Evony
“Did you take your pill?”
Reinhardt asks this as soon as I enter the kitchen. Frau Fischer has her back turned toward us and is stirring something on the stove, but I notice her ears prick up.
“Good morning, Evony, did you sleep well, Evony,” I mutter while helping myself to coffee from the pot.
He waits, watching me narrowly. I feel safe with the housekeeper in the room and merely take an ostentatious sip from my cup. If he’s so interested in me not getting pregnant then I feel safe from him in that way, too, for at least a week. Maybe longer if I can pretend I’m not taking the pills.
He slaps his paper down and rounds on me, his face a snarl. “Listen to me. I gave you those pills for a reason and I’m not in the mood to play silly games. Now, did you take your pill?”
I’m startled by how quickly he’s erupted into a burning temper. I give him a look that I hope conveys how detestable I find the idea of both him and the possibility of his children, and say, “Yes. Of course I did.”
Somewhat mollified, his shoulders unclench and he speaks in a softer tone of voice. “And will you take them as per the instructions and inform me when you need more?”
“Yes,” I mutter.
“What was that?”
I match his volume from a moment ago and shout, “Yes, Herr Oberstleutnant!”
Reinhardt straightens the belt on his already perfectly straight uniform jacket, his expression seething. Why couldn’t he have just asked when we were alone? Why does he have to make such a drama out of it? I stare him down, thinking with pleasure about the plan I’ve concocted to spy on him, right under his very nose. Let him see the defiance in my face. I know I should try harder to pretend I’m going along with this man’s wishes but I can’t.
Reaching for his cap he pulls it down onto his head. “I’ll be downstairs by the car and will expect you there at zero eight hundred and five hours. Don’t keep me waiting.” He storms out, his polished boots flashing in the morning light.
I sit down and notice Frau Fischer watching me, her eyebrows raised. I give a half shrug, as if I don’t know what has got into the Oberstleutnant this morning either.
At exactly five past eight—or as he puts it in his punctilious military manner, zero eight hundred and five hours—I close the front door and sweep past Reinhardt with a sunny smile, relishing how good it feels to provoke him. He narrows his eyes at me as Hans opens my door but doesn’t say anything. When he’s in a temper with me he doesn’t try to kiss me or give me little presents so I only wish it would last longer.
After lunch I type up an important letter incorrectly three times and Lenore banishes me to the filing room. I didn’t even mess it up on purpose. Lately I’ve given up deliberately trying to be a poor secretary as it hasn’t helped me avoid Reinhardt, and I feel badly for Lenore if I don’t pull my weight. Unfortunately, though, I’m a poor secretary even when I’m trying. I can type at a reasonable speed but my mind wanders, and then I make mistakes and the page gets covered in Tipp-ex. Lenore spotted me stamping over a b that should have been a p and tore the sheet out of my typewriter.
“Evony, for heaven’s sake, we can’t send a letter to the Chairman’s office looking like this. I’ll do it. You go and file everything in that tray.”
I’m partway through the stack and thinking that the Chairman himself won’t even see the damn letter, when I hear someone come into the room. I turn, hoping it’s Peter, but it’s Reinhardt. He’s got a file in his hand and ignores me as he opens a cabinet and thrusts it back in its place. His face is closed and set and I’m wondering why he didn’t give the file to Lenore or I to put away when he turns suddenly, slips his arms around my waist and pulls me back against him.
“You are very provoking,” he murmurs into the side of my neck before kissing me there. I angle my head to one side, instinct taking over like it did that first day, my eyes closing as I enjoy the touch of his lips. My hands reach for his arms and I feel the wool of his uniform jacket beneath my fingers, and I hold onto his wrists.
“And you are quite a beast.”
I feel him smile against my throat, and then growl softly. The vibrations travel throughout my entire body like thunder rumbling in a summer sky. Then he releases me and is gone, and I don’t see him again for the rest of the working day. Not in person at least. The memory of his large hands are imprinted on my body, his lips on my throat.
