Berlin Letters, page 18
Bran sets down his fork. “Now we’ve got tapes, even video, coming out almost every day, smuggled out in the trunk of a car, or in the steering column or some such place, and we shoot it back in through the airwaves. But it wasn’t like that in the sixties or most of the seventies. It was your dad. That made both your dad and your granddad vital to the public’s understanding of what was going on over there. You can’t underestimate the significance of that.”
I drop my hands to my lap. I see the bandage still circling my right hand. I remember Oma’s care and feel I can and should forgive my Opa’s secrets. My head, heart, stomach, even my arms sag, overwhelmed and heavy.
Bran continues to share stories of my grandfather and their talks over the years, and it’s as much a story of friendship as it is of passing information. It makes me realize that while I didn’t know this aspect of my grandfather’s life, I did know him. I laugh at Bran’s spot-on impressions of Opa’s grouchy exclamations when someone didn’t listen well enough and his deep belly chuckle when something struck him as funny.
Bran ends his stories with another fork wave to my salad. “Eat up. I suspect you’ll need the energy.”
I finally take another bite, right as he asks a question.
“Leaving all that aside for a minute. Humor an old man. How’d you find the letters?”
Between bites, I tell him about the space under my floorboards and about all the riddles and ciphers Opa created for me as a kid. “He was always preparing me, for my job and for this. I didn’t know that, of course, but I’m beginning to suspect I’ve wasted a whole year by not finding the letters or catching on sooner.”
“You can’t think that way. We can all get lost with could-haves and should-haves, and they are dead ends.” He quirks a small sideways smile. “Walther bet me a beer once that I couldn’t crack one of your dad’s letters. It’s the only one I ever saw. We sat at a picnic table for two hours with me racking my brains over that thing and him smirking the entire time.”
Bran nods as if anticipating my next question. “This was after he stopped bringing you to play chess. He was afraid you were getting old enough to notice more than the chess and would start asking questions. Anyway, I never did find a thing odd within that letter, and Walther even gave me his word-for-word decryption to set next to it. My German’s not that good, but still the letters were right next to each other. I should’ve found something. That day cost me a beer and a little pride.”
I laugh. I can see Opa’s smirk and that glint in his eyes. He was close to that challenging with me as a kid. “That’s because you didn’t grow up cracking codes to find your birthday gifts. But don’t feel bad; even I have never seen anything like these letters.”
We talk on and soon I’m able to relax enough to finish my lunch. I find I’m actually hungry.
As we stand in the lobby to say a final farewell, Bran pulls me into a hug and whispers close to my ear, “There’s a letter from 1982.”
I stiffen.
“That’s the one.” I feel him nod against my cheek. “Burn it. Don’t let Cademan know you’ve read it. He’ll think Walther destroyed it, and that’s for the best.”
I step back and make a decision. “Could you wait here? For just a minute. Please?”
Bran looks confused and concerned. “Yes.”
I run to my car and unlock it from the passenger side. I rarely use this door and the key doesn’t slide in the lock easily. I yank open the door and pull my bag from underneath the passenger seat. Resting it on the seat, I sort through the manila folder and slide out the 1982 letter and my notes. I shove those under the seat. I then tuck the other pages back inside the folder, lock the car, and dash back to the club’s main entrance.
Upon entering, I gesture to Bran and head straight for the library in which we ate lunch. Though our table is now cleared, no one else is in the room. The double doors shut behind us before I hand him the folder.
He takes it, but he doesn’t open it. He taps the folder against his other hand. “The letters. You’re going to Berlin, aren’t you?”
“I have to. Would you please take that to Andrew? It isn’t breaking any trust or confidentiality agreements. You already know everything that’s in them. Though, at your suggestion just now, I did remove the problematic 1982 letter.”
“I can’t endorse this plan, Luisa.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m simply asking you to take the letters to Andrew. The rest is on me. Please.”
He presses his lips into a long, thin line, and I wonder if he has granddaughters of his own. Finally, he nods. “I’ll call Fichman and make him meet with you. It’s the only way I know to help.”
“Thank you.” I turn to leave and spin back. “One more favor, if you don’t mind. Give me tonight. Andrew isn’t expecting that file until tomorrow morning. I need until then.”
“Tomorrow morning then. And when you get back, I get the story.”
I smile. “Yes, sir.”
Chapter 17
Tuesday, November 7, 1989
Emptying one’s bank account is both easier and harder than one might expect. Emptying one’s grandmother’s bank account, however, is gutting.
That’s part of the plan I didn’t tell Bran. I am taking money—all the money. Perhaps I really can find someone who, for about twenty-five thousand dollars, as that’s all I can gather, will help me. I didn’t tell him because he wouldn’t support that. Who could? Other than a few of Opa’s stocks that can’t be sold immediately, I am stealing my grandmother’s financial security. The security I promised to protect. And for what? I’m not even sure. Bribes that will go nowhere? Perhaps. Money seized by guards at a checkpoint? Maybe. I just know that if I don’t do something, don’t try every angle possible, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
With the money tucked deep into my canvas bag, I head to the next part of my plan. A military surplus store.
