Chapter Twenty-Seven
"...this is a two-fold country, and, what's more, everyone in it is two-fold, one part possibility and the other its refutal" ― Christa Wolf, The Quest for Christa T.
East Berlin, 1958
"…defected…"
"the Americans have…"
The conversation halted when Hans stepped into view, though he pretended not to notice. After all, he had no time to spare for women's gossip—though he couldn't say the same for many of his male coworkers. Once it became clear he wasn't paying attention to the group huddled in the corner, the talk resumed, albeit more quietly.
Not that he needed to overhear to know what they were discussing; the same thing had been on everyone's lips since the war ended and Germany was partitioned, carved up like a Sunday roast. Its remains handed over to the Soviets like crumbling spoils of war, East Berlin continued to suffer under the Russian occupation, even though more than a decade had passed since Germany's surrender.
But grudges endured as long as memory lasted, and reminders of the war and its atrocities lingered everywhere, keeping those memories fresh: buildings with bomb-blackened facades, churches defiled by Red Army graffiti, streets pocked with bullet holes. Until the Russians' anger abated, the city would simply have to bear its punishment; its residents had no other option.
Well, that wasn't entirely true. Rather than endure the Soviet occupation, thousands were fleeing the area for its western, American-friendly counterpart—or at least, they had been. Just one month earlier, the authorities had announced the closing of the border: considerably limiting the number of refugees, although a good number continued to escape.
However, as tensions between East and West mounted, the trip had become increasingly dangerous; people whispered that the border guards now had orders to shoot any escapees on sight. And Hans knew for certain that, once captured, would-be refugees faced the possibility of substantial fines, lengthy prison terms, even internal exile via deportation to faraway towns.
Yet as difficult as life had become, he was reluctant to jeopardize his hardscrabble existence for an even more miserable one; for if Hans were caught trying to escape, he would not only be branded a Republikflüchtiger (and punished accordingly), he would certainly lose his job at the Volkswagen plant. How would he live then? Jobs were scarce enough as it was, and no one would dare hire a deserter, for fear of bringing the government's wrath down on themselves.
But there was another, more important, reason he remained in the ruined city: one Hans hesitated to admit, even to himself. Part of him worried that leaving East Berlin also meant leaving Leni—even though he had no idea if his little sister was still alive, let alone in the city.
The thought of her sunny smile and big blue eyes—so like their father's—sent a stab of grief through him; and his hands curled into fists. No matter how many years passed since the day Leni disappeared, the pain of losing her never dulled.
Hans would never forget the sinking sensation that had overwhelmed him when he returned after hours of scavenging—triumphantly clutching a dented can in one grimy fist—to find the front door of the house wide open; immediately, he knew something was wrong, since his sister refused to leave the safety of the bedroom without him.
Hans rushed inside, heart thundering in his chest, hoping desperately that this was some sort of tasteless joke, that Leni was only hiding, having a good laugh at his expense. But there was no sign of her, and nothing to indicate where she had gone. The bedroom was just as he had left it, save for the gun resting on the nightstand. Leni wouldn't have left it behind unless she'd been forced to…
Hans swore, slamming his fist into the wall so hard that the impact traveled all the way up his arm: making his teeth rattle and his fingers throb. Staring at his swollen hand, he cursed again, overcome by the realization that the only family he had left, the one person who loved him, was gone—and it was his fault. He had failed her.
Though grief supposedly dulled with the passage of time, over the years, the pain of Leni's loss only sharpened. Each morning, Hans awoke to thoughts of his sister: wondering if she was thinking of him, if she was happy, wherever she was.
He refused to consider the possibility that Leni was dead; even the God-who-wasn't-there wouldn't be so cruel. No, Hans was certain his sister had grown into a beautiful young woman, with more suitors than she could count. Maybe she had gone to America; Leni had always wanted to travel.
He almost hoped she wasn't here, even though that would mean seeing her again. For it would hurt Leni deeply to witness what had become of her beloved birthplace; and besides, Hans was uncertain his sister could survive the harsh reality of life in post-war Berlin, where tensions ran high and the smallest mistake could be deadly—even in the more prosperous West. True, Leni had withstood the war, but she'd been younger then; children endured things adults could not. Take Mother, for example…
"Are you all right?"
The concern in the woman's voice—Van Winkle, he thought her name was—jolted him back to reality, dissipating any thoughts of the past; and Hans forced himself to nod, even though his head felt heavy on his shoulders, like it might topple off at any moment. Until now, he hadn't realized how exhausted he was, though Hans was uncertain whether his tiredness stemmed from physical exertion or the dark thoughts that seemed to consume him lately.
"I'm fine."
He replied curtly, turning on his heel without another word: ignoring the laughter that followed in his wake. The women thought his reserve stemmed from shyness; and there was no need to disillusion them. Let them believe what they wished, so long as they kept their distance.
Naturally, his motivation for leaving was more complex than inexperience with the opposite sex. Having attracted their attention, Hans needed to escape the women's prying gazes; they knew nothing about him apart from his name and reputation as a hard worker, and he intended to keep it that way. Anything else was too dangerous.
Anyway, he didn't mind the solitude; life was simpler that way. Besides, Hans didn't have time for friends—not when he went to bed most nights with his stomach half-empty. More worrisome than the hunger was the mounting pressure to conform; as the Communists tightened their grip on the city, any deviation from the established order, no matter how slight, had become increasingly dangerous. Germany's conquerors were no better than the tyrant they had overthrown.
Emerging into the sunlight, Hans closed his eyes, savoring the breeze that caressed his skin. While workers weren't supposed to leave the building during their lunch break, he doubted anyone would report him for enjoying a little fresh air—especially since the scent of tobacco betrayed the presence of someone who'd snuck out for a quick smoke.
These days, cigarettes were a luxury item, available only for astronomically high prices (or through the black market—not that Hans knew anything about that). Good thing he'd never picked up the habit…
Behind him, someone cleared their throat, and he whirled around, adrenaline flooding him at the prospect of being discovered by Wilhelm, the shift supervisor: a man who savored his authority a little too much for Hans' liking.
But it was only the woman from earlier; his cheeks heated as he realized how foolish he must appear, jumping like a startled rabbit. It wasn't like him to be absentminded, and yet, she'd caught him daydreaming twice today. They stared at each other for a long moment before Van Winkle broke the silence.
"I'm sorry." She said, offering Hans a smile that did little to dispel his unease. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"You didn't."
Hans forced his body to relax, willing his racing pulse to slow. Exhaustion or no, it was time to get it together, as the Americans liked to say; otherwise, he would certainly attract more unwanted attention. That meant getting rid of Van Winkle—but he would have to do it carefully.
The only problem was, delicacy didn't come naturally to Hans—particularly around women. His sole romantic relationship had been at the tender age of thirteen: ending when the object of his affection was spotted holding hands with another boy.
However, Hans' bruised ego soon recovered when one of the prettiest girls in his class asked him to the school dance. And then came the war, leaving no time for such frivolous things as romance. While Hans was no longer a boy, women remained a mystery to him. Hopefully, this one hadn't taken a fancy to him (it wouldn't be the first time).
Clearing his throat, he began, "I'd better—"
But Van Winkle interrupted him. "I followed you out here for a reason." Lowering her voice, she moved closer—far too close for Hans' liking. "I must speak with you on a matter of the utmost importance."
So she was sweet on him. Hans stifled a groan. He'd try to let her down gently, if only to avoid tears; he had no idea how to handle a crying woman.