Later that evening when we’re siting in front of the fire he gets up and twitches the curtains aside, peering up at the sky. It’s poured with rain the last few nights but tonight the sky is clear. My heart begins to beat a little faster. Could he be thinking of going hunting? I run through my plan again, searching for problems. I could encounter dozens but I won’t know until I put it into action.
I make a show of yawning and heading sleepily for my bed. Once the bedroom door is closed I listen for moment, trying to discern what my captor is doing. Going to bed? Having a last cigarette before going out? I can’t tell, but I spring into action. It’s imperative that I’m down in that Trabant before he leaves the house or the plan won’t work.
My coat has to stay on its peg in the hall but I pull a woolen sweater over my blouse, a beret onto my head and wind a scarf around my neck. Taking the stool from beside the dresser into the closet I push my clothes aside and look up at the trapdoor. It was the conversation I had with Frau Fischer the night Reinhardt got so angry about Thom that gave me the idea. She mentioned hearing rats in the roof. “I can hear them scurrying around in the rafters when I’m lying in bed. All these attics are connected and they run up and down all night long.”
If I can get into the attic and make my way along the length of the building to the empty apartment I’ll be able to let myself out onto the street. I’ll have to be careful not to be spotted by Reinhardt’s guards, but if I’m lucky they won’t be paying much attention to comings and goings at other buildings on this street.
If I’m lucky. So much of this plan hinges on luck, but it’s the best idea I’ve got. Surely I’ve got to get lucky sometime.
Of course, just because rats can get through doesn’t mean there’ll be room for a person. I might trip and put my foot through a plaster ceiling. Someone might hear me and call the police. One thing on my side, ironically, is the Stasi. If anyone does hear footsteps they might believe it’s a Stasi agent going about their secretive business and decide it’s safer to pretend they haven’t heard anything.
Standing up on the stool I carefully maneuver the cover aside and straighten so that my head and shoulders are in the attic. The air up here smells flat and musty and it’s very dark. Grilles high up in the brickwork let in some street light but it’s not much after the brightness of my bedroom. I stay where I am for a few minutes, praying my eyes will adjust. Soon I can make out the dark rafters running along the attic and the lighter ceiling plaster between them.
Hauling myself up I perch on the rim of the access hole, take a steadying breath, and then stand up. The ceiling is low and slanted and I have to bend at the waist, but I’m able to brace my hands against the roof for balance and begin edging my way along the narrow beams. It’s slow going as I have to be as silent as possible, and I can’t risk falling and putting a foot through the plaster. After just a few minutes my back prickles with sweat and I’m panting, more from nerves than effort. But I remember the tunnel with Ana and the constant danger we faced of being buried alive. This is nerve-wracking, but it’s not the most dangerous thing I’ve done.
There are rat droppings everywhere and I try not to think about fat brown rats with their worm-like tails nipping at my ankles. Reinhardt has called me a sneaking rat on occasion, and look at me now, creeping around like a rat, a spy, when I swore I would never become like the Stasi. But it’s either stay in East Berlin and be what Ulrich said I was, a Stasi Schlampe, or this.
I choose this.
It’s hard to track my progress in the low light. I keep waiting to come up against a brick wall diving one attic from the next, but I don’t. They are all connected like Frau Fischer said, one long open space that goes on and on. The balls of my toes grow sore from treading the narrow beams. I try to gauge how many apartment lengths I’ve come—when I spot it. A solid wall. Does it divide one apartment building from the next or is it the exterior wall? Am I over the empty apartment? I should have thought to count the trapdoors as I went, but I was concentrating on not falling. I’m standing over a trapdoor now and, paralyzed with indecision, I just stare at it.
My legs start to shake and I either have to go back or lift that trapdoor. Praying that it’s the empty apartment and I’m not about to peer into someone’s living room, I ease that trapdoor open. And breathe a sigh of relief. I’m over an empty room and there are rat droppings on the carpet. I’ve never been so happy to see rat droppings.
