CHAPTER THREE
On Captivity

Frogg hissed in a breath when he prodded the bruise along his nose and eye, looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. In the following days it would darken to purple and blue, but at the moment it was bright scarlet. From where his glasses' frame scraped along the bridge of his nose, the cut was closed and dark with dried blood. It might have looked like he had been punched right in his face, and there was a red ring around his thin wrist from where he had been grabbed so roughly.

Frogg frowned at the darker bruises around his body - the one at his side when he had been thrown into the living room table last week, where it hurt with every breath he took for days following it. Or the one below his collarbone from an empty beer bottle being hurled at him, and several purplish marks that resembled fingerprints digging into the skin of his arms and shoulders.

He pulled his oversized sweater over himself. It was a warm and sunny day out, and Frogg would be uncomfortable dressed like this, but there was something about these bruises that made him want to hide them. They were shameful. He tried donning his glasses, but the right side frame was bent and looking through one good lens and another that was spider-webbed gave him an instant headache.

When he went out into the living area, the TV was still playing as the morning sun filtered through their blinds. His father was passed out on the sofa, head tipped back in deep sleep. The beer that had been in his hand was now tipped on its side and left a wet ring on the cushion. For a long moment, Frogg just looked at the sight, something sad tugging at his heart. He hated seeing this.
He turned the TV off, and after he made two servings of toast, he stood on his toes to pour a glass of water from the sink and retrieve an aspirin from a drawer. Carefully, he set these things on the living room table before his papa. For a sliver of a moment, he considered climbing onto the couch and tucking himself under one of his father's arms, just to see what it would be like again. But he resisted the idea, got his school things together, and made his way out of the apartment.

The first time it happened shocked him.

That night, perhaps six months after they had moved to East Berlin, a smaller and younger Frogg had the sudden desire to look at his mother's things. But his papa seemed much too occupied with drinking his new favorite drink that Frogg was not allowed to try and cooking dinner, so he went off to get them on his own. The box that contained all of her items was placed on a shelf high in his father's bedroom closet, and he had to teeter on the edge of a chair to reach it. When his father found him, he was sitting on the bedroom floor examining one of her book's in his lap and many other of her things haphazardly strewn about with the kind of care children do not consider.

"...What are you doing?"
"I wanted to see-"
But before he could finish the sentence, his father was already crossing the space between them and was spitting out, "Don't go through her things!"

The sound of the open palm that struck Frogg across the face resounded in the room like the crack of a whip. It was with enough force to snap his head to the side, but not enough for him to topple over. A sting began to bloom on the side of his face, but all Frogg could register was the shock of it. It was as if the two of them were frozen, Frogg sitting on the floor with his mouth hanging open and face turned away, his father standing above him, equally surprised by his own action.

Before Frogg could realize that his eyes were beginning to well with tears of complete confusion and hurt, his dad dropped to the ground before him and cupped the cheek he had hit.

"Oh no, Archibald, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, are you alright? I didn't mean it, come here-"

And he was suddenly gathered up in his arms and carried to the bathroom. He had been hoisted up and placed on the counter, where his father began to fuss over him frantically. It was when a damp tissue was pulled away that Frogg realized that the corner of his mouth was bleeding. He was just shocked. He had never been hit before, certainly not by his papa.

It wasn't always physical. There would be many nights filled with drunken yelling, or things being thrown or broken out of sheer anger. But what was even worse to Frogg was when he would come home to his papa passed out drunk on the couch, where no amount of shaking or pleading could rouse him from unconsciousness. In one of these instances a frightened and panicked Frogg had even dared to get a neighbor for help (a sweet but then intolerant Oma who dumped an enitre pot of ice water on his head - something Frogg would never dare to do) and he paid for it the next day for 'embarassing' his papa. It scared him when he would sometimes find his drunken father crying all by himself, and in these instances he would often have a photo of Frogg's mother in front of him. Those nights, his father would not even speak to him or look him in the eye as if the sight of his own son was unbearable, and it tore Frogg apart.

He did not realize it at the time, but Viktor Frogg was just one of hundreds of Eastern Berliners who used the bottle to cope with their sense of captivity. Frogg did not understand at all what was happening to his papa and why he had become so mean, and why he just couldn't stop. He could only watch helplessly as one beer or two as a way to unwind after work became a six-pack, and then to an entire twelve-pack, then introducing liquor on top of it all as his father's tolerance steadily increased.

