Made Men (9 page)

B
y 10:30
AM
they stood inside
Wolfgang Bähr’s apartment. His belongings seemed meager for one who’d played
god. An old, green telephone with no dial tone propped up some books on a
shelf. Near a stark window, which enjoyed neither shades nor drapery, sat an
easel. A terrible oil painting had been started: a rendition of the Berlin
Wall. Pencil marks indicated the dead man’s vision, though the direction he’d
chosen was bleak and worse—unimaginative.

Had he wanted to paint because the
Fürher did?

None
of his mess hinted at talent.

He’d temporarily excelled as a liar.
An ephemeral skill.

Rickard
thought the loose flakes of paint on the walls held more allure. Meandering
along just outside, the Berlin Wall had grown considerably since Bähr had
marked up the squandered canvas.

Dried
meat, cans of beans and fatty pork were in a cupboard. Ryker found a canister
of teargas in a kitchen drawer, behind some mismatched cutlery, and tucked it
inside the oiled leather bag.

Only
Wolfgang’s clothes were there—no signs of romantic occupancy. They
inspected the man’s shaving supplies and cleaning liquids then his
refrigerator. Inside were few and sour contents; they fed anyway. Small and
battered, a trunk of letters and photographs was the most interesting.
Everything else seemed second rate. A dusty television sat on a rickety stand.
The floor was warped and buckled. Two coats they had seen and a hat they had
not hung on mismatched hooks. The electricity was off. A ring of many keys hung
on one wall.

They
took it.

Walking
the hallways, they listened and observed. Many people lived in the building,
but their ring of keys wouldn’t fit any of the doors. Creaking, the brown
stairs led back to the lobby. A man checked his mailbox with a small key. Ryker
searched the ring, finding one similar. Bähr’s mailbox was brass and full to
overflowing. They unloaded it by handfuls, stuffing the stacks in the bag with
the Luger and teargas. Finding a locked door beneath the staircase nearby,
Rickard
clicked
. His brother joined
him … a faint outline of light-blue paint framed the keyhole. Ryker purred,
flipping rapidly through the keys.

One had a smudge of blue.

Turning
the lock, they regarded the space. It was an access to plumbing with bundles of
wires along one wall.

Why the rug?

Rickard
pulled up one corner. Beneath lay a locked trapdoor, a yellow smudge on the
metal. They found the key and lifted the hatch.

The stairs looked familiar.

Switches
for electric lights were spaced at the intervals humans expected. The tunnel
bent and narrowed beyond four government-green steel framed doors to their
right. In the narrower space, the block walls were earthen and dank. Slick, the
floor appeared clay, but the low ceiling was concrete. Near the end the passage
was so slim they walked single file.

The tunnel had been dug in this
direction.

Legs
of a wooden ladder were sunk into clay. At the top, another trap door dead
bolted shut.

Wiggling
the bolt loose, they opened the door. A blast of heat announced a water heater
and furnace.

Another maintenance
room.

The
rooms were bookends, more wiring and fuse boxes. Listening for movements, they
eased open the vertical door. A green smudge circled the keyhole outside. Down
a hallway, past more mailboxes they were, again, outside. A shadow hung below
the wall and loops of razor wire lay at its base. They had gone beneath the
barrier. Oddly, Rickard thought, he still felt free.

In East Berlin.

West Berlin, April 3
^rd
, 1962, 5:20
PM:

T
he
prickle was gone.

Fräulein Gitte’s enthusiasm
had peaked that morning as she studied paintings with the odd little boys. She
did, however, look forward to tomorrow. The librarian hoped the boys were real.
If she began to see woodland creatures hopping about, she
might
need
some help. “Imaginary friends,” Gitte mumbled to herself. “And
ghosts.”

What would her ghost trade for the
buttery lemon pastries she’d brought?

She
felt thankful for the distraction from the monster outside, the snaking …
ubiquitous … WALL. Afraid to see how high it had become since that morning, the
librarian was unable to shake the image of the falling workman.

Would the war’s legacy ever relent?

Were
each of them infected? Destined for a similar
fate? What of the man who had held the net? Was his family proud, or angry?
What had they been told? Since most of the world had moved on, why did Berlin
need to struggle?

Regarding
the wheeled cart, Gitte’s spirits sank. Most of the day she’d flipped glossy
pages, art folios—inspired by the boys. Eerie and quiet, the patrons had
sought escape today, ignoring the seats facing east. To many, books were old
friends: none of
whom
held answers to the problems
outside. Filled with anxious dread, Fräulein Gitte turned a volume over in her
hands.

If she waited too long, she may never
see her uncle again …
The
malignant barrier could
already have grown too high.

