Puzzle People (9781613280126) (26 page)

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . .”

Stefan’s voice startled her, but she did not move. Stefan had been raised Roman Catholic, so he was well versed in the formalities of confession.

“I informed on my friends,” he said. “I betrayed my friends. Forgive me.”

Stefan spoke his confession out loud.

“I informed on my wife. Ex-wife, but you know that. Forgive me.”

Elsa put her right hand in her pocket.

“I spied on Katarina when she was a student in the East. Forgive me.”

Elsa felt for the gun. She wrapped her hand around it.

“I spied on Elsa when she was a student too. Forgive me.”

Elsa slowly extracted the gun from her pocket.

“I framed a minister, giving him gasoline for his car, gasoline that had been stolen, setting him up for an arrest. Forgive me.”

Elsa’s forefinger slipped over the trigger.

“I will speak the truth, and the truth shall set me free.”

Elsa raised the gun and pointed it at the opaque window that separated the confessor from the priest.

“For my penance, I will tell the truth. I will—”

Elsa closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. The silencer suppressed the expanding gas and the flash of the gun, creating a muffled spurt. The tiny glass window shattered, and Stefan grunted. He moaned, and she heard his body falling, hitting the floor with a sickening thud.

“Oh God . . . ,” Stefan groaned.

Elsa thought he would die instantly, but he wasn’t cooperating. She wanted to run, but she had to make sure he was dead. Then he began to speak directly to her—his killer.

“Who’s there? Why did you do this?”

Then Elsa heard thrashing and glimpsed frantic movements through the shattered window, and she wondered if he was trying to open the door. Or was he trying to kick it open? It sounded as though a wild animal was trapped inside a box. Then the thrashing stopped, and she heard panting and moaning and words, barely audible words, being gurgled out.

“Father, forgive me . . .”

She heard a grunt, a choking sound. She continued to fight the urge to run. She had to make sure that her secrets died. She never wanted to hurt Stefan. She really didn’t. She only wanted to kill his memories. She only wanted to destroy the information in his head. If she could blast a hole in his head and only obliterate those specific neural connections in his brain, she would.

Strangely fascinated, she listened to the sound of Stefan struggling, trying to get out. His movements became feeble, and then finally, they stopped entirely. Then she heard the death rattle, a final release of air, a gurgling of the saliva in the back of his throat.

Silence returned to the church.

Elsa stepped through the curtain of the booth and paused. She had to be sure that her secrets had died, so she put her hand on the confessional doorknob. When she opened the door, Stefan spilled out like a large sack. She didn’t want to touch the body, even to feel his pulse. She had gloves on her hands, but she didn’t want to run the risk of leaving any traces behind. But she had to be sure he was dead.

So she set the gun an inch from his forehead and closed her eyes. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Then the gun went off in a muffled burst and kicked backward in her hand, and she felt something spatter on her clothes.

She left through a side door, averting her eyes when she passed a statue of Jesus.

40

Berlin
September 2003

It was Annie’s favorite kind of meal. Dessert first. Kurt slid a heaping bowl of chocolate ice cream in front of her.

“Just like you like it,” he said. “A few seconds in the microwave to get the ice cream good and soft.”

“Kurt, you’re a gem. I love it.”

I love
it.
Annie still hadn’t said anything about loving
him,
and she certainly hadn’t made any comment about his impulsive declaration—“I love you too much.” With all that had been preying on her mind, the last thing she wanted to wrestle with were her feelings for Kurt. She was just thankful that he had moved beyond his anger over her snooping and had invited her over for a meal.

“So what do we do with it?” he asked. His eyes drifted to the edge of the table, where a single file folder lay. Inside this file was information pinning the murder of Stefan Hansel on Elsa Krauss. Annie had sneaked the folder out of the office at the end of the previous day.

“Should we take it to the police?” she asked.

“Legally, I don’t know if we have the right to do that. Perhaps we can go to an archive authority above Herr Adler.”

“But should we also report our suspicions about Herr Adler? The blackmail?”

“We really don’t have any proof.”

“Then we find proof.”

Kurt set aside his spoon. “I don’t like the idea of you taking another risk.”

If he said “I love you too much” again, Annie was going to scream. She spooned a mouthful of chocolate ice cream and let it melt on her tongue before swallowing.

After they had finished off their dessert first, Kurt proved that his cooking prowess the last time was not a fluke. He dished up another feast—Westphalian ham, white asparagus, and pumpernickel rye. Annie was impressed because she didn’t have the patience to follow recipes, although she was excellent at boiling water and cooking from boxes.

“This is probably too spicy for you, so you probably want to pass on the mustard,” he said, slathering his ham with the strong-smelling condiment. He had gone with the ham because it meant a minimum of exotic spices. No more currywurst for Annie.

Their talk drifted to less mysterious topics than espionage in the workplace. They talked about movies, books, and even recycling, of all things. Germans took their rubbish disposal quite seriously, with every block of apartments equipped with multicolored containers—yellow, blue, brown, and orange. The brown containers were for organic waste, so Kurt carefully sealed his scraps in special biodegradable bags.

