The Berlin Crossing (25 page)

Baumeister. He remembered the name she had spoken to the
pastor but he said nothing. He didn’t want to bring the world outside into this secret space.

She kissed him quickly on the cheek and drew away from him.

‘I have to go.’

‘I know.’

‘I don’t want to—’

‘I know.’

‘But they might see, they might ask questions.’

‘I know.’

He climbed the ladder after her, stooped to follow her through the gap in the false wall into the main space of the shed.
In the unlit gloom, she seemed smaller, slighter.

‘Is it a long way home for you?’ he whispered.

She shook her head. ‘Not as far as for you.’

‘And tomorrow?’

‘I’ll try. You’ll need something to eat. Maybe the pastor will have news.’

‘Be careful.’

‘And you too. Stay out of sight. Nobody comes here in the winter and, anyway, these allotments aren’t used any more, they
say there are still old shells in the ground since the war. If anything
does
happen, just be quiet.’

She turned and eased the shed door open a little. The moon was brighter, bathing the ramshackle buildings in a watery light.

‘Petra.’

‘Yes.’ She turned to him, took his hand in hers.

‘I . . .’ He swallowed, searching for the right words. ‘I’m not sorry about today – I mean, I’m not sorry I met you.’

She giggled. ‘That’s some declaration.’

He felt himself blush. ‘What I mean is—’

Her fingers again on his lips.

‘I know what you mean, Roland.’ Her fingers stroked his face and then her lips brushed his. ‘Goodnight, Roland.’

He whispered goodnight but she was already moving into the shadow of the line of broken-down summer houses, her violin case
swinging in her left hand, her rucksack bouncing on her back.

Long after she had gone, he was still standing there, staring out at the night through the half-open door. He couldn’t be
sure, but he thought he was looking west, towards the divided city and the divided land and, beyond, the unseen lights that
burned in his own home, where his parents waited, anxious, perhaps even angry. Ingham was out there too, also anxious, perhaps
also angry. No, he wasn’t sure of the direction, he was lost. And yet he knew, staring into the shadows where she had slipped
away, that in some altogether miraculous and unexpected turn, he had found his way.

The working day was almost done when Baumeister sent for her.

Frau Krug, the section supervisor, was standing beside Petra’s desk, her sharp features hiding nothing of her disapproval.

‘The Deputy Director wishes to see you in his office.’

Petra looked from the supervisor to the unfinished work on her drawing board.

‘Now?’

‘Herr Baumeister does not like to be kept waiting.’

‘My work, Frau Krug.’ Petra gestured with her pen at the single-colour map on her board. ‘I haven’t finished inscribing the
list of names you gave me.’

Frau Krug’s thin nose emitted a whistling snort of disapproval. It had a sneering edge to it that was familiar to Petra and
the other half-dozen members of her section in the Cartography Institute. All of them continued to work assiduously at their
tasks; all of them were listening intently to the exchange.

‘Perhaps you will have time to finish it later.’ Frau Krug’s voice seemed to sharpen. ‘Perhaps the Deputy Director will not
have too much to say to the most junior and least qualified member of my section.’

‘Yes, Frau Krug.’ Petra stood up. She wished she could say
aloud what she was thinking: that she disliked Franz Baumeister’s interest in her at least as much as Frau Krug did.

‘So move – and no dilly-dallying in the toilets.’

Petra moved.

Out of the open-plan office and into the long corridor that ran the length of the building. The corridor was painted a dull
green; through the small head-high windows she could see the richer green of well-tended lawns. Beyond the grassy space was
the car park; further away, the road and, across the road, the line of trees.

And beyond the trees . . .

She tried not to think about him yet all day he had filled her mind. Working at her board, inscribing regimental names and
troop movements, she half feared she would write his name on the military map given to her by Frau Krug.
Sixth Army
, written in looping letters around Karl-Marx-Stadt. Except that she had inked in the name
Roland Feldmann
.

Blink. Relief. She hadn’t. But his name reached out to her from the drawing board, touched the fingers that held the calligraphy
pen.

Don’t think of him now, you’re on your way to see Franz Baumeister, the Deputy Director
.