I drop down to the floor as silently as I can and make my way through the empty apartment to the back door. I can unlock the door from the inside and I find a piece of discarded cardboard, place it over the latch and wedge the door closed. When I return all I’ll have to do is push the door open to let myself back in, but from the outside it will look secure.
Finally out in the night air I stand in the darkness of the spiral fire escape for a moment, just breathing. So far so good. But how much time has that taken me? Reinhardt could be far away by now.
The Trabant is parked around the corner and once my feet are on the ground I walk quickly along the laneway and out onto the side street, keeping watch for guards and Volkspolizei. I spot the car parked beneath a tree which is just beginning to bud with spring leaves. Feeling for the keys I find them atop the driver-side wheel, just as Peter promised they would be, and in that moment I want to hug him. My little mantra, So far so good, grows stronger.
But once I’m sitting in the driver’s seat I become paralyzed again. What now? I didn’t think this far ahead because getting out of the apartment without being seen by Reinhardt’s guards preoccupied all my thoughts.
I’m no good as a spy. This is too nerve-wracking. My heart starts to race but I force myself to take another deep breath. First things first: I need to be able to see the front door of his building when he leaves. Starting the engine I ease the car forward, the headlights off. The car makes a loud put-put sound and I cringe, certain someone is going to become suspicious about what I’m doing.
I park at the end of the street where I can watch the front door and switch the engine off. The clock on the dashboard reads five minutes past eleven. If Reinhardt’s going out hunting it will be in the next hour. There’s nothing to do but sit and wait, and feel the cold seep into my bones.
Finally I see his tall, uniformed figure striding down the front steps of the apartment building and making his leisurely way to the Mercedes. Light from a streetlamp glints on the silver buttons of his double-breasted coat. I start out of my slouch and reach for the ignition—but stop myself just in time. He’ll hear me if I start the engine now, and my stomach quails at the thought of him turning and seeing me sitting here in the shadows.
I wait until I hear the purr of the West German car and see the red flash of parking lights before I turn the ignition. When he peels out of his parking space I count to three and then do the same. He drives fast, much faster than I was expecting, and he’s disappeared round the corner before I’ve driven six feet. I put my foot on the accelerator and the car whines in protest.
“Come on, come on,” I mutter, coaxing a little more speed from the cold engine. I turn a corner and find the street ahead of me is empty. When I reach the next junction I look left and right but those are empty, too.
“Scheisse.” At random I swing the wheel to the right and drive as fast as I can to the next corner, but there’s no sign of the black car.
I’ve lost him.
I drive about for a few minutes hoping to catch sight of him but my heart is soon pounding in fear. This is too reckless. I run the risk of being stopped by the Stasi or driving straight into Reinhardt if I crisscross the streets aimlessly. Reluctantly, I turn back towards the apartment and park the Trabant, feeling very disappointed about my failure.
Getting back into the empty apartment is easy, and so is stacking up a few packing cases so I can get into the attic. I’m soon back in my bedroom. In the stillness and silence of the familiar surroundings I realize how tightly wound I am. I can’t get my heart rate to slow down and adrenaline makes me pace up and down the room. Finally I lie flat on my back on the floor and take deep breaths.
Tonight was a waste of time but at least I know my plan can work and I didn’t get caught. Tomorrow I can try again and I’ll be better prepared. I will do this.
But the next night I wait in the Trabant for two and a half hours and Reinhardt doesn’t appear. At half past one I give up, chilled to my bones and feeling teary from exhaustion and nerves. As I trudge back to the empty apartment and let myself in I think how much I hate this. How does Reinhardt do this day in, day out? Even get excited by it? The subterfuge, the sneaking around. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t have to do any of the sneaking himself. What he does is proudly proclaimed by his uniform and he gets others to do the sneaking for him.
