people, aren’t we? Where else in the world was there a wall to keep people in—and a secret police second to none?”

“Second to none? Is that true?”

“In East Germany, we had more secret police and informers per citizen than any other country in the history of the world. We had no secrets.”

“From the look of these files, I can believe it.” Annie poured her Pepsi into a glass of clinking ice, waiting for the foam to subside before pouring in some more of the cola. Once again, she was pleasantly surprised and grateful that her office partner did not insist on a curtain of silence while working. She always let him set the level of personal disclosure, and he seemed more than willing to go beyond the surface chatter. But she treaded carefully. They talked primarily in German because Annie’s skills were rusty and she wanted to get back up to speed; but sometimes they also talked in English, which Herr Hilst spoke fluently. When she commented on his fluency, he explained that he had studied foreign languages in school and had once worked as a translator.

“You mentioned that ‘we’ had no secrets in East Germany,” she said, bringing the topic back to East and West. “But I thought you grew up in West Berlin.”

“I didn’t come to the West until I was eleven years old.”

“Oh. I see.”

Annie and Herr Hilst went quiet for a few minutes as they sifted through the scraps on their desks. Annie found the piece she was looking for and set it into place—a perfect fit. She paused to look up at Herr Hilst. Their desks faced each other, with a generous gap in between—almost as if they had split the office the way Berlin had once been divided into British, French, American, and Soviet sectors after World War II. In their office, they had an Annie Sector and a Kurt Sector. (Herr Hilst’s first name was Kurt.) Annie had made her sector cozy, bringing in wall hangings, photographs of her two grown children, and decorative tea sets.

“Do you mind if I ask whether . . . I mean, how you came to the West? Did you escape?” Annie asked.

Herr Hilst’s smile disappeared. “Yes. Came over with my uncle and aunt in ’67.”

Annie could tell she had stumbled into a minefield. Herr Hilst did not say anything about his parents, and she was afraid to ask any more. She had overstepped her bounds.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry. Your questions . . . they’re perfectly all right.”

Annie could see in his eyes that it was not all right. Better to be quiet for a while.

When the Stasi started shredding these documents, they tried to zero in on the most important files—in particular, material about high-level informers or informers planted in West Berlin. But Annie still found that many of the reconstructed reports were dull—countless details of people’s day-by-day, hour-by-hour activities. The eavesdroppers recorded everything—the time people left the house, when they returned, what they listened to on the radio, what they watched on television, when they ate dinner, what they ate, when they went to bed, and on and on.

She kept stumbling across this Stefan Hansel, and she assumed that was his real name; but she also encountered a star-crossed couple that the files referred to as Romeo and Juliet—obviously not their real names. She began to reconstruct a letter from Juliet to her fiancé, Romeo, who had gone over to the West. Her letter never left GDR soil but remained in a Stasi file, trapped in time.

“They read everything, didn’t they?” Annie said.

“What’s that?”

“This love letter. The Stasi even read love letters.”

“Love letters contain the deepest secrets.”

“But it’s so sad. This woman . . . her fiancé wound up in West Berlin on a renegade train.”

Herr Hilst cleared his throat and looked up from his work. “Just a reminder, Frau O’Shea. I’m not to know what’s in the papers you reconstruct. I’m sorry. Rules.”

Once again, Annie blushed. Herr Adler had gone over the rules with her on the first day, so she should have known. “I’m blundering in all kinds of ways this morning. I’ve always had a difficult time keeping secrets.”

“Then are you sure you’re of German heritage?” Herr Hilst winked. “We’re very good at keeping secrets.”

Annie uncovered another piece of the love letter from Juliet. The writer had good, legible penmanship, with her letters slanting hard to the right. Annie recalled somebody telling her once that the more your letters slanted right, the more emotional you were. But she didn’t know how much she bought into broad generalizations based on handwriting. However, Juliet’s distinctive penmanship did make it easy for her to pick out bits and pieces of the love letter from the jumble.

After working in silence for another ten minutes, Herr Hilst spoke up. “I hope you won’t be afraid to talk, just because of what I said about discussing the documents. I like the sound of your voice.”

Annie noticed a blush across Herr Hilst’s face.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling back before glancing over at the framed poster of the German Western hanging on the wall in the Kurt Sector. The poster showed a German man dressed like an American Indian and holding his rifle high above his head in his right hand, with snow-covered mountains in the background.

“Doesn’t look much like America’s Wild West there, does it?” said Herr Hilst. “They filmed this in what was then Yugoslavia.”

Annie laughed. “Wasn’t that true of most of the movies based on Karl May novels?”

