A Night Divided

  "There's something more I have to tell you," Fritz said. "And Mother doesn't know about this part so don't say a word to her about it."

  "I won't." It wasn't the first secret we'd kept from her.

  "They showed me a huge file they're still keeping on Father. Before he left, the Stasi documented everything about him: where he went after work, who his friends were, even what newspapers he brought back from the west when he visited there. They never found anything serious he had done, but were sure it was just a matter of time before they had a reason to arrest him."

  This wasn't a surprise. Papa had told me the same thing himself, and we'd had the visits from Stasi agents to our apartment. Papa knew he was being tracked because of his part in the uprising, and because he continued to speak to others who wanted more uprisings in the future. But he never committed any crimes or incited anyone to violence. Papa wasn't a violent man, just a thoughtful one.

  Fritz continued, "Then they showed me another file, one with my name on it."

  I stopped walking to stare at him. "Why? What have you done?"

  "Nothing! Or at least, I didn't think I had. But they know Papa is in the west now and so they're watching to see if he contacts me, or if his friends do. Maybe one day I'll happen to bump into someone who used to know him. If anyone even asks about Father, someone is bound to hear it and then that report will go into my file."

  "Well, if you haven't done anything wrong, then they can make your file as big as they want. If you obey all the rules, everything will be fine, right?" I looked over, hoping to see him agree with me. "Isn't that right, Fritz?"

  But he shook his head and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "They told me what the file means. I've been branded a potential enemy of the state. It doesn't matter to them if I've done anything wrong. They just figure I will, one day. With that file, I won't be allowed to go to a university, or to get a good job. By the end of June, I'll be old enough for the military, and before they put a gun in my hand, that file means I'll get special training until they're sure I believe the way they do. Once I wear their uniform, I'll get the most dangerous assignments, the ones few people survive. That file means I have no chance in life, none. They've already determined that I will fail."

  "All because of Papa?" I asked. "None of that's your fault!"

  "I'm not blaming him," Fritz said. "I smuggled in that Beatles record and that banana on your birthday, and other stuff you don't know about. Nothing bad, but nothing I'd want to get caught with either. They must've heard me complain about the government every night on their microphones, and I've never made it any secret that I don't want to join the military. My file might've started because of Father, but I'm the one who's been filling it."

  "Well, I won't let you fail," I said stubbornly. "If you can't get a job, then you'll live with me. If they brainwash you, then I'll talk you out of it when you come home. Whatever they do to you, Mama and I will be there to help."

  Fritz rubbed the top of my head with his hand. Usually, I hated that, but not this time. It was his way of showing affection, and I wanted that comfort from him now. Then he sighed and said, "You don't understand how bad it is, Gerta. They have a file on you too."

  A thought, even a possibility, can shatter and transform us. -- Friedrich Nietzsche, German philosopher

  To my surprise, Anna was at school that day, but her eyes were red and she made a point of keeping herself apart from everyone. I tried to talk with her at lunch, but she asked me to go away. When I looked back, she was crying again.

  Inside, I felt just as awful, but for more reasons than I could count. It broke my heart to look at Anna and know how she must be collapsing inside. The other kids whispered about her until I threatened them. Even if it cost me a detention to protect her, I would follow through on my threats if necessary. Besides, what did I care? The Stasi already had a file on me. What did it matter if disorderly conduct in school was added to the list of my supposed crimes?

  Other than the threats to Anna's gossipers, I spent every free minute of that day reviewing details of my life that might somehow qualify for a file. What had I done?

  Every time we walked home, my eyes did inevitably wander to the wall in the west. The Grenzer had used his rifle to warn me of the consequences for that. But was it a crime to see what the rest of East Berlin so effectively ignored?

  I was a member of the Pioneers, but not an enthusiastic one. I wore the uniform when it was required, but mine was never as crisp or smooth as the other kids', nor did I want it to be. That was it, then -- wrinkled clothes. My secret rebellion.