The next night is another fruitless wait, but on the fourth he appears at a quarter past midnight. I turn the ignition of the Trabant as soon as I see the Mercedes’ lights come on—but the engine only sputters. I turn it again and again and watch in despair as the black car slides around the corner and out of sight. There’s no point trying the ignition again. I’ve flooded the engine. Tears prickling in my eyes I make my way inside, not knowing how I will keep doing this night after night only to face disappointment. I consider going to Peter and begging him let me do something else for the group, but I know he’ll refuse. Oberstleutnant Volker is too dear a prize.
On Friday evening as we’re getting into the car outside Stasi HQ Reinhardt touches the back of my cheek with his gloved fingers, an expression of concern on his face. “Are you feeling ill, Liebling? You are pale.”
I look down quickly, knowing there are dark smudges beneath my eyes. I’ve always needed a solid eight hours of sleep and it’s showing that I’m getting barely half that at the moment. “Yes, fine. Just not sleeping very well at the moment.”
He opens his mouth to speak again but I push past him and get into the car. I’m a terrible spy. I’m the worst spy.
Reinhardt must say something to Frau Fischer that evening as she stays later than usual and gives me a mug of hot beer to drink after dinner. “Hot beer will cure any cold or fever,” she tells me, standing over me as I drink it.
What it actually does is make me sleepier than I can ever remember being and I nod off on the couch. Sometime later I wake to find Reinhardt gently shaking me and helping me to my feet. Once I come to I push him away and stand up by myself. He protests, but I make my unsteady way to my room alone and close the door. I don’t bother going out at all that night, though I feel guilty about it as I fall asleep.
Over breakfast the next day I start to worry he’s becoming suspicious. It’s Saturday, which means he actually sits down and eats something, and out of the corner of my eye I can see him watching me narrowly.
When he gets up for his cigarettes he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Are you feeling better, Liebling?”
I shrug him off. “Yes, I’m fine. I told you, I’m just tired not sick.”
Unable to bear being near him I retreat to my room and close the door. Partly from exhaustion and partly from despair, I get back into bed and close my eyes, willing the world to go away.
I sleep for a little but when I wake up I feel worse, not better. I’ll be rested enough to follow him tonight, assuming he goes out, but thinking about sitting for hours in that cold Trabi casts a pall over my already low mood.
There’s a soft knock on the door and, thinking it’s Frau Fischer with more warm beer I call out. “I’m awake.”
But it’s not Frau Fischer. It’s Reinhardt, and he pushes open the door watches me from the doorway. He’s in a white shirt and gray trousers, looking smart as always but without his usual black tie. His sleeves are rolled back past his elbows and I can see his irritation in the taut muscles of his arms as he folds them. “What’s got into you?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“No you’re not. Come on, Evony. You’re stronger than this.”
I stare at the ceiling. “What’s got into me? It could be I’m being held captive by a madman in a country I hate. What do you think?”
Out of the corner of my eye I see him shake his head. “Tell me the truth.”
Damn his perception. Damn everything about him. “Fich dich.”
He strides forward and strips the bedclothes from me. I squeal with indignation as he scoops me out of bed and carries me out into the hall, struggling in his arms. “Put me down. Let me go.”
“No. If you’re going to sulk and swear at me you may as well do it in my bed.”
Anger and something else, something carnal, flickers through me. My nails dig into his shoulders and before he’s pushed open the door to his bedroom I’m kissing him. He kisses me back, fierce and needful, like a man dying of hunger. Then I bite his lip and he groans, and throws me down on the bed. I glare up at him through my messy curls as he begins to unbutton his shirt.
“You are the most obstinate young woman I’ve ever met. Am I ever going to touch you without it being an unnecessary battle?”
“No.”
He smiles his hard, unfriendly smile, shrugs out of his shirt and begins undoing his belt and trousers. “Good. Take off your clothes.”
At the sight of him naked some of my bravado evaporates, because it’s broad daylight this time and I can see quite clearly the hard lines of his chest, his flat stomach, and the length of his cock, thickening before my eyes, strange and beautiful at the same time.