She
considered the thought. It hadn’t
grown
per se; people worked around the clock, now, to
build
it. That morning she’d seen people waving on tiptoes where
the attitude hadn’t been needed before. Others climbed things, even stood on
the roofs of cars to see their loved ones across the damned thing. She
swallowed hard.

She had to go.

Collecting
her purse and fresh undergarments, the sullen beauty walked with fallen
shoulders to the spot her uncle would search for her with his binoculars.

Already,
the structure blocked her view.

She’d known it would.

Workers
strung wire now across the top. Even the view stung—loop upon loop of
razors.

He couldn’t even know she was there. What
were others doing?

Gitte
felt her resolve swell. She was a survivor. Was she going to let a bit of
slapdash masonry bring her down?

No. She’d find a way.

As
though answering from above, disrupted pigeons cluttering a fire escape
announced themselves unpleasantly. Fire escapes became invisible when you
hadn’t need of one, but she saw them now. Peering up one contrivance, Gitte saw
that she wasn’t alone in her discovery. A girl near the top of the flimsy
egress telegraphed a message to someone with hand signals. It was an apartment
building. Gitte rounded the block to find the door then climbed a staircase to
hurry down a hall, past cooking smells and smoky stale rooms behind thin,
wooden doors. The window was already open, and she sat on a ledge to swing her
feet out.

There!

Her
uncle risked a brazen wave. Gitte waved back heartily, as though seeing off a
naval ship, or perhaps welcoming one back to port. Then blew defiant kisses. He
seemed distracted. Even at that height, the wall cut him off at the waist. She
waved madly—needing him to look at her—to acknowledge her bravery
and resourcefulness. For a moment, workers stringing wire blocked her view.
Shifting nervously, she waited for them to move,
then
caught a glance of his face in profile, but it appeared as though he was
talking to a child. Only the top half of a small, dark head was visible. A
voice behind startled her, and she grasped the railing with both hands.

“You
have discovered my best spot dear.” Gitte squeezed the railing rabidly,
prepared to defend the space, but softened when she saw an elderly Jewish woman
offering her something … an ancient pair of magnified opera glasses.
Thickly lined, her face was reassuring.
“We can take turns.”

Gitte’s heart banged in her throat.
Binoculars and telescopes
had become so expensive in Berlin that she couldn’t afford them. Forcing a
smile, unable to conjure words, she reached for the priceless relic. Peering
through the lenses she followed the edge of a building. There stood her uncle.
Waving cheerfully, he blew her a kiss,
then
was gone.

She just got there! Why did he leave?

Gitte
held out the glasses for the woman. “Thank you. I haven’t seen my uncle’s face
that clearly in over a year.”

“It’s
hard, dear. I know.” The old lady ignored the instrument. “I don’t venture out
on the ledge there. I just lean on the sill to look out.”

“For
whom do you search?” Gitte asked, immediately regretting the intimate question,
then stepped nearer—pressing the opera glasses against the woman’s
nearest hand, knobby and curled.

Still, she didn’t take them.

“I
just glance at the window my son waved at me from. He’s gone now, but I see the
place I last saw him.” A wistful smile perked the edges of her mouth. “I cry each
time. I can’t otherwise, so I visit this spot and weep for a bit, then go make
dinner. I live just there.” Bird-like, the woman pecked her head at a door
nearby, but kept her eyes on Gitte. She seemed terribly lonely. The exchange
felt choking and prophetic to the young woman.

She couldn’t wait to get away
.

“Thank
you again. I’m late for a dinner. I appreciate you sharing your spot.” Finally,
the elderly bird accepted the glasses. Gitte sat on the sill to gather her
skirt and swung her legs back into the hallway. The woman glanced past her, the
eyecups of the glasses pressed to her brow.

She had been beautiful once.

But
now cataracts danced, lit by a dim, bare bulb as though memories alighted there
on her old eye and Gitte imposed. As she turned to leave, the old woman touched
her arm and spoke in Yiddish and shoved the opera glasses back into her
unwilling hands. Gitte felt terrified she’d drop them. Her heart drummed in her
hears, and the woman’s voice sounded faint. “Blind yourself to that side of the
wall. Look west instead. Plant a hope that can grow. Dear, you still have a
chance at happiness.”

Shaking
free, Gitte covered her mouth. Tears poured. She hadn’t heard Ashkinazic speech
in years, but her reply came naturally, her voice sounding just like her
mother’s. “I’ve lost everyone. I can’t forget them. Berlin is where they are,
so I stay.”

“Don’t.”
Boomed the woman, like an oracle. “You can remember from anywhere. They expect
you to live … you can do both.” Then, like a pigeon, the woman turned on her
heels. She’d stepped behind her door before Gitte realized she still held the
glasses.

G
itte held her coffee
with shaky hands. The waitress brought a pastry also and dismissed the
librarian’s complaints with a shake of her head. She sipped slowly from the hot
cup and nibbled the crumbling gift as she ran a finger along the gold-colored
adornment on the finely crafted opera glasses.

