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Löwenhöhle - Teil II

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You're sent to Cottbus. Sentenced to labor in one of the factories assembling parts for cameras sold in the West. It hurts your eyes, the detailed work. (How you wished you had worn your glasses that day). You learn to let your hands do all the work. (You have quotas to meet and will be thrown in solitary if you don't). Your fingers are nimble, agile. They fit the pieces together. Effortless. (Like typing on a typewriter, or playing a piano). The hours are long. You listen to the music in your head to pass the time. You think it's Chopin. (Time and again, you hope your plan worked).

. . . _ _ _ . . .

You're released in 1987. Almost a decade since you were taken.

You're loaded onto a bus and sent back to Berlin. You're going West.

The government of West Germany bought your release. But rather than elated, you feel disgusted. Nothing but another commodity. A prize for the West and money for the East. The side of the bus may as well say Fleisch.

You never wanted to go West. You just wanted a change. For your country. Who knew it would be so easy, you think morosely. All you have to do to get out of East Berlin is go to prison.

You're put in a half-way house until you find work. And when you do, you move out immediately. (You don't like the idea of people watching you).

You rent a flat in one of the poorer neighborhoods. It's all you can afford. And it's near the Wall. Sometimes you catch yourself staring at it, wondering which side you're on.

You think of your brother. Of the father you never knew. Of him.

You buy recordings of Beethoven. And Chopin.

. . . _ _ _ . . .

September, 1992

Your editor wants you to find your voice.

He's a typical West German, you think. You've been working for his paper for two years and still he understands nothing about you. It's hard for you to explain. You've tried before. But still. He just doesn't get it. (You had a voice once. Had it. And had it taken from you).

There's a letter sitting on your desk one Friday morning. Amid the circulars and postcards and insurance schemes, there's a letter.

It's nothing unusual. You've gotten them before. All manner. Love, hate, corrections, opinions.

But this one makes your hand pause. You recognize the script even before you see the return address.

Your brother's handwriting.

You sink into your desk chair, slip on your glasses, and read.

He wants to see you.

Your stomach freezes when you read that. It's been fourteen years since you last saw him. And though you loved him, you were never like him.

Deep down, you want to see him, too. But part of you is unsure if you're ready. You correspond through letters for almost a month until you finally feel brave enough to phone the flat. After several starts and stops, you manage to dial the whole number, hardly believing he stayed there after all these years. (Strange, the things you remember. The name of your fourth year school teacher, the taste of Vita Cola, your old phone number).

You arrange to meet the first weekend in October. The Day of Unity. You allow yourself a small laugh at the irony of it.

Your feet take you along the familiar route. Your old neighborhood is the same and yet not. New construction and western cars parked beside Trabis. American denim and fast food.

You ride the lift up. Your knuckles rap softly against the door. You half hope he won't answer, though it's all been arranged. And your brother is nothing if not punctual. The door opens before you even finish knocking.

A face - one you haven't seen in fourteen years - peers down at you. You manage a half-grin, and he scoops you into a bear hug, burying his face in he crook of your neck. You lift your arms up, hug him back, breathe in his smell. He still wears the same cologne.

He straightens up, invites you in. His eyes are moist, as are yours. You swipe a hand over them and shoulder past. You take in your old flat. You hardly recognize it as you wander from room to room. He's kept a few things, but like everyone else in the East, he's learning to welcome the West. Your room, however, remains unchanged. He's kept it clean, hasn't locked anything away or used it for storage. Your typewriter sits on your desk, along with your notebooks. You flip one open, fingers ghosting over penciled script. Your handwriting. It looks so young. It sounds funny, but really you have no other way to describe it. It looks young. Or maybe it's just the memories.

An irrational anger comes over you. You suddenly find yourself wishing he'd used your room for storage; sold your things and piled it full of boxes and winter clothes. Why did he keep it? Any of it? You are not that person anymore. (Are you?)

You leave the room, swallowing around a lump in your throat, and see your newspaper lying on the coffee table.

_You haven't lost your touch, he says, seeing you looking at it.

_Tell that to my editor. Wessies wouldn't know subtlety if it bit them in the ass.

He puffs out a laugh and sits on the couch, sliding the paper towards him.

_I've been reading it since...you know, things opened up. It's the only one I read anymore. And when I saw your name, I...I thought, maybe...

He heaves his square shoulders up and down.

_I didn't think you'd still be here, you say. _I thought...surely, you'd have gone.

_...I kept it. In case you ever came back. So you'd know where to come.

You sit on the couch, rest your elbows on your knees.

_They took me west.

He looks at you and nods.

_I didn't think...didn't know if...whether or not you'd want to see me. I know we never really saw eye to eye.

You puff out a laugh.

_I know. You're still the bureaucrat.

_Trying to be, he smiles.

_Adjusting?

_...A bit. You?

_Yeah.

You look at your hands.

_...I heard they had, um, opened up the records. So, you know, people could...could see what -

He sighs.

_Gil...

_You don't think we have a right to know?

He looks at you. Stern blue gaze. Though he's younger, he's always seemed older.

You shake your head.

_Right. Sorry. You've always had that for God and country thing going. Ever loyal. Even though it no longer exists. Mom would be proud -

He presses his fingers to his forehead.

_Can we not do this, Gil? Please?

You twist your hands.

_Why do you want to know? he asks.

_Morbid curiosity, you smirk. (To see whether his name was really on that folder. To find the Austrian...)

The look on his face is unimpressed.

_I don't know, Lutz. All right? I don't know. It's something...I feel like I need to see.

_Why? You lived through it. Isn't that enough?

You shake your head. It isn't enough. Yes, you lived through it (continue to live through it those nights you cannot sleep). And it isn't enough. It will never be enough. And a small, spiteful part of you wishes he had experienced it too, to understand what it means.