  Then at night when we listened to Beatles music, Fritz spoke of his frustrations with our lives, and I always joined in. Often it was just jokes about the daily inconveniences of living in such a closed-off world, and the way the government paraded its few successes around like fine art hung in a crumbling room. Sometimes we weren't joking, though. Sometimes we genuinely resented the life we were forced into. I could admit that.

  But was it a crime to feel that way? Everyone complained now and then. Surely I had done nothing all that wrong.

  In fact, the only crime I could be sure of having committed was having been born the daughter of Aldous Lowe. If Papa had once created trouble for the government, then apparently that was enough to convict me as well. For my file proved there had a been a trial of my loyalty to the GDR, and at twelve years old, I was already found guilty.

  After school, Anna left so quickly that I wondered if she had somehow snuck out early. So I gathered my books and coat and flew out the door behind her.

  I caught up to her as she hurried along the sidewalk, marching home as if the devil were at her back, with her head down and shoulders slumped over. Even from here, I felt the pain she was experiencing, as real as if I could touch it. Seeing her ache made me hurt too. I couldn't help but think of what I'd be going through if Fritz had not returned home last night either.

  "I'm so sorry, Anna," I said. "It must --"

  "Don't you dare apologize!" She swerved on me with a rage I'd never before seen in her. Her eyes blazed and her mouth was curled in an ugly snarl. "Your family knew what Peter was going to do. Why didn't you stop him? Why didn't you tell me?"

  I stepped back, caught off guard by her words. "We -- I -- he'd already left when I found out," I stammered. "And he didn't want you to know because he didn't want you to be in trouble afterward."

  "Well, we are, and you could've at least warned us!" she said. "My parents told us to stay away from you and your family. They knew how you are. But Peter and I always insisted you were good people, that you didn't cause problems like your father did. We were wrong. You're just as bad as he was!"

  "Don't speak about my father!" I snapped. "If Peter tried to leave, that was his doing and no one else's. My father had nothing to do with that, and neither did anyone else in my family."

  She stiffened as if I had slapped her. "They told us people would lie about their involvement, to save themselves. Peter broke the law when he left, Gerta, just as your father did when he left. You ought to be ashamed of him, just as I have to be ashamed of Peter now."

  "My father loves Germany, and he hates what's happened to us. I'm not ashamed to feel the same way. Why are you listening to the Stasi?"

  "I have to." Tears filled her eyes. "They could take my parents away for this, Gerta. Throw them in prison, or worse. What would happen to me then?"

  I wanted to hug her and take the pain away, but I only stood there, feeling useless yet again. No, the state hadn't taken my father, but they were certainly the reason he couldn't come home. At least I still had my mother.

  "No matter what, I would always help you," I said. "The state can't take our friendship away."

  "Yes, they can." Anna bit on her lip a moment before she continued. "To stay out of prison, we must prove our loyalty, and your family is ... well, your father anyway ... Gerta, we can't be friends anymore."

  And she ran off down the street, on a road that
led the long way to her home. That's how eager she was to get away from me.

  I felt like a disease. Just as my father had infected me, I could now infect others. But with what? Courage to speak out? To act? To think and question and believe what I wanted to believe? Somehow I lived in a world where these were bad things.

  A little way farther down the road, I happened to look up to the platform in the west. And although he had not been there that morning, my father was there now. He stood up straight as if he had been waiting for a while, knowing I would eventually pass by. When he saw he had my attention, he started into his dance again and then went back to the motions of shoveling.

  I turned away from him down another street, on a road that was the long way to my home too. Away from the disease.

  Wherever they burn books they will also, in the end, burn human beings. -- Heinrich Heine, German poet

  Over a week later, Anna still wasn't speaking to me. "She blames us for what Peter did," I said to Fritz as we walked to school. "It's like we're not even friends anymore."

  "You're not." Fritz spoke sharply at first, then drew in a deeper breath. "Just be patient, Gerta. Their family is in a lot of trouble."

  "But that's not my fault!"

