Evony
Volker insists I go to bed after that and asks Frau Fischer for a sleeping draft. He watches me drain the milky, benzodiazepine-laced glass of water as I sit on the edge of my bed, and then accepts the tumbler back.
“It will be better in the morning,” he tells me, watching me get under the covers and turn my back to him.
Liar. It won’t be better in the morning. Everything will be just the same.
He leaves me alone, shutting the door softly behind him. Within minutes the drug starts to work its numbing effects on me, and I’m grateful. I don’t know what to do with the things he’s told me. That he was once in love. That he holds Germany dear and believes he’s doing his part to keep the peace. That he feels no remorse about imprisoning and will kill anyone who tries to take me from him.
Am I like her, this girl the Nazis murdered? Does he see her when he looks at me?
Cotton wool finally encircles my brain, muffling my thoughts, and I sleep.
When I appear at the breakfast table the next morning, sluggish and gray-faced, Volker tells me to go back to bed. I shake my head and reach for the coffee pot.
“I’m fine,” I rasp. “I’d rather keep busy.” The last thing I want is to be in the apartment alone but under guard while the nightmare that was yesterday churns in my head. Volker has a righteous air about him as he examines the bruising on my face and neck, as if he’s congratulating himself for killing Ulrich.
It’s too painful to swallow anything solid so I just have coffee for breakfast. Frau Fischer ties a printed satin scarf around my neck in an effort to cover the bruises but it doesn’t work very well.
Hans must have taken the Mercedes-Benz to be repaired as we drive to Stasi HQ in a different car. When we arrive at the office Lenore’s eyes widen at the sight of me, but she waits until Volker closes his office door before she says, “What happened to you? Evony, your lip.”
I touch it carefully. It’s a little less swollen this morning but it looks terrible, all black and red, the stitches making me look like something out of a horror film. “Car accident after leaving the office yesterday. We hit a Trabi. I hit the back of Hans’ seat.”
Her eyes slide to the scarf. “Why do you sound funny?”
“I, um, ran into someone while Volker was talking to the Trabi driver. He wasn’t pleased to see me.” Lenore looks perplexed, but she recognizes my desire not to talk about it and we get to work.
I don’t know how to deal with Ulrich’s death or what to make of the things Volker told me last night, so I throw myself into typing. Now I know why Volker works so much. Working means you don’t have time to remember terrible things.
Later in the morning both Volker and Lenore are in another part of the building and I’m alone at my desk when someone steps into the alcove.
“Is Volker in his office?”
I look up at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, and freeze. A Stasi officer is standing a few feet from my desk. He has a captain’s decorations on his uniform, meaning he’s a few ranks below Volker. It also means he shouldn’t be referring to the Oberstleutnant as just Volker, even to me. But that’s not what makes the bottom fall out of my stomach.
I know him. He was in the bakery the night of the raid, yelling orders to the border guards. He’s thirty or so, dark-haired with a thin moustache. I don’t like his eyes, which are an unsettling shade of ice blue. They seem to be looking at me speculatively and my heart starts to pound, wondering if he’s recognized me, before I remember he must be looking at my injuries.
“Nein, Herr Hauptmann. He’s out at the moment. Shall I let him know you wanted to see him?”
He says, with what I’m sure is artificial concern, “Oh, dear. What happened to you?”
I feel guilt flash over my face at the thought of Ulrich and my attempt to flee. “Nothing. Car accident.”
The Hauptmann tuts sympathetically and sits down on the edge of my desk. I have the urge to lean away from him but I hold myself still, looking up at the man with blank politeness. He hasn’t recognized you. He’s just being nosy, like all Stasi officers are.
“You’re living with Volker, aren’t you?”
I see his eyes stray to the bruises on my neck and I resist the urge to fidget with the scarf. “Yes. I’m—I’m from outside East Berlin. He’s a friend of my family’s so I’m staying with him.” Why are you saying this? Just shut up. No one expects you to volunteer this information.
Herr Hauptmann smiles down at me once more and I see the first honest expression in his eyes: one of vague recognition. “Have we met somewhere?”