I wander the aisles. I have no idea how large my father is. I don’t know his height or his weight. Only his age. And fifty-eight is indicative of nothing. I start to make assumptions. Oma says I’m built like my mom. Petite. Five foot seven. But I’ve seen pictures of my mom and get the impression she was slightly taller, more willowy, almost fragile looking.
Therefore my father probably isn’t a tree. I’m guessing no taller than five-eleven. And he’s been in an East German prison for over six months. He’s got to be thin.
I reach for a generic olive-green American service uniform and the salesperson confirms it’s for “average height, average build.” I pay her and drive to my next and last stop.
The travel agent gawps. “You want to travel to West Berlin? Tonight?” She glances above my head. “It’s already five o’clock.”
I force myself to nod. One might think emptying the bank accounts would make this real, or buying a military uniform for my father to wear as we walk across Checkpoint Charlie, but it’s actually this moment. I have never purchased a ticket nor have I ever flown on a plane. I’ve rarely ventured beyond Virginia—one trip, actually, to Disney World in Orlando, Florida, when I was ten.
But despite that, I do have a passport. I’ve had it since I became a naturalized American citizen at eighteen. Opa marched me into the post office and paid for me to get a passport as soon as the paperwork came in. When I asked why I needed one, as we traveled nowhere and I was going to college nearby, he simply replied, “Because you can. Never take for granted that you can go anywhere you choose at any time.” So when it expired three years ago, I renewed it.
The travel agent’s hands fly over her keyboard. “Only Lufthansa flies to Tegel now that Pan Am has pulled back.” She taps her huge monitor. Her nails click against the glass. “You’re in luck. There are two flights tonight.” She looks up to one of the several clocks on the wall again. This time I twist to see what she’s staring at. Each displays a different time zone and features a small placard. London. Paris. Rome. Mexico City. Washington, DC. Berlin.
“You’ll never make the 7:00 p.m.”
Two hours from now. “Are you sure?”
“Considering you need to be at the airport at least an hour before an international flight? Yes.” She peers over the top of her glasses at me before returning her focus to her computer monitor. “There’s a 9:00 p.m. If we work super-fast, we can make that work. Do you have your passport?”
“Not with me.”
“Don’t forget it. They’ll need it at the airport and you’ll need to be there at least two hours early since I can’t input that information now. When are you coming back?” Again, her fingers fly.
“I don’t know. I—”
She cuts me off with a wave of red nails. “We’ll leave your ticket open-ended. You’ll have to see a travel agent when you’re over there or call the airline directly, but you don’t need to know that date right now.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“Alright. I need a check.” She fills out a form and passes it to me. I gulp at the price.
“Cash.” My voice cracks. “Do you accept cash?”
“You have that much cash on you?” Her neon-shadowed eyes bulge. “Yes. We take cash.”
I reach into my bag and pull out the amount. She takes it and walks to another desk to make change. She returns, hands me my change, then after a few more clicks, she prints my tickets.
“Try to get there around 7:00 p.m. if you can, okay?” One full eyebrow lifts in concern. “And good luck, honey.”
“Thank you.”
Now to head home . . .
I find Oma sitting on a small stool in the backyard. She isn’t poking at her garden or planting more seeds. She is merely sitting.
Looking at her, I’m swamped with guilt over all I’ve never understood, over what I’ve done and what I’m about to do. I find myself gripping my bag to my side as if her Superman vision can see straight through the canvas.
“Are you okay?” I stand in front of her.
“I am tired today.” She looks up at me, and I sense she feels more sad than tired. But sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. Her eyes drop to my hands and she reaches out.
With infinite care, she looks at the fingertips of my left hand and the still-wrapped palm of my right. There was no keeping bandages on the fingertips, and they are fine without them. The skin is still swollen, red, and incredibly tender to the touch, but the salve has kept the blisters from bursting. They and the pain have diminished to the point I barely notice them.
She lifts an edge of the gauze across my right palm. That hand is not as far along in the healing process. “It is much better now.” She looks to me. Her eyes are filled with sadness. “This has not been good between us. None of this is good.”
“I know, Oma, and I’m really sorry.” I sit on the edge of one of her raised garden beds. The brick makes for enough of a perch that I can balance. “It’s going to be okay. I promise it will.” I wait a moment, then realize I don’t have any time to wait. “But not yet.”
She tilts her head up, but before she can speak, I press on. “I need to go on a short trip and I’m going to ask Aunt Alice to come stay with you.”
“Why would you do that?” Her tone hardens. “I am perfectly capable.”
“I agree, but I’m still going to call her. Please, I need to do this for me.” I kiss her cheek and head up the stairs and into the house before she can protest further or ask any questions.
I don’t want to lie to her. There have been too many of those. But I can’t tell her the truth either. I can’t tell her I am going to the one place on earth that still terrifies her, to save the one man she’s not sure she can trust—after all, it’s only been a day since, I think, she loathed Haris Voekler—and I certainly can’t tell her that I’m probably breaking a whole lot of rules—and not for the Labor Department.