  "You don't know what it's like to face the ... Stasi." Even after a week, he hesitated before naming them, and I wondered if the bruise they'd given him was nothing compared to other wounds that maybe couldn't be seen. "Anna understands it now. If they told her to avoid our family, then that's what she's going to do. It's her only choice, really."

  "If they told you to avoid me, would you?" I asked him.

  Fritz just chuckled and rubbed my head. "Avoid you? Don't be silly. You and Mama are the only reasons I'm still here!"

  I laughed along with him, but not really. I knew a part of him had meant exactly what he said.

  In the days since coming back from the Stasi, something about Fritz had changed. He was working fewer hours, or maybe not even working at all, I wasn't sure. He blamed his mood on the rainy spring weather, but I felt certain there was more to it. He was spending more evenings at the youth clubs, playing table tennis, and had gone to the theater on a couple of nights with his friends, even though he admitted the movies weren't much for entertainment. I did notice him combing his hair more carefully before he went out. Maybe he had a girlfriend. I hoped she liked moodiness, because that was also part of the new Fritz.

  Since I didn't have Anna for company, and since I figured making friends with anyone else would just infect them too, I took up reading and went through books so quickly that the librarian said she wondered if I would end up reading all the books the library contained.

  I doubted that. I made it a point to avoid the books that sounded too preachy, although I did check them out now and then in case the Stasi wanted to add my book choices to their secret files. And there weren't many books I really wanted to read anyway -- a lot of shelves that had once been filled were empty now. Because books make people think. The GDR wanted to be sure it was their kind of thinking.

  Mama seemed to like the idea of me reading, since she knew I would be safe at home while she was at work. And she definitely liked Fritz doing more with his friends. She thought it meant we would eventually become more settled into our lives here. Mama still didn't know anything about the files -- both Fritz and I had decided that wouldn't do her any good. Nor did she understand that I had too much of my father in me to ever be settled in my life here.

  I was so much like him, in fact, that I hoped he would understand why I avoided the route to and from school that would take me past the platform. I figured if the Stasi were watching us, the worst thing was for them to see my father up there dancing out the lyrics to a song while I tried to figure out what it meant.

  I wasn't even sure if I wanted to figure it out. Whatever secret he buried before he left, I doubted it was worth the risk of digging it up. Our family didn't need any more trouble, and that was all we'd get if I did understand his dance.

  By mid-May, the whispers of summer were growing. School would be out soon, we'd have time to run and play like children should, and the weather was becoming so perfect that it felt like torture to be inside.

  Which was exactly my attitude late one afternoon as the temperature in the apartment became unbearably warm. I had opened the windows, and the breeze was perfect enough that I put on my shoes to go outside. Mama didn't like me to wander alone on the streets while she was gone, but this was the middle of the day. I felt perfectly safe.

  I had just finished buckling up my shoes when I heard a scuffle going on in Herr Krause's apartment next door. He wasn't alone. Something was wrong.

  Through the thin walls of our apartments, I heard him cry out for help and I darted into the hallway. I wasn't exactly sure what I should do, but there were always people down on the street. Perhaps I could run downstairs and bring someone back to help him.

  He cried out again and then something crashed against the door. "Hold on," I yelled. "I'll get the police!"

  His door opened and Herr Krause collapsed onto the floor in the hallway. His head was bleeding and he was groaning. Two men followed him through the doorway and grabbed him by the shoulders.

  "We are the police," one of them snarled at me. "Go back inside."

  No, they were Stasi. Their greenish-gray uniforms and the square-and-compass emblem on their hats were dead giveaways to their identity. The question was why they had come for our neighbor.

  "What has he done?" The question fell from my mouth before I could think better of it. Surely they had made a mistake. Herr Krause wouldn't swat a fly without feeling guilt. But they began dragging him away without answering.

  Two more Stasi left his apartment next. The smaller of them pushed past me to clear the way for his companion, who was carrying an armful of books, papers, and what appeared to be rubber stamps. It was a child's play set -- I used to have one just like it, in fact -- so I couldn't think of any reason Herr Krause should have it, or why the Stasi would be interested if he did.