My heart moves up into my throat but I keep smiling even though it makes my lip hurt. “I’ve been here a few weeks. You’ve probably seen me around the office.”
“Herr Hauptmann. Can I help you with anything?” Lenore is standing by her desk, an unfriendly expression in her eyes. That’s not like her. Usually she’s all smiles for the officers.
He stays where he is, still watching me and smiling his synthetic, curious smile that makes me want to leap out from behind my desk and run. “Just looking for Volker, Fräulein Hoffman.”
“Herr Oberstleutnant is not here at the moment but I’ll make sure he knows you wanted to see him.” Lenore puts a hard stress on Herr Oberstleutnant as if correcting his insubordination, and gestures for me to come to her desk. “Fräulein Dittmar, can I get your help with this?”
Willing my legs not to shake, I peel myself out of my chair and go over to Lenore. What will happen to me if he remembers where he last saw me? Will Volker be punished, too, or will it just be me who’s sent to Hohenschönhausen?
I feel the Hauptmann’s eyes on me for several moments longer, and then he gets up and leaves. I notice Lenore glaring after him.
Trying to sound curious rather than terrified, I say, “Don’t you like that man? Who is he?”
“Hauptmann Heydrich. And no, I don’t.”
“Why?”
“Herr Oberstleutnant doesn’t like him. No, it’s all right. I didn’t actually need you, I was just getting you away from him.”
I go back to my desk, thinking. Volker not liking Heydrich is enough for Lenore to dislike him? She’s very loyal, so that’s not a surprise. But what can Volker have against him? Remembering Heydrich’s careless use of Volker’s name, the comfortable way he settled himself on my desk to talk to me, I suppose the man’s arrogance could rub Volker the wrong way. There’s probably only room for one self-important autocrat in this building as far as Volker’s concerned.
Twenty minutes later Volker himself strides through our alcove on the way to his office. Lenore calls after him, “Hauptmann Heydrich was here earlier, asking Fräulein Dittmar where you were.”
Volker stiffens, and he turns to me. His tone carefully even, he asks, “Did he talk to you?” But I can see what he really means is, Did he recognize you?
I shake my head. “He didn’t say what he wanted.”
Volker taps his forefinger against his thigh, thinking. He’s got an expression on his face that I haven’t seen before, something akin to wariness. Is he afraid of Heydrich? But from the way he’s looking at me I realize that he’s not afraid for himself. He’s afraid for me. That’s why he changed my name from Daumler to Dittmar, I realize, in case Heydrich got my name from one of the people who were captured during the raid.
Then again, maybe Volker is a little worried for himself. I doubt his superiors would be pleased to hear he’s got a traitor working for him and living with him. How much trouble would he get into if they found out? Those silver epaulettes of his probably get him out of all sorts of crimes.
Like shooting a prisoner. I wince and look down, thinking about Ulrich. Volker’s standing in front of my desk, watching me. Me and my stupid glass face. He’s probably seen every thought I just had flicker across it. There’s a smudge on the side of my typewriter and I rub it carefully, keeping my eyes averted. Finally, Volker realizes I’m not going to look up at him again and he disappears into his office.
Not looking at Volker becomes a habit over the next few days. The bruises on my neck fade to a flat purply-brown and my voice goes back to normal. A few capillaries that had burst around my eyes shrink and disappear, and Frau Fischer pronounces that my lip is healing well and she’ll be able to take the stitches out in a day or two. Volker doesn’t call me into his office to dictate any letters and the drives back and forth between his apartment and HQ are made in silence. I can sense he wants to talk to me but I’m too angry with him, too confused. I don’t want to hear more sad tales from his past.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not curious. I wonder who the woman was, the one who died at Auschwitz. Did he know she was Jewish when he met her? Surely not, or he would have tried to get her out of the country, if he really loved her. So why did she keep being Jewish a secret? Was she afraid of him? Maybe he felt about her the way he feels about me—a dark possessiveness that’s more like ownership than love. Or maybe she just didn’t trust a Nazi officer with the truth.
I wonder too about his time as a prisoner of war and when it was he decided that communism was the way forward. I wonder about his love for Germany. I even envy it. What must it be like to feel so strongly about your country—about anything—that you would devote your life to it, to the exclusion of almost everything else?