Furthermore, I don’t know what will happen. I could be back in a couple of days, but if I’m not or if something bad does happen—after I lose all our money—I need Aunt Alice here. I need to know Oma will be okay, and I sense on some level Alice needs it too. She needs to be okay and she’s not yet. Opa kept secrets from me, yes, but he actually kept Alice living a lie too. That seems a high price to pay for a teenager who was only trying to save her sister.
As I walk up the stairs, I realize Oma hasn’t called me back and she hasn’t followed me. I feel another twinge of guilt. I’ve defeated my irrepressible Oma.
I unplug the phone from the hallway and replug it in my room like I used to do in high school. I press the buttons to dial Aunt Alice and hope she’s home from school. As it’s five thirty, she just might be.
She answers on the first ring but isn’t so quick to say yes to my request.
“Please. I don’t want her to be alone.”
“But I don’t understand why. What aren’t you telling me, Luisa?” she asks softly.
I hear it in her voice. A plea to be honest, to tell the truth, and to trust her. “I’m going to Berlin to find my father. I may have to cross into the East and—”
She releases a soft gasp. “I’ll be right over. Do what you need to do and I’ll take care of Mama.”
“Thank you. I’m packing now. I’ll be gone before you arrive.”
“Then be safe—and, Luisa?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
I hang up the phone and pull my suitcase from the back of my closet, and after folding the uniform inside the Dr. Scholl’s shoebox, I set both into the suitcase. The box takes up most of the space, so I fill the little remaining with only a couple shirts, a wool skirt, tights, underwear, and an extra sweater. While I don’t know for certain, I expect November in Berlin will be much colder than it is here in DC.
I open the door to grab my toiletries from the bathroom and find Oma standing right outside my door.
“Where exactly are you going, Luisa?”
Chapter 18
Tuesday, November 7, 1989–Wednesday, November 8, 1989
I board the plane and find my seat. It’s a window seat in a row of three. There are four seats in the middle and another row of three on the far side of the plane. I’m a little unnerved by the sheer size of it all. How is something this massive going to fly across the ocean?
I settle into my corner and shove my canvas bag under the seat in front of mine. I can’t let it out of my reach, even though looking at it makes me feel ill. With a foot pressed firmly on it, I close my eyes.
One thought shines through darkened lids. I have stolen from Oma. I have taken everything Opa left her for her future. I have taken everything from those who gave everything for me. Despite the hidden truths, lies, and secrets of these last few days, that fact remains—my grandparents raised me and gave me every opportunity and every bit of love that was in their power to give.
I open my eyes and hold my hand out in front of me. Still burned, still pink, and still tender, I am no longer angry about my hands or about Oma trying to burn the scrapbook. Bran helped me understand her better. He helped me understand a lot of things better. They are healing. They will be fine. And they are shaking. I clench them into my lap once more.
I try to eat the meal they offer. I try to watch the movie Working Girl playing on the drop-down ceiling screen four rows ahead. I try to sleep. I try a lot of things during the eleven-hour flight, but nothing separates my mind from those initial thoughts.
I check my watch as the flight lands. It’s 2:00 p.m. Berlin time, which makes it 8:00 Wednesday morning in DC. Right now or within a few minutes from now, Bran will call Andrew. And before two words are said, Andrew will know what I’ve done and where I am. He’s not stupid. Then he’ll fire me, if not charge me with who knows what. So if I’m not incarcerated, I’ll be asoziales Verhalten, as Opa called it. Criminally antisocial.
Opa had lived almost twenty years in the States when I graduated college, yet he was so scared I wouldn’t find a job it made him sick. Unemployment carried dire consequences in East Germany. In the US, now that I’ve blown my savings and all of Oma’s retirement money, it’ll have dire consequences for me too. There I go—full circle again.
The plane pulls to the gate and the race begins.
I follow the crowds through West Berlin’s Tegel Airport and security. Once outside, I follow the people around me again to the taxi stand and head to the only monument I can name, the Brandenburg Gate. I drew a picture of the eighteenth-century neoclassical monument for a tenth-grade report. All I can recollect as the taxi driver zips through the city streets is that it is located in central Berlin and is presently trapped within the Buffer Zone, or the Death Strip as it’s commonly called.
The cab pulls to the edge of Tiergarten Park, and I am shocked by what’s before me. The Wall is nothing like what I’ve imagined. Somehow on television it seems smaller and less imposing. I always thought it a little stark in its height and strength, and interesting with its colors, paintings, and graffiti. But up close it looms larger, more solid and obdurate, and you can sense the living anger in the art. Anger that doesn’t translate, I suppose, across an ocean and television pixels.
I carry my suitcase and head west from the park deeper into West Berlin’s central district. The city bustles with energy. The cars that zip past are smaller than at home, and the noise from their exhausts reverberates off the buildings at a higher pitch. There is a faint whiff of industry about me. I can’t tell if it’s gas, coal, or bakery goods, but the city smells different than DC.
