The Berlin Crossing (5 page)

Between the houses, behind the leafless trees, I caught glimpses of the lake. I remembered Dieter at the wheel of the powerboat,
the sailor’s cap jaunty above his laughing face. When we tied up, exhilarated, he pointed out to me a lone sculler on the
lake, tiny in the distance; she was, he said, one of our international scullers, preparing for the next Olympics. Now, it
seemed, even our sports achievements were to be mocked, as though our past too was there only to be plundered and stolen from
us. The morning was sharp and bright, the air clear and brittle, but I could taste sourness on my tongue.

And then, just as I was approaching the sign pointing to the new beer garden and marina, I caught a glimpse of a grey spire
rising above the trees on the other side of the road. There was no traffic sign to indicate the turning to the left but the
narrow road, curving among the trees, looked newly paved. The grassy margins on either side were freshly trimmed; even the
trees seemed to have been cut back in an attempt to let the light shine through in the crisp November morning. The spire I
had spotted from the road was no longer visible, however, blocked out by the screen of trees that shadowed the road, not much
more than a lane; for a moment I wondered if I had been mistaken. A wild-goose chase anyway, I told myself; what did it matter
if this rustic path led exactly nowhere?

Thump-thump
. Hammering, loud in the wooded stillness, clearly audible above the Trabi’s bronchial labouring. Again,
thump-thump
, a softness in the hammering, like wood on wood.

The fellow doing the hammering was before me now, shirt-sleeved, the long-handled mallet easy in his big hands as he stood
to watch my arrival. In front of him a newly erected white picket fence, a few metres behind him a small stone-built church
building, slate-roofed, above it the tapering steeple that had drawn me into this clearing in the woods. I felt his eyes upon
me as I drew the Trabi to a halt beside the rusty gates; noticed his frank inspection of the Brandenburg plate. He was shorter
than me, probably older, but he didn’t look like the kind of fellow you’d want to have a falling-out with.

I smiled as I stepped towards him but he was having none of it, his face as closed as the rusty gate between us.

‘Good morning.’

He nodded by way of reply. Carefully leaned the mallet against one of the stakes he had driven into the hard earth just inside
the fence. When he folded his arms his biceps bulged, muscular and blue-veined.

‘
Eine Frage, bitte,
’ I said. A question. Please.

Another nod from the shaven head. A tiny diamond stud in his right earlobe. The wooden signboard that would sit on the supports
he was erecting lay beside him on the ground, gold lettering on a solid blue background. The angle made it difficult to read.

‘I’m looking for a pastor who lives in Bad Saarow.’

‘You’re in the right place.’ The rough accent of these parts. But maybe a hint of humour in the sarcasm. ‘Did you have a particular
pastor in mind or will any old one do?’

I tried to smile. Tried to read the upside-down board on the ground.
Evangelische Kirche
, in capitals, the times of services
underneath. A name across the bottom of the board.

‘I don’t know if he’s an evangelical minister,’ I said, making another attempt at a smile. ‘I just saw the church spire from
the road and thought I’d drive in to ask.’

‘And who’s asking?’

Christ, what’s wrong with this fellow
?
I’m not trying to steal the poor box here, just making an inquiry
.

‘Michael Ritter, from Brandenburg.’ Craning my neck, trying to read the name at the bottom of the board.

‘You’re a long way from home, Herr Ritter.’

‘Even in a Trabi it only takes an hour.’
Rev. Dr Something
.

‘Don’t see many of them on the road now. Most folk were glad to get rid of them.’

I shrugged. ‘I have a sentimental attachment to the brand.’ A mistake: at my words his face seemed to close even more.

‘You’re hankering for the good old days, Herr Ritter, is that the way?’

‘Not really . . .’ Discomfited by his hostility but moving sideways along the fence, not bothering now to hide my attempt to read
the name on the bottom of the board.

‘
Reverend Doktor Theophilus Bruck.
’ My words unnaturally loud in the morning air, my arm pointing at the board on the ground. ‘The very man I’m looking for!
I can’t believe this!’

I stopped, feeling slightly embarrassed by the edge of excitement in my voice.

My companion said nothing. I watched him take a packet of West from his jeans pocket. He took a long time over it – easing
the cigarette out of the red packet, the brief sizzle of the match, the first sucking pull, the slow exhalation through thin
lips. I held his gaze through the grey cigarette smoke.

