The Valley of Unknowing (29 page)

51

It was drizzling as I made way across the river, following the dim lights of the Loschwitz Bridge, the letter for Theresa hidden inside my coat. The traffic was sparse and I soon found myself alone on the gangway, the Elbe moving slowly beneath me, silent and black. As I turned up my collar I was struck by an unnerving coincidence: Weisser Hirsch (the name means ‘White Hart’) was a part of Loschwitz, that once salubrious district that proved to be Wolfgang Richter’s final destination. He had gone to a party there on the evening of his arrest, almost exactly one year earlier – had perhaps crossed on this very bridge. I pictured him now, a figure in a long coat, drifting in and out of the mist. I pictured the distinctive Richter swagger, the young artist striding out into the night, his head full of dreams about the new life to come, already looking at the valley as a place that belonged to his past – the inescapable past that forever haunts the vision of the writer-in-exile.

In my mind I travelled back a year. I was racing to catch up with him. He couldn’t miss the pounding of my footsteps. Sure enough, he slowed, turned, looked back along the bridge: a handsome man, young, overconfident, vulnerable. I opened my mouth to speak, to warn him of what lay ahead. But he couldn’t hear or see me. Even in my imaginings the gap between the living and the dead, the spectral and the actual, was unbridgeable. Richter frowned and continued on his way, his story already written, if as yet untold.

Theresa had thought Richter arrogant and unfeeling. He wasn’t
nice
, she’d said. But she was an outsider. She didn’t understand what it took for a man of his talent to survive in the Workers’ and Peasants’ State; to refuse, as he had done, to live in fear. Richter’s arrogance masked courage. He had shown it from the beginning: courage in his attacks on me, courage in his work, courage when they dragged him away for interrogation, courage when they tortured him and broke his skull. That Anton and his network were still at liberty was the proof of that courage. Wolfgang had not betrayed them. He had died with his lips sealed – his silence more eloquent than a lifetime of literature.

Now I was following in Richter’s footsteps, just as he had followed in mine. He had wanted to be my heir. Now I was his. It did occur to me, as I passed by the sooty, half-timbered houses on the far side of the bridge, that the fate awaiting me might also mirror his. I was taking the same chances on the same people. Anton hadn’t completely trusted Richter, or so Theresa had told me, but perhaps it was Anton who could not be trusted. Who
was
he? Whom did he answer to? What was he part of? As I began the long climb up the hill, the dark slopes of Oberloschwitz towering above me, I was forced to admit the possibility that the network Richter had trusted with his future, and which I was now trusting with mine, was an illusion, its sole purpose to smoke out unreliable elements among the artistic elite, citizens whose unscheduled departures so embarrassed the state. But if that were the case, it meant Theresa was part of the scheme, knowingly or unknowingly. She was camouflage, or, in my case, bait. And I was not ready to believe that, even for a moment. Such elaborate schemes and deceptions might have appealed to fantasists and authors of unserious fiction (they had a certain appeal to me), but they had no place in real life.

This conviction, bolstered by hope, had just enough force to keep my feet moving along the steep cobbled streets towards the place where Anton was waiting.

I recognised the church on Luboldtstrasse from some of my longer summer walks. A Gothic fantasy in slate, lead and stone, it served as an occasional reminder of a vanished age when fantasy still had a place. A cone of light shone down from the porch. Beneath it a procession of people was making its way inside. I fell in behind them, struck by the smell of stale wax and damp. I took a seat near the back of the church. By my watch it was five minutes to eight o’clock.

In front of me, in the sepulchral gloom, sat an audience of about fifty. It was safe to assume that Anton was among them. At some point he would look over his shoulder, spot me, make eye contact. Then he would get up and exit, ostensibly for a cigarette (one between his lips, lest there should be any doubt), leaving me to follow after a suitable interval. It was sure to go something like that.

I studied the fifty candidate heads, trying to identify my deliverer. I knew nothing about Anton, but at the same time I knew what I was looking for: not the gaunt messenger who had once followed me home, but someone altogether more impressive. I pictured a solitary man in his middle years, his build athletic, his hair greying but plentiful (I could not think of Anton as bald and in that I was correct), tidy, strong-jawed, quietly formidable – an authentic champion of the people, instantly distinguishable from the counterfeit variety.