Herr Hilst’s eyes lit up. “You know about Karl May?”

“I did live much of my early life in Germany, so it’s hard not to have encountered Karl May somewhere along the way. My mother gave me a few of his books.”

“Albert Einstein, Albert Schweitzer, and Herman Hesse were all fans of his Western novels.”

“So was I,” Annie said.

Herr Hilst motioned toward the piles of shredded paper on his desk. “We didn’t have a Wild West to speak of in Germany, but we did have a Wild, Wild East. What was it like growing up in the American West?”

“For me, not so wild. Growing up in Phoenix didn’t offer even half the drama of Berlin.”

“Drama is overrated.”

He was probably right, Annie thought, looking down at the scraps in one of her piles. A name jumped out at her, a familiar name—
Romeo,
the alias of Juliet’s fiancé. Excitedly, she began sifting through the pieces, looking for those that matched, looking for more information on this ill-fated couple.

As the pieces came together, Annie was disappointed to discover that Romeo was seeing another woman in the West. Stasi informers in West Berlin had spotted him with a woman referred to simply as “K.” So much for star-crossed lovers split by the Wall. Romeo had betrayed his Juliet. And, oddly enough, Annie also felt a little betrayed.

“What brought you back to Germany this year?” Herr Hilst suddenly asked.

“Memories of my childhood. I wanted to rediscover what it was like. It was a special time living here when my parents worked in Germany as missionaries.”

In truth, that was only part of the reason for returning to Germany, but Annie wasn’t about to tell him the rest of the story.

“I’m glad you came, Annie.”

Annie.
The sudden sound of her name gave her a jolt, and Herr Hilst immediately realized his mistake.

“My apologies, Frau O’Shea.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Annie smiled. “You can call me Annie if you prefer.”

For the first time, she used the more informal
du
instead of
Sie
when she said “you”—a daring move, especially in a work setting, according to German etiquette. She was well aware that
du
was reserved for close friends, but she had been hoping for an opening, a chance to break down the walls of formality.

“I like the name
Annie,”
Herr Hilst said. “Are you sure it would be all right? I don’t mean to be presumptuous.”

“I really prefer
Annie
over
Frau O’Shea
.”

“I suppose it’s the American way.” Herr Hilst looked very thoughtful before breaking into a smile. “But we don’t have any schnapps.”

Annie remembered how her parents would celebrate the momentous move from
Sie
to
per du
with friends by toasting with schnapps and interlocking arms as they drank.

Annie held up her glass. “Would Pepsi do, Herr Hilst?”

“Herr Hilst? If I’m to call you Annie, you must call me Kurt.”

He picked up his coffee and crossed the border from the Kurt Sector to the Annie Sector. Annie stood, and they clinked cups.

“To Annie!”

“To Kurt!”

As they interlocked arms and took a sip, their eyes couldn’t help but connect.

5

West Berlin
December 1961

Peter stubbed out his cigarette and took a sip of coffee. He felt guilty meeting another girl like this, but he was doing it for Elsa. Still, he wondered if he should have met this girl in a less intimate setting than a coffeehouse with rock and roll blaring from the jukebox. The room was smoky, and the sound of young West Berliners created a backdrop of chatter and laughter. The place was packed and hopping. Peter and the young woman occupied a booth beneath the framed photograph of the late American rocker Buddy Holly.

“You like the music?” asked the girl across the checkered table from him. Her name was Katarina Siemens, and Peter had connected with her at West Berlin’s Free University. This girl was everything Peter wasn’t—unreserved, a little wild. She was also everything that
Elsa
wasn’t, and he had to admit, he was intrigued. But he was doing this for Elsa, he kept reminding himself. It was all for Elsa.

“I’m not a big fan of rock and roll,” Peter said. But when he saw disappointment cross Katarina’s face, he quickly added, “But this music is not bad.”

“It’s the Manado Brothers singing ‘Sweet Girl.’ I listened to them even when I lived in the Eastern zone. I always listened to Radio Luxembourg. Did you ever tune in?”

“No. Not really.”

“Not really” was an understatement. Peter had bought into the standard line from the Communist Party, the SED. He considered rock and roll a subversive influence, an attempt by capitalists to foment rebellion among communist youth. Now that he had been living in the West for almost a month, he saw the paranoia in these beliefs, but he still couldn’t understand all of the excitement about rock and roll. He saw Elvis on television last week and couldn’t believe people didn’t laugh at his feminized, swiveling hips.

“The Manado Brothers sometimes tour Germany. If my friends and I go hear them, you’ll have to join us.”