‘It’s quite a coincidence,’ I said. ‘Finding Pastor Bruck just like this.’

‘Yes, I’m sure it is, a
real
coincidence.’

I frowned at him. Wondering if I were imagining the suspicion in his voice.

‘I told you, I saw the church spire – I just came in on spec—’

‘Yeah, and I’m Joe Stalin’s godson.’

The edge in his voice sharper now, my own confusion deepening.

‘What’s the matter with you? I just stopped to ask about the pastor. Why are you behaving like this?’

‘Why am I behaving like this?’ Pulling furiously on the cigarette, as though he could suck venom from it. ‘Why am I behaving
like this? You drop out of the sky with your fucking questions and your fucking Trabi – your fucking “sentimental attachment” – and you wonder why I’m behaving like this? I can smell the stink off you, pal, you and your kind have been coming around
here for so long now with your threats and your questions that I’d know your kind in my sleep. But it seems you haven’t heard
the news, my Trabi-loving pal – the Wall’s been down for over three years now and you no longer have the right . . .’ He threw
the cigarette on the earth, ground it beneath his boot heel. ‘It’s over, pal,’ he said softly, ‘it’s been over for years now
and Pastor Bruck doesn’t have to listen to your lot’s questions any more, so why don’t you just fuck off back wherever you
came from.’

At least he hadn’t picked up the mallet again. All the same, it seemed prudent not to antagonize the fellow any further.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve somehow offended you,’ I said, ‘but I’m just a schoolteacher from Brandenburg, and I want to see Pastor
Bruck about a personal matter. If you won’t tell me where he lives, I’ll just ask someone else.’

‘I know your kind – you’ve been hounding Pastor Bruck all his life. You just can’t get it into your head that the world has
moved on and left you fuckers behind. D’you think I could’ve done this
a few years ago?’ His jerky gesture took in the new fence, the freshly oiled church door, the new church noticeboard lying
on the ground. ‘Do you?’

Pointless to debate the issue with this fellow. If I had any sense I’d get in the Trabi and get the hell out of this nothing
place. Still, I wasn’t going to be faced down.

‘Thanks for your help.’

I took a step back and did what I should have done first: take a good look around. The little church, though obviously old,
maybe nineteenth century, had a reborn look about it – new roof, new door, probably new windows in teak frames. Like the fellow
said, you couldn’t have done this a few years back. The stone walls around the church widened backwards in a triangular shape;
behind the church itself I could see, on either side, the dark grey tombstones of a churchyard.

And further back, beyond the back wall of the little graveyard, I could just glimpse, through the encircling trees, the glint
of sunlight on glass. Windows, a low-rise house or hut.

I noticed the path that led from the church gate to the entrance, then round the church, heading towards the graveyard.

I put my hand on the rusty gate.

‘Where do you think
you’re
going?’ The mallet in his hands now.

‘It’s a public place, isn’t it?’ I held his stare. ‘I’m going to take a look around.’

‘The church is not open today.’

‘Then I’ll just look in the graveyard.’

‘It’s closed too.’

‘Maybe I’ll just ask in that house.’ I nodded towards the cottage in the trees. ‘They might be able to tell me where Pastor
Bruck lives.’

‘What do you want to see the pastor for?’

‘That’s my business, not yours.’

‘If it’s the pastor’s business,’ he said, ‘then it’s mine.’

‘It’s none of your business,’ I said slowly. Mallet or no mallet, this fellow had nothing to do with my mother’s gasping words.

‘I think you’d better fuck off right now and leave the pastor alone.’

‘What’s the matter, Thomas?’

He was tall and bony, dressed in clerical grey, his long face pale under a bald and shiny pate. He was slightly stooped, his
knobby fingers curled around the black metal handle of the half-open church door. I thought, looking at his stooped figure,
that he might fall down if he let go of the door handle.

‘Is everything OK, Thomas?’ His Adam’s apple bobbed against the loose dog collar; from such a skeletal body the deep voice
was incongruous.

‘There’s no problem, Father.’ The mallet man spoke without turning round. ‘This gentleman stopped for directions but he’s leaving
now.’

I turned towards the cleric.

‘I’m looking for Pastor Bruck.’ To my own ears my voice sounded unnaturally shrill. ‘I’ve come from Brandenburg to see him.’

‘For goodness sake, why didn’t you say so?’ Words of impatience but neither impatience nor irritation in the tone of voice,
in the facial expression. A lined face, a face in its seventies, furrowed by more than years. ‘Come along inside, where we
can talk.’