Franz the Frog. All bug eyes and barrel belly
.

The Deputy Director hadn’t bothered to conceal his interest in her from the moment of her arrival at the Institute a few months
previously. He’d left her standing at their first meeting in his office; his bug eyes had crawled like sweaty hands all over
her body.
Franz the Frog gets what he wants
, one of the other girls had whispered, taking a risk.

She’d managed to keep him at bay so far, one excuse after another. The excuses were growing lamer; she knew that the Deputy
Director’s temper was growing shorter.

She knocked on the frosted-glass door, waited for the peremptory ‘Enter’ before she pushed the handle.

‘Fräulein Ritter.’ The round face fashioned into a smile. ‘Always a pleasure to see you.’

He indicated the metal-legged chair on the opposite side of his desk. She could feel his eyes on her thighs as she settled
herself, pulling her skirt tightly around her knees.

‘Good afternoon, sir.’

‘So, Petra, tell me how your day in the city went.’ The Deputy Director had switched to the familiar
du
. ‘How was your audition?’

‘I don’t know, Herr Deputy Director. They said they will write to let me know.’

Except we both know I won’t be going to the Academy of Music, you’ve made sure of that
.

He leaned forward on the big desk, hands together as if in prayer.

‘But what was your impression, Petra?’

She hated this farce but she met his gaze.

‘I don’t know, sir. It was impossible to tell.’

Baumeister stood up and moved round the desk. He sat on the corner, looking down at her. He swung his leg and she swallowed
as his ankle grazed her knees.

‘
Entschuldigung.
’ Excuse me.

He put a hand out as if to steady himself and she flinched as his hand rested on her shoulder.

‘You’re so nervous, Petra!’ A joking tone now. ‘Was the audition so awful that you still tremble?’

‘No, sir—’

‘I wonder, Petra,’ he cut in, ‘if there’s anything I can do to help, anything at all?’

The way I hear you’ve helped so many other girls here, Herr Deputy Director
.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

Baumeister spread his hands, his foot moved beside her knee. ‘I think you
do
know what I mean, Petra. As Deputy Director here, I run the Institute. A man in my position is not without influence. In
fact, the Rector of the Music Academy is personally known to me. I’d be happy to have a word with him on your behalf.’

Like you’ve already had a word: the three assessors at the audition had barely listened to her, had hardly nodded at the end
of her playing
.

‘It’s very kind of you, sir, but maybe my playing is just not good enough.’

‘Let me be the judge of that. You have only to say the word, Petra.’

Just say yes and take your clothes off
.

‘It’s really good of you to offer, sir, but – but maybe I need to practise more. It’s hard to find the time to practise, I
should be practising for hours every day . . . She stopped, wondered if she had said too much.

‘Exactly, Petra.’

She wondered if she had heard correctly. Time off to practise was something she had never dared to ask for.

Baumeister smiled, bent a little towards her but his great girth restricted his movement.

‘You look tired, Petra. Yesterday was a stressful day for you?’ He nodded, answering his own question. ‘What time did you
get back from Berlin? Seven? Eight?’

She hesitated. ‘It was late, sir.’

He’d noticed her hesitation. ‘How late? Did you come by train? I could have sent a car for you.’

She froze for a moment. She wanted to lie but he’d find out anyway and that would be even more dangerous.

‘The local pastor was kind enough to give me a lift, sir. He was
in Berlin to see one of his—’ She stopped, frightened. ‘An old lady was dying . . .’

‘One of his fellow fantasists, you mean. I take it you mean Bruck. I’m told you sometimes play at his so-called services,
Petra.’ His voice grew harder. ‘The Party is lenient with these people, but you must realize that there is only a limited
future in our country for so-called believers who would undermine the authority of our state and our Party. And the same applies
to their sympathizers. You
do
understand that?’

She couldn’t look at him but she nodded.

‘Is that a yes?’

‘Yes, Herr Deputy Director.’

‘Good. I’m glad we understand each other.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good, good!’ Baumeister stirred himself on the desk, reached for the telephone. ‘You look a bit peaky, my dear Petra, let
us put some colour into your cheeks with some fresh, hot coffee.’