He must see apprehension in my eyes. “Don’t worry, Liebling. I’m going to be very sweet about this.”
I strip off my vest and underwear, all I was wearing in bed, and level a look at him that very plainly says, I’m not.
When he gets onto the bed I pull back my hand to slap him across the face. I almost succeed but he captures my wrist and pins it to my side. I attack him with everything I have, my feet, my knees, my nails. He doesn’t try to stop me, though he deflects the fiercest of my blows without hurting me back. All the while he kisses me, plucks at my nipples, squeezes my behind. He finds my sex and the slickness there and he pushes one thick finger into me and the fist that lands on his shoulder suddenly clings to him. I moan his name, some of the fight going out of me. Capitulating shouldn’t feel good, but I let him lay me down on the cool mattress and he licks me while his finger explores. Then he adds another and I bury my hands in his hair. I teeter on the brink of coming for a long time, but the movements of his tongue are almost lazy and then when I finally think he’s going to push me over the edge he sits up, and I scream in frustration.
He yanks me down the bed, cutting off my cry, and, still unhurried, rubs the tip of his cock against my slipperiness. My anger grows again as I watch him consider me, his head on one side, drinking in my desperation, enjoying it.
“Do you want me, Liebling?”
I will not say yes. I will not beg.
He leans over me, sleek and smug, and pierces me slowly. It’s not like the first time. It doesn’t hurt. He feels good. So, so good, that I pull him closer and sink my teeth into the hard line of muscle across his shoulder and he hisses in pain. How dare he feel so fucking good. His thrusts are slow, easing into my tightness, exploring how deep he can push before I grab his hips and gasp. Every few thrusts he pushes a little deeper, and a little deeper, coaxing surrender from my body. And then he’s all the way to the hilt and he braces his hands on either side of my head, his eyes dark and goading.
“Do your worst then, you little cat.”
I rake his back with my nails, wanting to draw blood, wanting to hurt him, but he doesn’t care, and all the while he softly kisses my mouth, my neck, his fierce rhythm never letting up for a moment.
“That’s it, Liebling, get it all out. I can take everything you can throw at me.”
I fall back, whimpering, because what he’s doing to me is taking over everything else and I can feel myself tightening around him, reveling in the way my flesh yields to his. He drinks in every expression that flickers over my face. Hooking my legs over his shoulders he bears down on me heavily and the sensation goes nuclear. I still don’t beg but he must see the supplication in my eyes, the please don’t stop. It’s not fair that he can do this to me until I don’t want to fight back. It’s not fair that I fight him and yet I’m the one who ends up at his mercy and losing control while his body conquers mine.
As I come I pull him closer and feel him shudder against me, his rhythm stuttering as he pushes as deep as he can twice, three times, and then stills. I can’t make myself let go of him. In the hazy afterglow I cling to him, and he eases slowly off me until we’re lying on our sides, my cheek pressed against his chest.
His hand sketches circles on my back while his other holds me to him. I close my eyes, feeling more relaxed than I have in a long, long time.
“Are you having bad dreams, Liebling?”
It takes a few minutes to dredge myself up from this warm, sleepy place. Does he think nightmares have been keeping me up? I don’t want to answer, and so to deflect the conversation away from me I reach for the first reproachful thing I have to hand.
“You think of her when you’re in bed with me, don’t you?”
Unruffled, he rolls onto his back and closes his eyes. “I wouldn’t say I’m doing much thinking when I’m in bed with you. What I am thinking about isn’t her or anyone else who isn’t you.”
I prop myself up on my elbow and watch him. “You as good as told me you stole me because I remind you of her.”
“Johanna was a good-natured, beautiful girl who brought a smile to the face of everyone who met her. She was nothing like you.”
“Schwein.”
He opens his eyes and looks at me. “Ja, I know. You have told me this before. Liebling, you are nothing like her, and I am glad of this.”
