The Helsinki Pact (22 page)

It seemed as if the whole of East
Berlin was on the move towards the West and Thomas had difficulty
making way in the other direction. Every so often the flood of
people was so great he was forced back along Unter den Linden
towards the Brandenburg Gate despite himself. Then the crowd would
thin slightly and he’d make headway, dodging the constant stream
coming towards him. There was a carnival atmosphere. Total
strangers caught his eye and embraced him, beaming with joy. His
mood changed. He remained euphoric but now he resented these
constant contacts and felt jaundiced towards the people and their
simple happiness. The tide of humanity and the waves of anonymous
affection were obstacles in the way of his reaching Bettina
quickly, something he needed desperately to do.

He dodged down some side streets
and made progress and at Alexanderplatz found a phone booth to try
calling Bettina again. Her line was again engaged. Here the crowds
were thinner and he ran for ten or fifteen minutes, asking
directions a couple of times, finally finding the kneipe where
they’d been on the evening Stephan had visited. He recognised the
apartment block she’d pointed out on their return to the car and
found the main door open. He climbed the stairs until, on the
fourth floor, he saw her name on a door. For a few moments he stood
there looking at it, catching his breath. Suddenly wondering why
he’d come, fearing anger at this unannounced intrusion, he panicked
and walked blindly down the flight of stairs, his steps slowing as
he came to the second floor. He stood there for several minutes,
arguing silently with himself, willing himself to act to see her,
then turned, strode back to her door and pressed the bell before
the next wave of doubt could hit him.

There was silence. After several
minutes he put his ear to the door but heard nothing. The silence
in the building was complete and he felt desperately sad and lost
that she was not in. He turned to descend then changed his mind and
sat on the top step, leant against the wall and closed his eyes to
wait for her return. Behind him the door opened silently. Bettina
looked at him, put her hand to her mouth and retreated but as she
closed the door carefully the latch clicked.

“Bettina! Bettina! Please. Let me
in. The Wall. You must know about the Wall and what’s happening.
Please. I want to see you and talk with you.”

He knocked on the door but there
was no response. He rested his forehead on the panels, willing her
to open to him, and then slid to a crumpled heap. He turned and sat
there, leaning angled against the wood. The sudden silent sliding
open of the door took him by surprise and he tumbled backwards into
her apartment.

She laughed, looking down at him
as he scrambled to his feet but he saw that her face was red and
swollen. They embraced, saying nothing. He tried to hold her longer
but she pushed him gently away and, taking his hand, led him along
the corridor and into a room on the right, dim, lit only by a
nearby street lamp. She sat on a chair and motioned Thomas to sit
on the bed, facing her. She sat, crouching forward on the chair,
her head on her knees, for a long moment. Her body shuddered in a
slow rhythm, shaking. Thomas started towards her, then sank back on
the bed.

When she lifted her head briefly,
Thomas could see tears streaming down her face. He got up and moved
towards her, half kneeling, awkward for the moment at her level. He
caressed her hair then gently pressed her head towards him. She
resisted at first then leant against his shoulder, her face kept
hidden. It was the first time he’d seen her fragility, and it moved
him deeply. He bent down and gently kissed her hair, turned her
face upwards to let him kiss her forehead, to brush his lips over
hers, and then hold her, his cheek pressed to hers, the scent of
her skin surrounding him and reminding him of how much he’d missed
her. The swell of her breast on the inner crook of his elbow,
rising and falling with her breathing and interrupted with an
occasional shudder and gulp, excited him and he stroked her back
then trailed his fingers down and again lightly up, now on top now
under her loose shirt, the soft and warm skin exciting him further
yet troubling him with her lack of response as if she was
indifferent to anything he might do.

Her arms were round his neck but
suddenly she sat upright and dropped them to her sides inside the
ring of his own, pulling away and sweeping out with her movement
his questing hand. She looked steadily at him, her mouth
trembling.

“I’m sorry about weeping. I
couldn’t help myself.”