Annie volunteered to lug three empty bottles to the glass-recycling bin; it would give her a chance to clear her head, for she still felt tense about everything that was happening at work and unfolding with Kurt. Strolling down the street toward the recycling bins, she could smell rain in the air, and she spotted lightning in the distance, illuminating the clouds from inside. Warm air was moving in, a turbulent mixture.

She also noticed a car parked nearby with several people inside, their faces in shadow. With all of the talk of eavesdropping and murder, her mind immediately went to spies and skullduggery, but she had seen too many movies. It was probably just people waiting to pick up a friend. She was being ridiculous.

After dropping off the glass in the recycling bin, the rumble of the approaching storm sent her scurrying back to the apartment. Large drops of rain began to pelt the sidewalk as she ducked through the gate leading to the courtyard. Annie thought about mentioning the people in the car to Kurt, but he would think she was being paranoid and melodramatic.

So they finished clearing the table and made their way to the couch, facing each other beneath the pictures of Clint Eastwood, John Wayne, and Solidarity’s version of Gary Cooper. The conversation remained light.

“How are your children?” Kurt asked.

“Matthew is pretty serious with his new girlfriend. Met her in his criminal justice program.”

“You must miss them.”

“I do. Because they’re in their twenties, I didn’t think I was going to miss any big milestones by being gone for a year. But I was wrong. Jenny and her husband are thinking of buying their first house. Real estate is booming in Phoenix, and they want to jump into the housing market.”

“A house with a yard. That would be nice for a perpetual renter like me. Do you think your children will visit you in Berlin?”

“Oh no, they couldn’t afford it. But we’ll be seeing each other next spring. It won’t be that long before I’m back home.”

Kurt’s expression sagged. She had already made it clear that she never planned to stay in Germany permanently, but now the reality was really settling in.

Annie took his hand. “You’ve made this last half a year in Germany so special.”

“And you’ve become very important to me. That’s why I wanted to talk to you tonight.”

Annie was so startled that she nearly jerked her hand back out of reflex, as if she was nipped by a dog. Surely he couldn’t be talking marriage. He must have picked up on the fact that she hadn’t responded to his “I love you too much.”

Kurt stroked the back of her hand. “There’s something you don’t know about me . . . something you
need
to know.”

It didn’t sound like a prelude to talk of marriage, and that was a relief. But Kurt seemed so serious, so sad.

“It’s about my past,” he said.

Annie’s mind immediately raced back to the warnings of Frau Holtzmann—the rumors. Some rumors contained a kernel of truth, and that worried her.

“After all of our talks, I didn’t know there was anything we hadn’t learned about each other.” She wasn’t sure why she said that. She knew perfectly well that Kurt had been holding back secrets.

He got up and moved toward the kitchen. “Before we talk, would you like something to drink? My mouth has gone very dry.”

“A glass of water would be nice.”

He left her sitting in suspense while he retrieved two glasses of water. When he returned, he didn’t sit back down on the couch, preferring to stand instead while he gulped his water. His hand was shaking.

“It’s about my parents,” he said, drifting over to the table where he displayed the small piece of the Berlin Wall.

“I see,” said Annie. She let him move at his own pace, holding back on any questions.

He set down his empty glass and picked up the piece of the Wall. Then he moved back to the couch and sat down. He ran his hand across the stone and didn’t say anything for what seemed like forever.

At last: “I killed my mother.”

Annie nearly dropped her glass.

He saw the horror in her eyes, and he quickly clarified. “I mean . . . I was responsible for her death, but I might as well have killed her myself.”

That’s a little bit different,
Annie wanted to say. “I thought your mother passed away in prison,” she said softly.

“That’s just it . . .” He squeezed the piece of the Wall in his hands, as if he was trying to crush it with his bare hands. His knuckles blanched white under the strain, and he didn’t make eye contact. He sighed.

“I put them in prison,” he said, choking up. Annie moved in closer, put a hand on his shoulder.

“How could that be? You were just a boy.”

He raised his head, but he still didn’t make eye contact. He looked up at the ceiling, over her shoulder. His eyes gleamed with restrained tears. He took a deep breath.

“It was me. I turned them in.”

Annie massaged his shoulder.

“I was a Young Pioneer. A good Pioneer. A dutiful Pioneer. My leader . . . he . . . what he did was sometimes ask about our parents. Things we watched on television. What we listened to on the radio. What we talked about at the dinner table.” Kurt’s voice began to crack. “I told him . . . I told my leader about my parents’ escape plan. It was all my fault.”

“It wasn’t. You were just ten years old, Kurt.”

“Old enough to know better.”

“That’s not true. How could you expect yourself to do what most adults couldn’t do?”

“They were
my parents
!”

For a second, Annie thought he was going to hurl the piece of the Wall across the apartment. Gently, she slid it out of his hands and placed it on the couch between them. Then she hugged him, and they leaned into each other with their heads buried on each other’s shoulders. She felt like a mother comforting a young boy, and in a way, she was. The young boy was in there, still frozen in a past that had solidified in his mind like the concrete of the Wall itself. What did they call it? “The Wall inside our heads.” Kurt still lived with the Wall inside his head.