But I keep my questions to myself and turn my face away when he offers his arm to help me out of his car, when he offers me a cup of coffee, or when he removes his uniform jacket the second we’re inside the apartment. One evening he even offers me a cigarette, a sardonic glint in his eyes, which makes me angry as he’s reminding me of what happened in his office with the silk stockings.
Things seem like they will go on like this indefinitely until Thursday, when a very strange thing happens.
I’m in the filing room putting away some correspondence when a boy from the mail room walks past the door, stops when he sees me, and comes in with his wire box on wheels. I’ve seen him around the office. He’s nineteen or so and is always whistling or chatting to the secretaries. “Oh good, you’ll save me a trip. I’ve got some post for your Oberstleutnant.”
I clench my teeth. Volker is not my anything, but I bite down on my temper because it was meant as an innocent turn of phrase. I’m about to point out that I’m hardly saving him a trip as Lenore’s desk, where the mail is usually delivered, is only thirty feet down the corridor, when I hear him mutter something under his breath so quietly I’m not sure if I heard him right.
“Are you looking for friends?” He’s still flipping through the envelopes in the basket and I can’t see his face through the fringe of auburn hair that’s fallen over his forehead.
I stare at him. Friends? What does he mean by friends?
When he glances up his green eyes fasten on my lip and the faded bruises on my neck. He’s got lots of freckles on his face, like cocoa powder scattered over cold milk. Still speaking softly, he says, “He did that to you, didn’t he?”
He means Volker. I don’t say anything, letting him draw his own conclusions. There’s a tight, angry look on his face as he holds out a bundle of letters to me, and I take them. “I’ve always thought Volker was a nasty son of a bitch.” In a normal tone of voice he adds, “Hang on, I think there’s some more in here somewhere.”
I flip through the letters, trying to look nonchalant, but my heart is racing. What do you mean, friends? Do you mean people who can get me out? How do you know it’s safe to ask me this? Do you know who I am?
My companion murmurs into the correspondence, “I’m part of a group. We’re all over East Berlin. In offices, factories, the border guards. We can get you out, if you want. Away from him.”
My heart leaps for joy and I’m sure he can see it in my eyes, but I can’t speak. It’s as if Ulrich’s hands are still tight around my throat. My father taught me never to trust strangers and that if something seems too good to be true, it probably is. This boy could be anyone. It could be a trap.
“If you’re interested we can help you. But we’d need you to do something for us first.”
I study a postmark on a letter, hoping that he’ll keep talking. I’ve heard how this sort of thing works. Help has to be earned, like when I did my bit to dig the tunnel beneath the Wall. Ana once told me there are some groups who get each other out leapfrog-style: as new people join, old members can escape. That way the groups’ secrets are kept alive. But how did this young man know to approach me? Perhaps Volker’s sinister reputation and my injuries are enough for to him to believe that I’m suffering enough to want to flee to the West.
He watches me for a moment, amused that I still haven’t said anything. “You don’t talk much, do you? My name’s Peter.” He hands me another stack of letters and says softly, “Don’t lose hope. And don’t tell anyone we talked.”
I can’t let him go like this. “Wait!” I hiss. When he turns back to me I whisper, “If someone was interested, what would they have to do?”
Peter casts a quick look over his shoulder and comes back into the filing room. “We need dirt on Volker. Things that he has lying around his apartment that might incriminate him. Details of any shady activities. And we want to know where he goes at night. He’s up to something and we don’t like it.”
My excitement dims. Gather information on Volker. Spy on Volker, he who must know every surveillance trick in the book. How long would it take for him to realize what I was doing?
Peter watches my face closely and his eyes brim with sudden amusement. “I know what you’re thinking, but he’s only human. It can be done.” With a jaunty whistle, he grasps his cart and pushes it out into the corridor. I listen to the tune as it fades away, and realize it’s one of the Free German Youth songs that Ana and I would sing on car trips to exasperate my father.
I go over and over the conversation with Peter for the rest of the day, thinking about every time I’ve seen him around the office; trying to discover from these remembered glimpses whether I can trust him.