One time when Frogg had come out of his room to find his papa passed out and snoring on the couch, an open fifth of vodka - the cheapest liquor to buy thanks to the Soviet market - still in his hand, he did a little experiment... he wanted to see just how great this stuff was. After retreating to the safety of his bedroom with the bottle, a curious seven year old Frogg tilted it towards his mouth. What followed next was him dramatically sputtering and coughing, spitting the stuff out. It was so awful it was making his nose run and eyes water, and it burned in his mouth and throat. This was what his papa was drinking? On purpose?

There were actually plenty of times that gave Frogg hope that things could become the way they used to again. In these instances, maybe his father had a good day at work that did not warrant his usual aggressive drinking at night, or he did not have a hangover that morning to put him in a sour mood. Then, it would be just like how it used to... His dad would make him dinner, and ask him if he had a good day of lessons and to tell him what he learned. They might play with Kaspar together, throwing her toy mouse and laughing at her antics or watch a program on the TV together.
But these instances grew farther and farther apart to the point it was almost nonexistent. Now his papa would get irritated if Archibald played with Kaspar in the living areas. Where he once encouraged the boy's curiosity, now Viktor would get angry when his son would disassemble their appliances and electronics to see how they worked. It took three years of painful confusion and hard-learned lessons as his papa changed so dramatically, but now Frogg was sure to be quiet and unnoticable as possible so as to not be in the way or do something to upset papa. For a long time, Frogg was absolutely certain that it would never go back to the way it was. So now, he felt especially foolish getting his hopes up for a change. It seemed no longer possible, and he did not know which hurt more - his bruised face or his feelings.

Leaving the dreary sight of his apartment and his passed out father, Frogg found his way to Humboldt University just as he did every morning. It was the one place he looked forward to.
He spent all of his time here in the Science Department. It was an incredibly abnormal system that was in place for him. While the other children his age would be in grade four of polytechnic school, with Frogg's unique academic gifts that set him apart, it was decided that one-on-one private lessons would be best for him. He was tutored by a man named Professor Hans Reinhart. They would meet every weekday, for eight hours a day, blowing through course material that should last years. Even the Professor had mentioned one day that at this rate, his student Archibald was going to have his Doctorate by age eighteen. Frogg certainly hoped that would be the case.

He walked through the familiar halls of the Science Department looking quite out of place amongst the older college students, straight to the lab that he and his teacher had all to themselves for his lessons.

"Morning, Archibald," Professor Reinhart called out just as he did every morning.

This man was a bit older than Frogg's father with streaks of silver in his combed-back hair, and he had a friendly face behind his thin-framed glasses. He was setting out the texts that they would be using today and arranging the glassware on the workbench for whatever lesson in chemistry may need it. When he looked up, Frogg could see the man's reaction. The nine-year old might be able to hide the bruises beneath his clothes, but not the one on his eye.

Professor Reinhart winced. "Ouch, that looks like it hurts. Did you have another accident?"

Frogg just nodded and tried to hide his reddening face. It was no secret that he was a very clumsy child… his tutor had witnessed it himself plenty of times. It was not uncommon for him to trip over his own two feet, often breaking things, and he did not have the best spatial awareness or luck for that matter. And it wasn't the first time he had showed up for his lessons sporting a facial bruise and used this as an excuse. Much to Frogg's appreciation, Professor Reinhart did not ask many questions about it, and they immediately plowed into their workload for the day.

Frogg liked his professor. When he was teaching, the man was professional and serious about his subject matter, speaking to Frogg as if he were a competent adult rather than a child. But when the lessons were complete, he was also friendly to him in a way that no one else was. His interests, the kind that labelled him as 'weird' by the other neighborhood children were welcome here, and Archibald would excitedly chatter about them to the Professor - asking if it was possible to make the sorts of things in his favorite science fiction books, like teleportation portals and time travelling machines and identical clones, and would muse on how he would go about doing it. The professor would listen along and laugh - not out of mockery - but at his student's enthusiasm. "Yes, I suppose," he would contribute, often followed with a 'theoretically' or a comment on if it was 'ethical', just impressed that someone so young could find ways in his head to create such far-fetched things.

Frogg wished he could stay in the lab forever. When he was here, he was not some kind of freak for his interests and smarts. He felt like he was in his natural habitat, and it was his one place of solace... It always would be.

They only made it forty-five minutes into the lesson when the issue was addressed.

"You can't see a thing, can you?" The professor asked.

Frogg, who had been trying his hardest to read by squinting his eyes and holding the book close to his face, could not pretend any longer. Without his glasses everything was a blur.

"No… sorry, professor."

"There's no need to apologize for what you can't control. We'll do something where you don't have to read."

So they moved on to the next subject. That lasted about an hour until something required Frogg to look into a microscope, and when he did he leaned forward a little too fast. As a result, the eyepiece jammed into the sensitive area where he had been bruised, and he yelped and recoiled in pain.