I frown in confusion. “What? Why?”
He slides his arms around me and pulls me up onto his chest so I’m lying on top of him. “Because I’m nothing like I was then, either. You’re a hard young woman. You’ve faced difficult things and you have not crumbled because you are strong. You’ve probably thought of a dozen ways you might escape me.”
Just the one, actually, but it’s a good one. “You sound proud of me.”
“I am. So—” he reaches for his cigarettes on the nightstand and lights one “—when I wake in the night and feel a twinge of conscience about keeping you here against your will I am able to fall back asleep very easily.” He smokes his cigarette, watching me narrowly. “I’m not letting you go, you know.”
That Reinhardt is troubled by his conscience for even a moment I find hard to believe. “You will when you tire of me.”
He looks at me steadily and says, with deliberate slowness, “Nein. I’m not letting you go.”
I get that awful feeling that he’s able to read my mind. Smell treason. Sometimes I forget that my lover is der Mitternachtsjäger. Pretending to laugh, I say flippantly, “Are you threatening me or telling me you’re in love with me?”
“I have no idea, meine Liebe. Do you?”
I stare at him. I was being provocative, trying to deflect his attention from the guilt he might see in my face. He’s serious, though. How can he possibly think that he’s in love with me, even with his twisted ideas about devotion? I wonder if this is a new strategy to wrong-foot me, to gloat over my captivity, and say quickly, “You won’t break me. I won’t let you.”
“I never thought I would, and I don’t want you broken.” He slides his fingers into my hair and caresses the back of my head. “I like you as you are, strangely. My churlish, ungrateful, bad-tempered girl.”
He smiles at the baffled look on my face. “I hardly expected you to be pleased that I have kept you here against your will, even if I have kept you out of prison. But you could have been tearful day and night. You could have stopped eating. You could have pulled all the books off the shelves and smashed every plate and glass in the apartment.”
“Verdammt. I didn’t think of that.”
He laughs, shaking me on his chest. “But here you are in my bed, and though you do take vicious delight in scratching me and swearing at me you are as sweet as any man could want.” His hand moves to stroke my cheek and he speaks softly. “Sweeter, even. You’re strong, Liebling, and I know how important that is. If you’re not able to fight then this world will crush your body and your spirit.” His eyes are dark blue in the half-light. “Please tell me if you’re having bad dreams or if something has upset you. I worry if you’re quiet. I’d rather you call me names and fight me than slip away where I can’t reach you.”
“Why do you even care how I feel? I thought all that mattered to you was that I was here.”
He continues to stroke my cheek, a look in his eyes like I’ve never seen before. “Because you are my shield maiden. No, more than that. You are my Valkyrie, and I want you strong. If you are strong then there’s nothing that can touch us. Touch you.”
My heart is racing, making me feel sick and confused, so I put my head down on his shoulder. He worries that I might be taken from him, too. If not love, he does seem to cherish something tender for me. It should make me exultant, because his affection can only be useful to me.
I can feel him watching me, made uncertain by my silence, and I reach for the first question that comes to mind. “I know so little about you. Tell me something about you.”
“Like what?”
“When did you join the Party?”
He seems surprised by my change of subject, but goes along with it. “About a year after I returned from the war. I’d read The Communist Manifesto as a prisoner and started attending meetings almost straight away, and then I was vouched for and made a member.”
I think about how he reads Neues Deutschland every morning, cover to cover. The paper is State-run and seems to be popular at Stasi HQ. My father always said it was stuffed full of propaganda and lies. “Do you really believe in everything that they say? That they stand for?”
I hear the skepticism in my own voice and flinch. I’ve forgotten who I’m talking to. But Reinhardt doesn’t seem perturbed and he’s silent for a moment, considering his answer. “As much as I can believe in any political party. I come from the military, not the government. In the days after the war I saw how dedicated the Party was to anti-fascism and I liked that very much. The Stasi was the ideal place for someone like me.”