_Look. I know I was an idiot. I know I should have tried harder. Tried to be like you. And mom. I know whatever happened to me, I brought on myself. I've accepted that. I know it's hard for you to understand, but...I thought I could change it. Change the way things were. And there are just...some things I need to know. And I want you there, with me. I need you there, Lutz.

_...Why?

_Because it's important to me, you say. (You don't know if you can face it by yourself. He is all you have).

He relents.

You pick a day. And go there. Ask for your file. You're given a box. In it are thick beige folders, tracing your activity since you were a university student, and a small jar with a square of cloth - a sample of your sweat.

Your brother looks away, down at his hands clasped on his knees. He fidgets beside you as you flip through folder after folder until you find the one you're looking for. You open it and begin to read.

He stands, muttering something about getting a drink of water.

You see the names of the accused. The ones whose lives you helped ruin. Those faces you've tried to forget. You were a victim. And a perpetrator. So too were they, in all likelihood. Still, it doesn't forgive what you did.

Your eyes blur and burn. You take off your glasses, pressing your fingers to your eyes and glad, for the moment, your brother is not there.

You continue reading until you find another name. His name. You feel your breath leave for a few heartbeats. You stare at it. Memorize it. Get out a small notebook and pen and jot it down just in case.

You find the transcript from your final interrogation. Most of it has been redacted. There are notes scribbled on the side hinting at your deceit, your perverted nature. Down at the bottom is a note explaining the edits. It suggests the tape recorder was faulty and should be sent for repair.

Clipped to the transcript is a statement recommending your sentencing and the release of the Austrian due to an overlooked clerical error.

You shut the folder. You don't need to know anymore. Don't need to read anymore. Like your brother said, you lived through it.

Your throat is tight.

You pack the folders back in the box, surprised to see him sitting beside you. There is a folder in front of him, open. He looks at it, looks at you. You read the name, see the black and white surveillance photo clipped to the first page.

His folder is nowhere near as thick as yours.

_...I never knew.

His voice is a whisper.

In that moment you see all of his faith in the system, all of his loyalty to the country-that-was, fall apart.

You put a hand on his shoulder.

. . . _ _ _ . . .

Vienna, 1993

You've found him.

After nearly half a year of weekend trips and telephone calls, you've found him.

He's a professor now, and you think it suits him. Teaches music history at the University of Vienna. You travel down in late spring and sit in on one of his lectures. You don't know if he even wants to see you. You think maybe you should have written, or at least phoned, giving him the chance to reject you. But the fact remains: you need to see him.

The lecture hall is big, filled with at least a hundred students. They chatter on noisily, waiting for the lecture to start. You see him come in from one of the side entrances. He sets his bag down, takes out a few notes and begins to speak. His voice is soft but it commands everyone's attention.

The lecture lasts an hour. When he's done, he quietly packs up. You slowly approach, waiting as the students disperse. Waiting for him to see you.

He glances up as he shoulders his bag. A startled look giving way to growing recognition.

_Roderich, you say.

His bag drops to the floor.

You try and grin, to set him at ease, your own doubts start to kick back in.

His arms are around you in moments, his hands moving up to cup your face.

_I didn't know you wore glasses, he says.

You bite your lip, let out a breathy laugh. He draws your face to his, kissing your lips.

You break away, foreheads touching.

_Do you still play the piano?

He nods. _Though not as well as I like.

You clench your jaw and take his hand - the one they broke. There are thin white scars over it. Surgery. To set the fingers right again.

_I'm sorry, you breathe against his lips. A tear rolls down your nose, clinging to the tip a moment before dropping to the floor.

_Don't be.

He kisses you again.

_I owe my life to you.

You shake your head, puffing out a self-deprecating breath.

_If you only knew...

_Gilbert, he says, stroking a thumb over your cheek, _I knew. I knew what they wanted from you. And I know why you did what you did.

_Can you forgive me?

_There is nothing to forgive. You saved me.

You collapse against him then, your legs too weak to support you.

He holds you, stroking his fingers through your hair as you weep.

. . . _ _ _ . . .

You move in with him. You quit the newspaper and move to Austria. Your editor doesn't understand why. Your column was the most read in the former East neighborhoods. Your brother wants you to reconsider. Thinks it's too far. (Thinks he's losing you again). Even proposed getting a new flat in Charlottenburg. Thinks it's memories of the East that haunt you at night. You've tried to tell him it doesn't matter anymore, that the whole city haunts you now, that there are things that are familiar and different and don't quite fit and you've tried to reconcile it in your head, you really have, but every time you walk down the street, there's something that jumps out at you. This city isn't your city anymore. And you need to get away from it. To forget what it ever was. You promise to write and phone and embrace him one last time before you board your train. He watches from the platform as it takes you away. You press your forehead to the glass and look at him, his square shoulders becoming nothing more than a speck.

You watch the city recede, your heart growing lighter and lighter at the yawning distance. You can no longer see it. And you begin to forget. Forget the place you left. Replace it with anticipation of the place you're going to.

It's night when you arrive in Vienna. The autumn air, crisp. He meets you on the platform, breath puffing out in little clouds. You throw your arms around him, nuzzling against his warm neck. He smiles as he reaches a hand up to stroke through your hair. He takes you home.

You get a job. Writing for a magazine this time. The deadlines aren't as hectic and you're not limited by word count. It's different. Freer. Or maybe you are. Either way, you find you enjoy it.

He plays piano in the evenings. Chopin. Beethoven. You take a break from your work long enough to listen. Long enough to remember.

He comes in the study when he's done, a cup of tea in either hand. He places them on your desk, wraps an arm around your shoulders, and kisses your cheek.

You know he loves you. And you, him.

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~ Ende ~