"Are you alright?"

"I- I think so."

Frogg gingerly rubbed the spot where he had been hit. He did not feel alright, because it was radiating from being struck, but insisted otherwise. He did not realize it but he looked absolutely miserable at that moment.

The professor then seemed to make the decision for them both and began putting things away, talking as he went about it, "Let's call it a day. I'll treat you to lunch."

A half hour later, they found themselves sitting at an outside bench with their food. When they had gone inside a sandwich stop to order and the man at the counter asked Professor Reinhart 'and what would your son like?', Frogg could not help but blush. It wasn't the first time that his teacher had taken him out on one of their breaks to buy him lunch, and it was a common mistake people seemed to make.

Frogg remembered when his papa would still take him out for an occasional day trip to get food or maybe sweets. Now, the only time they spent together was at home with a wall between them, Frogg holed up in his room to avoid potentially upsetting him.

"Go on and eat," the professor said and began unwrapping his own sandwich, "You need to fuel that brain of yours somehow. Plus it wouldn't hurt for you to gain a pound or two."

When he said it, Frogg did not detect any of the ridicule in his voice that the boys his age would use about his slimness. Aside from genetics, he knew a part of his stature might be because of the fact his diet wasn't the best, but there was only so much control a nine-year old had of what was in his kitchen. And East Germany was not particularly thriving this year when it came to the amount or variety of goods in the stores. Either way, he tucked hungrily into his sandwich.

"Did you forget them or were your glasses broken when you had your accident?"

"They got broken."

"Well that's unfortunate. Until you get a new pair, I'll change the lessons so you don't have to do much reading. So what happened this time?"

And Professor Reinhart gestured to where Frogg was hurt. The boy, who had thought that the subject had been dropped already, paused in his chewing. He had yet to think of details of his 'accident', and stuttered as he tried to think of something believable. But as always, he was never the best liar.

"I, uh - ran into the wall."
"A wall? How did you manage that?"
"I tripped…"

It was not the first time he used the 'tripping' excuse. He might have used it too many times, in fact. Frogg was indeed a klutz, but not that much. His tutor must have thought his student was a complete moron with how often he was 'hurting himself' at the current rate. What he asked next made Frogg hope it was only a coincidence: "How's your father Viktor?"

He hates his life and hates me even more.

That was what first came to Frogg's head, and yet he tried to keep his face passive and replied with a simple, "Fine."

In the beginning days of Berlin, his papa and the professor had met. They even seemed to get along quite well in fact, with them both being men from academia. But it had been a long time since they had last seen each other, and Frogg supposed it may remain that way. Other than confirming that Frogg got top marks in every subject, his father had no interest in the daily routine of his education anymore.

"That's good. Does he like his work still?"
No. His father despised it. He went from being a high-clearance, on site engineer at a nuclear power plant to what Frogg understood was a desk job crunching numbers for the facilities instead. He was far too overqualified and understimulated, and seemed to want to remind Frogg of that as much as possible, usually in the form of drunken yelling.

"Yes, I think so."

What a lie.

"Well, with what happened at Chernobyl it must be a relief for him. I'm sure we all got a healthy dose of radiation from that."

Frogg's immediate reaction was to widen his eyes and quickly look about to see who might have heard the statement. There wasn't a single person within ear-shot. Still, what he had said was potentially dangerous.

The only reason Frogg knew the extent of what really happened at Chernobyl was thanks to his secret modified radio in the box beneath his bed. He mostly used it to listen to music because he was too young to be concerned about global events, but he still heard tidbits on the talk stations. It had been almost two years since the incident at the Russian power plant, but there was still talk about it on the West German news stations about its continuing after-effects. For Eastern Germany, however, they were getting a much different story… one that downplayed the extent of the explosion and colossal amounts of fallout. That it was all okay and nothing of concern… all thanks to the Soviet censorship.

And the way that Professor Reinhart was able to know about this was something that had always fascinated Frogg. The individuals able to do so were few and far between, but Hans Reinhart was one of the rare West Berliners who was allowed access to the East for his line of work. He just simply was the best at his job, so experienced in fact, that he was allowed this rare privilege. While it was downright impossible for an Eastern civilian to travel to the other side, it was a different story for someone like his professor.

Knowing this, Frogg had always been so fascinated and had hundreds of questions he wanted to ask his tutor about life on the other side. But it had been instilled in him that there were just some things too dangerous to ask, and though he genuinely trusted his professor, he was much too frightened to ask when others could take notice - he was still following the advice his father had given him on their first day in Berlin.