  Unless ... it wasn't being used for play.

  A gust of wind came from my open apartment door and blew into the hallway. It caught a few papers from the officer's hands and scattered them on the ground. Without thinking, I reached down to help pick them up. Sure enough, the printing on them was stamped with a message that looked as if it had been hand carved into the stamp.

  IF I CANNOT SPEAK WHAT I THINK, THEN IT'S A CRIME JUST TO BE ME!

  Despite its promises of a free press, the state controlled all printing machines and wrote the stories for the newspapers to publish. No citizen was allowed to write his own ideas if they differed from the state message, and certainly it was against the law to distribute those writings.

  But that's exactly what Herr Krause had done. He had carved a political message into children's toy stamps and in so doing had risked years of imprisonment. From what I knew of Stasi prisons, there would be no public trial and he would have no opportunity to defend himself. His interrogators would stop at nothing before he signed a confession for whatever crimes they decided he had committed.

  In effect, Herr Krause's life was already over.

  "Give me that paper," the shorter officer ordered me. Something about him seemed familiar, though I couldn't quite place him.

  "Let her read it!" Herr Krause shouted from the end of the hallway. "Why is the GDR so afraid of letting its people think?"

  But the officer shoved me against the wall, and in the moment when our eyes met, I whispered, "I know you." He was a friend of Fritz's, or used to be years ago. When I was very young he used to ride me around on his back like a pony. Didn't he remember that? Didn't he know me too?

  He reached for the paper, but for some reason I clutched it to my chest. He raised a hand and slapped me hard across the cheek. I gasped as it knocked the breath from me too, then someone shouted, "That's my sister. Please stop!"

  Suddenly, Fritz was at my side. He apologized to the
officers, then grabbed the paper from my hand. When Fritz went to give it to the officer holding me, his eyes widened. "Viktor?"

  That was his name, I remembered it now. Viktor clearly recognized my brother too. But in an instant, his expression hardened again and his grip on my shoulder tightened.

  Fritz reached out a hand to me but Viktor wasn't loosening his hold. I shuddered inside. Was I going to be arrested too?

  Fritz's voice remained calm. "Viktor, let her go ... for the sake of our friendship."

  "Finish with the girl and come!" Viktor's companion called.

  After a final squeeze on my shoulder, he shoved me toward Fritz and said, "The Stasi have no friends. You'll be joining us soon. You'll find out."

  Once they left, Fritz hauled me into our apartment and locked the door behind us.

  "What were you thinking?" he yelled.

  "I heard Herr Krause calling for help! Printing a paper can't be such a bad crime, is it?"

  "It's not up to us to determine his crimes, or to help him." Fritz slumped onto the couch, closed his eyes, and massaged his temples as if a sudden headache had come on. In a quieter voice, he said, "Viktor and I used to be friends. He was a good guy ... once."

  I sat beside Fritz, feeling as exhausted as he looked. "Is that what'll happen to you, after you go to the military?"

  Fritz only sat up and stared blankly back at me. "Yes. I think it's exactly what will happen."

  Do not rejoice in luck, do not hesitate in the storm.

  -- German proverb

  Fritz and I agreed we shouldn't tell Mama about Herr Krause's arrest and the trouble I'd nearly gotten into there. She seemed happier lately, and neither of us wanted to ruin it for her.

  "We're in a routine again," Mama often said at dinner. "That is good."

  But the routine was starting to wear on me. And something about reading the stamped message from Herr Krause made me want to see my father again. It seemed like something Papa would've said if he were here.

  The next morning, I looked for him as I approached the crowded platform -- it was a Saturday, only a half day of school for us, but my least favorite day to walk there because of the western tourists who often came to the wall on the weekends. They took pictures, brought their binoculars, and stared into our world as if we either needed or wanted their pity. I hated that they watched helplessly but did nothing for us.