I remember the Stasi motto: the Shield and Sword of the Party. Reinhardt is the embodiment of it. Protective. Possessive. Strategic. I can see that he’d naturally gravitate towards the security ministry. But I shake my head, exasperated, as I’ve heard him speak about fascism before.
“The war was twenty years ago. Where is fascism now? Why must you be our sword and shield when there is nothing to fight?”
“Oh? Do you think there aren’t people in Germany who miss the days of the Reich and the Führer? The far right can be very alluring to some people. Everything is always someone else’s fault.”
“But Reinhardt—”
He holds up a hand. “Yes, all right, I admit I see no imminent signs that the next Hitler is about to rise. So, my little traitor, you question why we need people like me at all? Remember that the West is as frightened of us as our Party is of them, and both sides have the Bomb now. When in history have two enemy powers wielded such weapons? It is the power of the gods in our hands, and I can’t see that things will de-escalate on their own for some time. So, I do my part to ensure that the West doesn’t learn too many secrets about the East and feels emboldened to act against us. Their people do the same on their side, and there is peace, of sorts. A cold war.”
I stare at him, still exasperated but bewildered now as well.
He smiles. “Why do you look at me like that?”
“Because you are a Stasi officer and I just questioned the very reason you exist! Shouldn’t you be lecturing me on communism being the one true way and the West being evil?”
Grinding out his cigarette in the ashtray beside the bed, he puts his arms around me. “I told you. I’m a soldier not a bureaucrat, and you wouldn’t listen if I did lecture you. I just want peace for Germany and not to die in a mushroom cloud. And I want you. And here you are. Let’s not talk about serious things right now.”
But I can’t let it go. Lying with him, being close to him like this, makes me want to understand him. “Anything for peace? Anything at all? The end justifies your means?”
He twists one of my curls around his finger. “Ja, Liebling, anything at all. And I don’t apologize for that.”
I shake my head again, because I’ve just questioned the entire power structure and ideology of East Germany to a Stasi officer, and he’s lying here, supremely unruffled. “I can’t believe you let me talk this way. Aren’t you going to lock me up?”
He pretends to consider this. “Not just now. I enjoy you too much. Come here.”
Pulling me closer he kisses me, and then rolls me beneath him. He watches me for some time, eyes speculative. “Know this, meine Liebe. If you ever get away from me I will tear West Berlin apart looking for you. I will tear West Germany apart. I hope you know that I can, and that I will. Nothing short of death will keep me from coming for you.”
His eyes have hardened and turned gray. I don’t reply, and seeming satisfied he’s made his point he kisses me and lies down, his heavy arm over my waist. I watch his face, softened by slumber. The curve of his mouth. The slight indentation on his long, straight nose.
Here is my remarkable man, just as vital, handsome and strong as I’d always hoped he’d be, but presented to me in the shape of my enemy. Could he tear West Germany apart looking for me? Could his spies find me even in the West? If he’s telling the truth it means that to escape him once and for all I will have to bring him down. Otherwise I will never be free.
Meine Liebe. My love.
When I was a teenager I used to ride the Berlin Ringbahn, the overground train that circled the city, sometimes for hours at a time. I would get on and watch the roads and buildings slip by, the steel lines caring nothing for borders or permits. You are now entering the American Zone, came the tinny announcement. You are now entering the Free Zone. Caution: you are now leaving the Free Zone. I used to savor the sensation of plunging headlong into another world and then out of it again, over and over. I was at home in this zone, a foreigner in that one, but how powerful I felt that I could bear this becoming and unbecoming dozens of times a day.
The lines are broken now and the trains run sad little semi-circuitous routes on their own sides of the city. But I remember the rush that came from being propelled from one world to the next, and I feel it again as I slip from Reinhardt’s bed into the silence of the hall.
Except now I don’t savor it. I’m not a girl riding the Ringbahn but a woman walking the tightrope of the Berlin Wall, a sheer drop on either side, and at any moment I may plunge to my death.