At first no one struck me as fitting the bill. Half the audience were elderly. I saw walking sticks and hearing aids. A handful of student types occupied most of the front pew. Over on one side a young couple were ostentatiously hugging each other and whispering in each other’s ears. Behind them, partially obscured by a pillar, I spotted a small man roughly my age in a pale blue anorak. He sat with his hands wedged between his knees, staring ahead of him. Could this be Anton? Outwardly he lacked heroic manifestations, but he was at least alone. I watched him carefully, expecting to see him turn towards me, but his gaze, like a man in a dream, never shifted.

The lights above the nave went off. A pair of spots lit up a space in front of the altar. Greeted by a hesitant round of applause, the musicians filed out through a doorway in the side of the apse, squinting, the string players carrying their instruments. I didn’t pay much attention. I was still concerned with the audience, with Anton.

The musicians tuned up. A pair of latecomers slipped through the door just before it closed: a burly man in a fawn raincoat and a younger man in denims. I knew at once that they didn’t belong: their demeanours were furtive, yet stern. Taking care not to look at me, the man in denims sat down at the end of my pew, quietly clearing his throat, as if preparing like the rest of us to listen. I couldn’t locate the older man. He was suddenly nowhere to be seen. I was sure no one had followed me from Blasewitz, but now I had the clear and unnerving sensation of being surrounded, hemmed in, all exits covered: me and Anton both.

The music began. A sweet, Victorian hearth-and-home melody played on the cello; a lilting piano accompaniment. It was hard sitting still, hard pretending to listen, even as the melody gave way to fortissimo chords and high drama. I wasn’t sure I could stand an hour of it. But it was at that moment that I recognised the pianist.

I had never seen her look that way before. Her hair was tied in a spiral at the back of her head, her face pale and unpainted. She wore a frumpy charcoal-grey dress, with puffed sleeves, somewhere between evening wear and funeral wear:
Claudia Witt.

I could account for the appearance, but not for her presence. I stared in confusion, a tumult of possibilities – all troubling – tumbling through my mind. I remembered a snatch of a conversation, the cellar bar near the medical school, something Claudia said about forming an ensemble in her spare time. Hadn’t I said I would be in the audience at their first concert? And here I was, thanks to a newspaper left in my letter box. Was this Anton’s idea of a joke? Was this Claudia’s idea of an invitation (perfunctory to the point of rudeness – very much her style)? Was I about to be arrested? Or was I simply witness to a performance of chamber music? I could not answer these questions. I could do nothing but sit in the darkness – sit through four movements of Dvo
ř
ák’s homely raptures, sit through
five
movements of Shostakovich, alternately mournful and frenetic – and wait. It was in that condition of enforced limbo, powerless and scared, but with an excellent soundtrack to accompany my suffering, that I perceived the hand of Richter, the author not only of
The Valley of Unknowing
, but also of
Two on a Bicycle
, the young genius with a talent and a taste for mockery. I heard his laughter in that darkness, as close as if he were sitting in the pew behind me. This time, for the first time, I couldn’t bring myself to resent it.

The music came to a close. The musicians were on their feet. The church rang with applause. The quintet nodded and bowed, the smiles fixed and tight, as if they had expected a bigger crowd or a warmer reception. The man in the anorak, the latecomer in denims, the lovers, the students, they were all still in their places, clapping. I clapped too. Someone shouted ‘Encore!’ But no encore was offered. The lights went on overhead. The musicians left their makeshift stage. People started filing out. Was I supposed to go with them or stay where I was?

One by one the pews emptied. The loving couple strolled out, holding hands. Old people shuffled past. By the door I caught sight of the other latecomer: he was smiling, shaking someone’s hand, offering apologies. He left with his companions. The students came down the aisle. One of them cracked a joke, a burst of raucous laughter briefly shattering the mood of respectful reticence. The man in denims got up to a flurry of joshing and walked out with them. Soon there was nobody left, just me and the stranger with the pale blue anorak and the sad eyes.

This was Anton. It had to be.