“Yes. That would be nice.” Peter was taken aback by this girl’s familiarity. What did she think they were meeting about? He considered this a business meeting, but she seemed to see it differently.

Within days after reaching the West, he had heard there were students at Free University working to bring people across the border. They were called the Kappel Group, for one of its founders was a law student, Geert Kappel. Peter, still confused and feeling guilty about not going back to East Berlin to be with Elsa, decided to check into the possibilities of bringing her across before the border security became even tighter. After he did some investigating, a friend suggested he talk with Katarina Siemens, because she was a fellow Easterner and had just become involved in the Kappel Group. But he was finding Katarina to be more Western in her thoughts and behavior than a lot of German students born and raised in the West. The fashions, the freedom, the choices, the music—this woman fit right in.

“What are you planning to study this side of the Wall?” Katarina asked, resting her elbows on the tabletop and leaning her chin on her cupped hands.

“Literature.”

“That’s fantastic. I’ll be studying literature as well. I’m fascinated by the American writers. Hemingway, especially. Who are your favorites?”

“The Russian writers. And Germans, especially Goethe.”

Peter was still getting used to the freedom of reading anybody he chose. The warnings against trash literature from the West still echoed in his mind.

“You should try Hemingway. My favorite is
The Old Man and the Sea.
Have you read it?”

Peter lit up another cigarette and shook his head. “No, no, not yet. I have much to catch up on.”

“I know what you mean. I haven’t stopped reading since the day I came over.”

Katarina launched into an incredible story about how she drove an Austin-Healey Sprite across the border. If anybody else had told Peter this tale, he would have said they were exaggerating or making it up entirely. But something told him that she wasn’t embellishing the truth.

“I didn’t even let my boyfriend know I was escaping,” she said, with impish delight.

“Boyfriend?”

“Yes, well . . . I’m hoping to bring him across the border before the Wall becomes impenetrable. How about you? Did you leave anybody behind?”

Again, Peter was staggered by her directness. It took him a while to answer, and he wondered if she had even been paying attention to his unspoken signals, his body language. The conversation was moving out of his comfort zone—although, admittedly, he had a microscopic comfort zone.

“I left my fiancée behind,” he said.

“Oh. Sorry. Did she have any idea you were going to flee to the West?”

“I didn’t even know that I was going to flee.”

Katarina laughed.

“I’m serious. I came on the Last Train to Freedom. But only by chance, not by design. Have you heard of it?”

“Of course! That’s where the engineer drove a train past the barriers, past the Vopos. And you were on board?”

“Unwittingly.”

“Incredible!”

Peter let his eyes drift across the coffee shop to a young blonde in a tight-fitting skirt and heavy mascara. He had noticed her earlier, standing in the midst of a crowd of friends by the long oak counter. It was hard not to notice her. She had glanced in his direction several times. Katarina saw the drift of his eyes and turned to look.

“Easy, Peter. You have a fiancée.”

He blushed. Caught in the act. “Uh . . . that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said, bringing his voice down and leaning across the table. “My fiancée.”

Katarina leaned in closer. She brought her face uncomfortably close to his.

“I’ve been contemplating helping Elsa, that’s my fiancée, escape to West Berlin. I heard you would know about . . . ways.”

Katarina went suddenly serious. “I see . . .” A long pause as she turned to study the Buddy Holly poster. “And how do I know you’re not spying for the East?”

Peter was offended by the accusation, and it must have showed on his face because Katarina suddenly started laughing. “I’m just playing with you, Peter.”

He looked away uncomfortably, his eyes unconsciously drifting back to the blonde in the tight dress. He noticed that the woman had a Polaroid camera out and was taking photos of her friends.

“You provide forged passports to those in the Eastern zone. Is that true?” he asked Katarina.

“We have our methods, yes. But I’m new to this game. I’ll have to talk to my friends. Then let’s meet again. But not here.”

Peter nodded. He was relieved, already feeling less guilty about the situation with Elsa. Even if nothing came of this contact, he could at least feel that he had tried to do something to help her.

Katarina reached out and touched his hand. She had no qualms about invading his personal space. “I’m glad you came to us.”

“Thank you.”

Katarina drew back her hand and laughed out loud. “Have you heard this one? One day, the teacher asked, ‘Fritzchen, what is the difference between capitalism and socialism?’ Fritz replied, ‘Capitalism is the exploitation of man by man. Under socialism, it’s the other way around.’”

Peter smiled slightly, but Katarina got a big kick out of her own joke. She leaned back and laughed. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the blonde in the tight-fitting dress had snapped a quick photo of them.