And yet, the Professor still knew the implications of what he had said, and he gave Frogg a reassuring smile and a wink as he crumpled up the paper his sandwich had been in. "Don't worry. It's okay to loosen up a little when we're outside the lab. Would you like me to drive you home?"

Frogg, happy to not have to take the S-Bahn, forgot his nervousness and agreed with a smile. They stepped back into the sandwich shop to throw away the litter left over from their meal, and Frogg went to wash off in their restroom sink. Upon walking out, he realized he had forgotten to pull his sleeves down when the professor dropped his gaze to his wrist. Frogg flushed.
By now, the mark had darkened and there was the distinct imprint of fingers on his bruise. Hastily, he unrolled his sleeves and did not say a word. Neither did Professor Reinhart, but when they went to leave and walk together, he gave Frogg a soft pat on the shoulder - like a small expression of reassurance.

Frogg bolted upright with a little gasp. Beside him in the spot where Kaspar always laid by his head at night, there was an empty space from where she had darted under the bed. At first he wasn't sure what it was that had woken him so abruptly, but then he heard it again. Frogg flinched at the sound of a loud bang, and became aware of a few distant shouts followed it.

Looking to his bedside clock, he could see that it was almost four in the morning and pulled on what was left of his broken glasses, ignoring the resulting immediate headache. He was wide awake now and approached his window, the one that overlooked the Berlin Wall. He pulled the drapes aside and cautiously peered out, covering his bad lense with a hand.
He could hear it clear as day now-
"Look up! He's flying them over!"
"Eyes up!"

He had to stand all the way to one side of the window in order to see what was actually happening. There was movement to his left, further down the wall where the watchtower sat. Three soldiers had their rifles pointed up at the sky, standing between the walls, and there was a spotlight aimed high as well.

What on earth were they doing…?

But then, something flew over and shots followed the shape. The sounds of the rifles made him recoil, but he still managed to see what it was. A superhero! They had been holding someone bridal style in their arms before disappearing from sight, off into West Berlin. Frogg was frightened, but he had never seen a superhero before, and he was excitedly right back at the window despite his nerves. He actually saw a real superhero! They must be rescuing people from the city!

There was another long moment of disoriented confusion from the soldiers, and the dogs inside the walls were barking like mad. He watched as a military vehicle pulled up and another half dozen soldiers jumped out and spread themselves to cover more area.

This time, Frogg saw the hero coming to help another citizen from farther away. He looked just like how they did on the TV, arms stretched out before him and cape flapping behind… Several things happened at once.

There was the popping of rifles being discharged, and the hero was hit. Frogg jumped with an alarmed gasp and just had time to see the hero's body fall towards the ground, still carried by the momentum of flight, when the small scientist was suddenly jerked back from the window and something slapped over his mouth. He went to scream bloody murder but it only came out as desperate muffled shouts. Back and back, he was dragged further into the darkness of his room and he was sure that this was it, the Stasi saw him looking at something he shouldn't be and he was done for, he shouldn't have looked, it was over-

It was his father who spun him around, and he was kneeling down to his height.

Frogg was shaking and it took him a moment to realize that it was not the secret police in front of him. He wasn't being taken away. His father's breath smelled of liquor yet his eyes were alert.

"What do you think you are doing!"

He finally took his hand from Frogg's mouth and the skin around his lips was pink from the pressure.

"Did anyone see you looking out?"

"Papa… they… they shot him…"

The boy was trembling like a leaf all over, eyes wide as saucers.

"I said did anyone see you!"

He frantically shook his head 'no'. His father then stood and went to the window himself, barely putting himself in view of those who might be looking. What he saw out there, Frogg did not want to know, but the braying of dogs was dying down and there was no more shouting.

He had just watched a man get shot. He watched a person- a superhero- die. He felt sick.

Frogg's father returned to him then, and even though there was no way anyone outside could hear them speaking, whispered, "See? This is why we need to be careful. This is what happens when you live where we do."

Frogg felt like he could start crying, but for once the sensitive boy was just too shocked for it to come out. "What… what do we do? I don't want to be here. I- I want to go home. I-I-"
Even though he truly did miss his hometown every day, it had been at least two years since he last dared to complain out loud about it, and for a moment he was going to say something he thought was infantile in his fear - I want my papa - but he was cut off.

"What you do," his father hissed, "Is to go to your lessons everyday and become someone important with your education. Because that will be the day you may pick where we can live, and get us out of this godforsaken place."

And he suddenly stood and turned to go, leaving Frogg alone and trembling, and what the boy heard his father whisper under his breath next hurt just as bad as what his fists were capable of - "It's the least you can do, you're the reason we're stuck here."