He got to his feet, edged slowly into the aisle. I did the same. He walked towards the altar. I followed.

‘Anton?’

He showed no sign of having heard me, but continued to walk away. I continued to follow. I had no idea where we were going. Three of the young musicians reappeared, wrapped up now in coats and scarves. One of them, a violinist, hurried over to the stranger and embraced him. He smiled and shook the boy’s hand with both of his: the proud, supportive father. They all walked past me without even looking round. Then I was alone, free to go, relieved, puzzled, frustrated – but of these, alone most of all.

‘Bruno.’ I recognised Claudia’s voice. ‘So you actually made it.’

I didn’t want to talk to her, but there was no way I could get out of it. ‘A promise is a promise,’ I said.

We made our way out together. Claudia had changed into jeans and a sweater. Her dress, I assumed, was in the sports bag she was carrying. Shakily, the adrenaline still fizzing in my veins, I congratulated her on the performance. She said the Shostakovich had needed more rehearsal, a remark typical of Theresa – Theresa whose perfectionism and self-deprecation, I now perceived, masked a hard kernel of ambition.

‘By the way,’ I said as we crossed the porch, ‘it was you who put that copy of
Die Union
in my letter box?’

‘Of course. Who did you think it was?’

‘No one. Nobody.’ I laughed, feeling more than usually stupid. Instead of enjoying a pleasant musical interlude, I’d put myself through an hour of paranoia and dread for no reason at all. ‘You know, I didn’t find your reminder until seven o’clock this evening. You might want to give me a little more notice next time.’

We passed beneath a large scotch pine, water dripping lazily from its branches. Claudia stopped, hoisting the sports bag on to one knee. The streets round about were dark and empty. ‘I wouldn’t bank on there being a next time,’ she said.

She unzipped the bag and reached inside it. I had no idea what she was talking about or why we had stopped, not even when she produced an old copy of
The Orphans of Neustadt,
and handed it to me. It crossed my mind that she wanted me to sign it and that this request, like her invitation to the concert (not to mention its affectedly casual nature), was indicative of something other than disdain. In the time it took me to take the book and open the front cover I had recast the entirety of her behaviour towards me – the resentment, the sarcasm, the unflattering psychological profiling – in the light of unrequited love, jealousy, hurt.

‘Not the most original hiding place,’ she said, ‘but it’s better than nothing.’

‘Not the most – ?’ I flexed the pages, detected a telltale stiffness round one of the central folios, adjacent to the spine. It was then, at last, that I understood: once again my novel was moonlighting as a hiding place. On this occasion it concealed a West German passport with my photograph inside it. ‘So . . .
you’re
Anton?’

‘Just take the book.’ Claudia zipped up her bag. Either she was Anton or she was there on Anton’s behalf. It didn’t matter which. ‘Your day visa’s dated for Saturday week.’

I took the book. Suddenly everything was happening so quickly.

‘Nine days from now? That isn’t long. I’m not sure . . .’

‘It’s long enough.’ Claudia hoisted the bag on to her shoulder. ‘Goodbyes aren’t recommended. It’s best you don’t say any. And you won’t need to pack. You’re a day visitor to East Berlin. All you should be carrying are vodka and cigarettes, and stuff from the Delikat.’

I followed her as she set off along the road, heading for the dim glow of Bautznerstrasse. The satirical edge to our previous encounters had vanished. Claudia was all business now. I liked her better the old way. I liked it better when we weren’t both scared.

‘Where do I go?’

‘Your instructions are in the book. You cross at Friedrichstrasse Station. One stop on the S-Bahn and you’re in West Berlin. Just make sure you stand in the right line at the checkpoint. West German citizens have their own.’

‘West German citizens, right.’

‘And wear Western clothes: coat, tie and shoes in particular. That shouldn’t be a problem for you, right?’

I shook my head. ‘I was thinking: don’t they keep records, of who comes in and out? Isn’t there some kind of list?’

‘Your name will be on that list. You don’t need to know how.’

We walked on a little way in silence. I was leaving the valley and never coming back. It was more than an idea, more than a plan: it was real. I didn’t feel ready.

‘What happens on the other side?’

‘You take a plane if you’ve got any sense.’