He drew back and looked her directly in the eyes. “My parents tried to keep their plans a secret, but I overheard them. I was a little spy, and when I heard they were planning an escape, I was torn. But I knew my duty. I had been taught to put Homeland first. The Homeland was my mother, my father.”

Annie nodded her head.

“So I told my leader what they were planning—the escape they were planning. And almost immediately, I knew I had made a mistake. I wanted to warn them, but I was afraid to admit what I had done.”

“I would have been terrified too.”

“A warning wouldn’t have made a difference anyway. By evening, they were arrested.”

“That had to be the most horrible feeling.”

“It still is.” He put a trembling hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. Annie stroked the back of his head. “I had to make atonement,” he said. “I tried to make atonement.”

“You paid a steep price. You
have
atoned.”

“And it’s not enough. It’s never enough.”

“I understand. I do.”

As they fell back into an embrace, Annie’s eyes moved to the pictures above their heads. John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and Gary Cooper. She thought about the contrast between their silent, stoic characters and the wounded man in her arms. Perhaps that was their appeal for Kurt. Their impenetrable wall of strength.

“But you saw your father again . . .”

“Yes, when he was sold back to the West. I didn’t want to see him. I was afraid. Terrified, really.”

“When you saw him, did he know?”

He studied his hands as he answered. “You mean, did he know what I had done?”

Annie nodded.

“He knew, but he said it was his fault for all that had happened, not mine.”

Annie wanted to affirm his father’s assurance, but she didn’t think Kurt would tolerate any denials of his guilt.

“My father told me many things I didn’t know—how he had been part of the June 17 strikes. The economy was a disaster in 1953. Increased work quotas for less pay.”

“So people went to the streets?”

“That’s right. But unfortunately, Soviet tanks also took to the streets.”

“And your father?”

“My father was arrested, but he was let out of prison early for one reason. He promised to become a member of the SED, and he promised to raise his son as a devout communist. At first, he tried to keep me out of the Young Pioneers. The uniforms, the marching, the songs . . . it all reminded him too much of the Hitler Youth. But they forced him to do it, threatening him with prison. Even worse, they threatened my
mother
with prison.”

“Is that why your father blamed himself? Because he taught you to become a devout communist?”

“I became too devout. What kind of person would turn in his own parents?”

“A very confused boy who had been abused by authorities.”

“I should have known better.”

“But your father didn’t blame you. He forgave you.”

“His forgiveness wasn’t enough. Because of me, my mother wound up in prison! Because of me,
my mother died in prison
!”

He buried his face in his hands. His shoulders heaved as the sobs sent tremors through his body. Annie enveloped him in a hug once again, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Why can’t I forget?” he said. “I wish I could scratch these memories out of my mind.”

They held each other in silence for several minutes. Then Annie spoke. “Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck. I sink in the miry depths, where there is no foothold. I have come into the deep waters; the floods engulf me. I am worn out calling for help; my throat is parched. My eyes fail, looking for my God.”

Psalm 69. Annie memorized it after Jack passed away, and she lived with those words every day for over a year. She repeated it—her Wailing Wall chant.

She knew better than to think she could talk Kurt out of his feelings, so she stopped trying to convince him that a ten-year-old boy couldn’t be blamed for what his Fatherland had done to him. She had only a lament to offer—and the comfort of her silence.

After several minutes, Kurt began to calm down. He pulled back and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be.” She kissed him softly on the lips.

“I remember things as a child,” he said, picking at a piece of dry skin on the palm of his left hand. “I remember picking beetles as a very young boy. We’d go into the fields and get a penny for every beetle we found. For larvae, a halfpenny. We called them Ami beetles.”

“Why American beetles?”

“We believed the Americans loaded up their planes with millions of potato beetles and dropped them like tiny bombs all across our country. What else could be behind the infestations of the 1950s?”

He offered up the hint of a smile at the absurdity of it all, and Annie answered with a smile. But one moment later, his smile was gone.

“That was my first taste of an organized movement in East Germany, and I liked the sense of mission for my Homeland. I was protecting the Homeland from Ami beetles. I was part of a great cause. What I didn’t understand until I was much older was that my Homeland was doing the very same thing to its own citizens. It was hiring people, paying people to clean up the infestation of Western ideas. We plucked human beings like they were pests. We went through our communities, removing traitors, suspected traitors, friends and relatives of traitors. Human beetles. Then we bottled them up in our prisons.”

As she rubbed his shoulder, Annie suddenly felt her own grief coming over her, and she fell apart. Kurt’s talk of the past and his mother’s death had dredged up her own past. She was back in the twisted car on the side of the highway, looking into her husband’s unseeing eyes and sensing that Jack’s presence had left his body. One moment, he was there. The next moment, his body was as empty as a cicada shell. She still hadn’t forgiven herself for suggesting they go to the yard and garden store that morning.