What events had unfolded past these
lenses?
What dramas were acted … what real
tragedies?

The
young woman glimpsed about the room. Once more, she was the only solo diner. A
nearby couple cast a covetous glance at the Galilean binoculars and
guilt-ridden, she tucked them inside her purse, left a tip she couldn’t afford,
and made for home. The superintendent loomed at the top of the stairs, on a
short ladder. Dripping sweat in a slimy circle from around his waist, he leered
down her blouse as she passed. Gitte was tempted to ram him, send him over the
railing to his death. Instead, she clutched her collar tightly and held her
breath to avoid his stench.

Outside
her door, she fumbled.

Her keys didn’t look right.

She
couldn't find the one for her door.

That was all it took.

Face
buried deep in her hands, Gitte sobbed wetly, wilting against the doorjamb, no
place but her clothing to wipe away her tears. She imagined noises inside, but
had just seen her grubby landlord.

No one else would be inside.

Nonetheless,
Gitte leaned an ear against the wood. Her creaky chair was quiet, as was her
thin bed. Bare, her walls ignored her.
The voiceless radio
with the broken antennae.
Three skirts on wooden hangers, five blouses
hung on wire, the salvaged small table with two legs propped against the wall.
The table could hold two books, but not three—she had found—before
the legs slipped and it came crashing down.

She could not even join her meager
possessions.

Feeling
frail and lonely, she cried until her breath hitched. Odd as a dreamscape, the
door opened. Her uncle stepped out and lifted Gitte to her feet. Hugging her
aloft, her legs were sent swinging like a little girl. She felt his embrace,
but certainly, she’d lost it.

“Thank
you, Gitte. Oh, thank you, thank you. I knew you would find a way. I knew you
could!”

This was no dream.

She
could smell him! Gitte hugged back.

No. It couldn’t be real. She had finally
lost it. Insanity had sunk its teeth into her once and for all.

She
had suffered from fantasies in the camps, dreams too good to be real. This was
one of them.

Cooking for ghosts while fantasizing
about helping her uncle escape had tipped her, but while she was here, tipped,
she may as well enjoy the warmer details of her breakdown.

He
swept her inside and plopped her into the apartment’s only chair, the nearby
stove cluttered with pots. Gitte’s last living relative spoke. She looked but
did not see the object in front of her.

“…
and
he led me into a utility room. Then down a ladder, and I
slipped in some mud…” he threw his arms up dramatically, spatula in hand with a
bit of potato skin dangling and precarious above his head as he reenacted his
unlikely story “…and I couldn’t see a thing, but the boy seemed to be able to.
The tunnel widened. We climbed some stairs, and I
knew
we were under the wall. There was a trapdoor, Kikhl …” Gitte
had forgotten the endearment.

Kikhl
.
Yiddish for
Cookie.

Panes
of real things sparkled back at her from the mirage, as though she were trying
to see past a broken mirror. Dazzled by light, she rubbed at her eyes to clear
them. “…
another
door. Even the air smelled different.
Better, Kikhl.
And he brought me here and gave me the key,
and I sat and admired your painting for the longest time … I didn’t even know
you could paint! Do you keep cigarettes? I know you don’t smoke, and I
shouldn’t, and I will quit soon, but not now. Not today. I’m too excited. Have
you any?”

Gitte
registered what she had been staring at.

An oil painting.

Ten
thousand small needles visited her neck and scalp like excited centipedes
clopping sharp heels up the backs of each arm.

It
was a seated woman—the painting—who looked up and to her left, her
face reflected in a mirror. Two other figures looked on—ethereal,
undefined, and smaller. The face of the subject, Gitte’s
own
face, glowed. Precise smudges, collected as they were, spoke of
hope, happiness,
peace
. The vanity on which the mirror
in the painting sat was cluttered with food. Gingerbread and gumdrops, a bowl
of cream that whipped itself to fluff, the movement of the whisk captured
perfectly. There were brown eggs and smaller blue eggs, with baby robins
emerging.
Fruit and bright flowers.
A
roasted and plump, grease-beaded bird beneath glass.

Her
father’s youngest brother held a heaping spoonful out, hand cupped beneath, for
her to taste his starchy creation. Gitte opened her mouth like a girl receiving
medicine, but didn’t chew. She let her eyes drift over the masterpiece as the
salty, hot reibekuchen sat on her tongue.

“It’s
better than Vermeer’s work, Kikhl. You have an eye for light I’ve never seen.”
Her uncle’s voice was faint, though just inches
away. Gitte reached out to touch a painted pomegranate, cut so the seeds
spilled like rubies to reflect in the glass covering the roasted goose.

Still wet.