Elsa was falling, tumbling, felt herself going limp, her mind spinning away from her. She felt nauseous, and images came at her, nightmare images of Peter’s father looming over her, pointing a finger at her, slapping her across the face.

With a jolt, she came awake. The guard was slapping her—not too hard, but enough to wake her up. Her eyes opened, barely. They felt so heavy. The need to sleep dragged on her eyelids, pulled her down, kept her in a perpetual fog.

“Wake up! Wake up!” The guard slapped her two more times, with a little more force.

Elsa was in a long, narrow isolation cell. How long she had been there, she had no idea. All she could remember were Stasi agents storming her apartment in the middle of the night and dragging her to an interrogation room in a building somewhere in Berlin. She also remembered questions, lights, shouting, more questions, brighter lights, more shouting, and little sleep. She was allowed a small portion of sleep each night—just enough to keep her from going completely crazy. She didn’t know how much sleep she was getting, but she knew it wasn’t enough. Her body knew. Elsa had never craved anything more in her life. Not food, not water.

At first, they took away her bed and made her stand. When she collapsed to the floor, they propped her up in a chair and made her sit bolt upright. When she was allowed a little sleep, she had to do it sitting up. On the opposite side of the cell was a heavy steel door with a peephole built into it, as if the door was a Cyclops. The guard was vigilant, never letting her drift away for very long. It was difficult to distinguish being awake from being asleep. She was in a nightmare in both realities.

“Did you help your fiancé plan his escape?”

“No. I didn’t know he wanted to escape.”

“Who else knew the train was heading to West Berlin?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know.”

“Why did he desert?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did his father know what he was planning?”

“No. His father seemed angry, confused. Like me. I was confused. I still am.”

So many questions. She heard the same ones again and again, giving her a throbbing headache. Many of the questions had to do with Peter, but many also had to do with subversive leaflets, which they suspected her of posting around the university. When they brought up the leaflets, she became convinced she would never leave there alive. But how did they figure it out? She had been wearing gloves. She left no fingerprints.

Back in her isolation cell, Elsa was cold, for her small space was as cool as a cave. She began hallucinating, seeing bats flutter in her face, coming at her with their glossy black wings, their V-shaped mouths wide open and making clicking sounds. They seemed so real, but then sometimes she would blink, and the bats would suddenly be gone. She was alone, except for the Cyclops staring at her from the other end of the cell. No books, no newspapers, no human contact. She had nothing but her own mind, and that was slowly deteriorating under the strain of perpetual wakefulness. Occasionally, she would drop into microsleeps, only about sixty seconds long before being shaken or slapped. Furious, she would sometimes try to slap back at the guard. She didn’t care anymore if he killed her on the spot. Death would be rest.

One night she was rushed down the halls, past the long line of doors leading into other isolation cells. In the interrogation room, they made her sit with her hands under her thighs, palms down. She could barely remain in an upright position, wobbling like a buoy in her chair.

Her interrogator placed small colorful fragments on the table in front of her. Her eyes focused. They were little bits of crayon.

“We found these in the carpet of your apartment. Explain.”

“Explain what?”

“You used them to make antisocialist leaflets.”

Elsa was confused. “No, I didn’t.”

“You didn’t use them? Then what did you use to make the leaflets?”

“What?”

“I asked, what did you use to make the leaflets?”

So tired. She felt her eyes closing.

“Wake up!”

Her eyes half-opened.

“What did you use to make the leaflets?” the man repeated. The same question, over and over and over.

“I don’t understand . . . what leaflets?”

“The leaflets you made. Who helped you?”

“No one. No one at all.”

“No one helped you make the leaflets?”

“No one. Just me, just me.” Her voice slurred.

A vague awareness descended on Elsa, an awareness that she had just confessed. She was too confused, didn’t know what she was saying, didn’t know what she was thinking, didn’t know if she was asleep or awake. Her left hand shook uncontrollably, and her muscles ached. Why couldn’t they just let her sleep? Then she would be able to answer their questions much easier.

“Who were you working for?”

She paused, her eyes glazing over. Suddenly, she started giggling.

“What’s so amusing, Frau Krauss?”

She couldn’t keep back the laughter. She pointed at the tiny pieces of crayon. “That’s a child’s crayon. I must be working for children.”

She felt as if she was drunk.

“Who helped you post the leaflets?” the interrogator asked again.

“The children.” She giggled some more. “Be afraid of the children.”

Then everything went black. Elsa felt herself falling, but not falling asleep.