‘Father, I’ve told you this gentleman is leaving—’

‘Thomas, don’t be ridiculous. The chap’s come from Brandenburg to see me.’

‘He’s trouble, Father. Believe me, I can tell.’

The old man looked from his son to me, then back again.

‘You shouldn’t worry, Thomas.’ His voice gentle. ‘Those days are gone. Gone for ever.’

‘There’s plenty would like to bring them back again, Father.’

Father and son looked at each other; watching them, I felt as though I were a spectator at an oft-played scene.

‘You worry too much, Thomas.’

‘And you don’t worry enough, Father.’ There was no mistaking the anger in the younger man’s voice. ‘You never did.’

‘Thomas, Thomas! What way is this to welcome a caller to our door? Whatever will Herr . . .’ He turned to me. ‘Herr?’

‘Ritter,’ I said. ‘Michael Ritter, from Brandenburg.’

Not a flicker of recognition in the grey eyes.

‘Would you like to see our church, Herr Ritter?’ His stooped posture was, or so it seemed, even more bent; the bony, outstretched
hand was pointing at the church door. ‘It’s been renovated, thanks to my son.’

‘No thanks to fellows like this, Father.’

‘Thomas—’

‘All right, Father. But there’s no heat in there and you’ll catch your death, parading around like this on a cold morning
without an overcoat.’ The anger gone from the younger man’s voice, replaced by a kind of solicitous tetchiness, like a fussy
mother clucking over a wayward adolescent.

‘Thomas, I assure you I am wearing a long-sleeved undershirt.’ A hint of a smile on the pale, craggy face. ‘And look, I am
wearing my woollen pullover.’ A childish tug at the grey pullover. ‘My son fusses, Herr Ritter, but his father is a tough
old bird.’

I tried to smile but the younger man’s hostility still bristled in the morning air.

‘So, you’d like to see our church, Herr Ritter,’ he said again.

‘Yes, Pastor Bruck,’ I lied again, and we stepped inside the old building.

The interior of the church was as run-of-the-mill as its outside. Cream walls, tall gothic windows, rows of dark pews. The
pews new, the cream walls freshly painted.

Pastor Bruck noticed that my eyes were drawn to the single stained-glass window, halfway along the right-hand wall. All the
other windows were of plain, clear glass.

‘A sort of miracle, Herr Ritter.’ A hint of amusement in the priest’s voice. ‘That window somehow survived everything –the
war and everything else. After the war this building was used as a store for a while – lumber, soldiers’ stuff, some of it
just junk that the army didn’t know what to do with. After some years they left it empty, they didn’t interfere too much when
I tried to make it into a church again.’ He smiled his pale, almost spooky smile at me, at the window. ‘I couldn’t do much.
I had no money and no materials. Sometimes faith needs a little help. But that one window remained unbroken. I used to look
at it and say there must be a reason for that.’ We both stared at it in silence. A nothing window, nondescript as everything
else here: coloured squares of glass, blue and red and purple and orange, seemingly dropped at random in their metal casings.
‘I still don’t know the reason it survived,’ Pastor Bruck was saying.

‘Maybe there is no reason,’ I ventured.

‘Maybe it’s a symbol, Herr Ritter.’

I knew I shouldn’t ask, knew what the answer would be.

‘Of what?’

‘Of our own survival. Of the need to go on. Of the need to struggle.’

‘For some the struggle is over now.’ Staring into the grey eyes, angry with myself for starting this, for baring more than
was necessary. ‘For others the question is whether there’s any point in struggling at all.’

‘If we’re sure of the rightness of our cause, then we have a duty to fight for it, Herr Ritter.’

‘Try telling that to the Board of my school, Pastor Bruck.’

We’d been making our stop-start way along the central aisle of the church; now we stood in front of the altar table. A simple
affair of four marble posts, covered by a green velour cloth with gold tassels and gilt lettering:
My Lord And My God
.

The sudden, deepening silence that followed my words seemed to emanate from the altar. Or maybe from the regret that welled
within me. I hadn’t wanted to give myself away, to show my loss to this grey cleric in this church. He and his kind had won;
his miserable stained glass was a symbol not of survival but of loss. I could feel the hate welling inside me, inside the
regret, boiling over it, swallowing the regret, swallowing me. I hated this grey cleric, this grey stone building.