I can’t trust him. He works for the Stasi.
Yes, but in the mail room. The mail room is probably staffed by ordinary people.
So he just approached me out of the blue and asked if I wanted to flee to the West? Sure. That’s normal.
I look like I’ve been beaten up, and he thinks Volker did it. Maybe that made him angry enough to approach me. And he was honest about wanting something in return.
The needing something in return makes him seem authentic, but I would rather be sure.
That night, I get into bed just after eleven, tense and exhausted, and in my distraction I realize I’ve forgotten to bring a glass of water with me. Telling myself it doesn’t matter I try to fall asleep, but soon my mouth is dry and all I can think of is water, so I throw the covers off and tie a dressing gown over my nightclothes.
The apartment is dark and quiet except for a single lamp burning in the living room, casting a pool of light over stacks of files and paper. There’s no sign of Volker. The papers are just lying there, unprotected.
We need dirt on Volker. Things that he has lying around his apartment that might incriminate him.
Incriminate him in what way, exactly? Does Peter’s group believe he’s involved in illegal activities? Perhaps they are trying to topple him from his position of power. That could be useful to them if they believe that he’s an inordinately good Stasi officer and whoever would replace him wouldn’t have his zeal and cunning. Or maybe it’s just that Volker’s captured a lot of their friends and they want revenge.
These papers that Volker brings home, I’ve always assumed they’re unclassified reports that he reads out of thoroughness, but the possibility crosses my mind that they might be something more. I take a step toward the sofa—
And Volker steps out of the darkened kitchen rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He stops short when he sees me, and studies my face and my long, loose hair. His eyes travel over my fading bruises, the redness of my lower lip. Frau Fischer has taken the stitches out and told me my lip is healing nicely. He steps closer and with a gentle forefinger traces my mouth, his touch feather-soft.
I stand stock still, my heart pounding. Did he see me looking at his reports, and do I look guilty now? I can never trust my face.
Then his finger is gone and his mouth is on mine, his kiss gentle as if careful of hurting me. I feel that magnetic pull toward him as I always do when he’s close to me. In this strange, unpredictable world he is safety, warmth, strength. It’s madness, this desire, but I feel myself sinking deeper and deeper into him just the same. I kiss him back, my mouth opening beneath his.
It’s not madness if his desire for you could be useful.
My eyes open wide and I see his dark lashes against his cheeks as he kisses me. I could do it. Use this against him to escape. But it doesn’t make me feel triumphant, this realization, only wretched, and I shove him away from me.
“No. Stop it.” I don’t want to become like the Stasi, sneaky, lying, betraying. I’m not like them. I’m not like him.
But how badly do you want your freedom?
Not like that. There must be another way.
As I turn toward my room he grasps me by the wrist and pulls me back. “You wanted me for a few moments, Liebling. Remember? You needed me.”
I’m confused, thinking that he’s talking about the incident in his office with the stockings. But then I realize he means how I clung to him, struggling to draw breath after Ulrich strangled me, and begged him not to go. We were both so raw in those moments, so afraid. Amid the blood and pain and fear I had needed him.
“I was weak.”
His eyes flash with anger and frustration but he lets go of my wrist. I’m coming to understand something about Volker. He wants me to go to him willingly despite everything he’s done. He wants absolution. And it’s not even for what he’s done to me, it’s for what happened to her. He can’t forgive himself for her death so I’m to offer some sort of twisted, surrogate forgiveness.
“It’s not even me you want, it’s her. Do you think she’d be happy to see what you’re doing to me? Is this what she’d have wanted you to become?”
But it’s as if he hasn’t heard me, and his voice is low and sinister. “You shouldn’t have clung so sweetly to me, Liebling. You shouldn’t have told me not to let you go.”
He doesn’t follow me into the refuge of my room. I ask myself, my back pressed against the door, why my skin should crawl more at the thought of spying on Volker than the feel of his hands on me.
A few moments later I hear heavy footsteps in the living room, and then the front door bangs shut. Der Mitternachtsjäger is going hunting. I send up a prayer to whomever might be listening that they protect anyone who crosses Volker’s path tonight.