When he offers you coffee, you know it’s too late:
words overheard, whispered in the ladies’ toilet.

Nervous, shifting on the chair, watching the jelly-roll sway of his round body as he spoke into the telephone.

‘We’d like some coffee in my office, yes, right now!’ No please. An order, not a request.

And his eyes devouring her again, soiling her, as he went on about the merits of a career in cartography, and, even clenched
in her despairing hands, her skirt seemed to grow shorter, flimsier.

‘Come!’ His voice boomed in answer to the knock on the door.

The secretary, grey-haired, frightened-looking, avoided Petra’s eyes as she laid the tray on the desk. A cafetiere, plunger
raised, two cups.

Cups with saucers and spoons.

Jammy biscuits on a matching plate.

The secretary backed out of the office apologetically. The closing click of the door behind her louder than the slamming of
a prison gate.

Baumeister beamed at Petra, beamed at the biscuits. ‘Foreign,’ he said, ‘a special treat.’

He waited, forcing her to speak.

‘Thank you, Herr Deputy Director.’ Her words louder than the closing door, as though the rest of the building had been evacuated
and only silence remained.

Baumeister’s head nodded, wobbled up and down, seemingly satisfied.

She watched him draw a chair close to hers, tried not to flinch as he settled himself beside her.

‘Cosy, no?’ She managed to nod as he laid his hand on her arm.
Fuck the job. If he touches me I’ll kick him in the balls, I’ll run away with Roland
—

He was saying something, the moist lips were moving.
Listen
.

‘Petra?’ A pat on her arm, pointing at the cafetiere. He was holding a cup in his other hand. ‘Why don’t you do the honours?’

Her legs almost buckled as she stood.

Fuck you, Baumeister
.

She lifted the coffee pot, turned to Baumeister, began to pour.

She seemed to stumble, watched, ashen, grim, as the scalding coffee cascaded on to Baumeister’s groin.

The cup fell from his hands, clattered on the floor.

Baumeister roared, pushed her away.

She remembered to say sorry. But she relished the sight of him, trying to bend over his belly, mopping uselessly at his sodden
groin.

She hid her face, stooping, retrieving the fallen cup and saucer.

‘Get the fuck out of here!’

She stood up, looked at him, his round face swollen with anger and she was afraid now, wondered at her own bloody-mindedness.

‘Bitch!’ The word spat at her.

‘I’m sorry, sir—’

‘Get out! Out! Get out of my sight!’

His tie was wet, and his shirt: he was opening buttons on the bulging belly.

Outside in the corridor she almost collided with the secretary, now looking even greyer, even more frightened.

‘What . . .?’

Petra hurried past without answering.

When he saw her hurrying across the narrow footbridge, he wanted to call out, run to her. She couldn’t see him, hidden behind
the garden hut, coat collar turned up against the night. The long day, the cold, the boredom of the hours in the hut, skulking
among the dilapidated shells – none of it mattered now, watching her draw near, face pale beneath the woollen ski cap, the
dark rucksack hugged tightly against the slim body.

‘Petra.’ Her name whispered in the darkness.

She came into his embrace and he felt her body tremble against him. She drew back from him, laid a finger against his lips,
led him inside the hut.

In the basement she clung to him again and when they drew apart he saw the fear in the turquoise eyes.

‘What?’ he said. ‘What’s happened?’

She shook her head, started to open the rucksack.

‘You must be starving. Eat.’

He watched her set the food on the small stool, wondered what it would be like to see her set a table at home –
their home
– on the other side of the Wall, beyond the darkness.

She poured coffee from the flask, handed him the cup. He saw her face change, the soft skin move and fold around the lovely
cheekbones and he couldn’t tell: a smile or a grimace – or both?

‘What?’

‘I poured coffee for somebody else this evening.’

He could hear the tremble in her voice, waited for her to continue.

‘Eat,’ she said. ‘Drink your coffee while it’s hot.’

He smiled. Not much to smile about but this Petra from Bad Saarow spoke when she decided to.

He ate the sandwiches, drank the coffee.