Thomas felt ashamed of what had
seemed natural comforting. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself
either, seeing you like this. Maybe you wanted to be left alone and
I barged in on you. I tried calling but your line was always
engaged. I just ... ” He searched for the right words. “I just
really wanted to see you. That’s all.” He got up. "I can go
now."

She looked at him in silence,
face sad and eyes wet. She gave him a half smile. “I’d left the
phone off the hook. I couldn’t face talking, seeing anyone. But I’m
glad now that you came.” she said, and Thomas believed her. “I
missed talking to you too. Would you like something to drink?” She
got up.

Thomas nodded. “Whatever you’ve
got.”

She left the room and came back a
minute later with a bottle and two ornate glasses, long stemmed,
the bowls decorated with green glass and gold.

“Hungarian.” she said, her voice
still shaky. “I’ve had it for a while, for a special occasion. And,
well … I guess today is pretty historic.”

They sat back down, and Thomas
poured them wine. They clinked glasses but Bettina seemed miles
away, her gaze vacantly on the wall behind him. They drank in
silence, separate, alone.

Finally, with a slight start, she
returned, her attempt at a smile showing the depth of her despair.
“I’m sorry, I’m really not great company today. You know, I’m just
not feeling all that well.”

“You don’t need to excuse
yourself.” He looked in her eyes. “Do you feel like
talking?”

She looked at him for a while
without changing expression. Then she gave a nod that was almost
not there.

“It’s because of what’s happened
today?”

She nodded quickly, and tears
again started flowing down her face. “This is only the beginning.”
She caught her breath. “But it’s the end of life as we know it.
Nothing will ever be the same again. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Nothing. Everything will change.”

The phrases came from between her
tears, despairing. With difficulty Thomas restrained himself from
taking her in his arms and kissing her, comforting her by his
embrace.

“But why should you be so sad?”
he asked gently. “All the people I’ve met while coming here were
ecstatic. From today they’re free to come and go wherever they
please. They’re free, Bettina, free. Surely that can’t be a bad
thing.”

He paused to see what effect his
words were having on her. She was still crying, shaking her head
ever more wildly as he spoke. When she finally spoke, her voice was
darker, controlling a bleak, desolate fury.

“But they’re not free.” she said.
“Freedom is a state of mind, Thomas. Those climbing over the Wall
have grown up with so very little. They had so very little but they
had culture and they had things to believe in. And everybody had
the same amount of whatever little there was. Everyone was treated
the same. Now everything will change. It will never be like that
again. Today it’s started, Thomas. We’ll all become like you
Westerners, always longing for what we haven’t got, forever trying
to reach the next rung of the ladder by stepping on someone below.
We’ll become selfish, looking out for ourselves and what we want,
not part of a community looking after each other. We’ll become
enslaved to Western desires for consumer goods, to buying stuff we
don’t want and don’t need. I want to have time to think, to
experience life and people, not be hit constantly with your
advertising, your marketing to buy, buy, buy, get the latest, get
the best, get the newest, spend money you haven’t got for things
you don’t really want to keep up with others you don’t really know
and probably don't like anyway. You don’t understand: the Wall was
to keep all that out, keep your lifestyle out, not to keep us
in.”

Thomas thought for a moment over
what she’d said. Some things rang true, too true for him to accept.
But her reaction felt too strong for it to be purely theoretical.
He thought back on what she’d said about her family. Her father was
in the West. Now there was the possibility of meeting him, or
making the conscious choice to ignore his existence.

"But walls are symbols, Bettina,"
he said gently "and any country which builds a wall to keep others
out, to try to keep themselves secure, has already
failed."

He poured them each another glass
of wine.

“It’s human nature, Bettina.
People long for a better life. You can’t just try to fence people
in and tell them to try to be happy. Or tell them what they should
believe in. OK,” he conceded “Maybe not that last part. It’s not
what you should do but it’s something we do all the time in the
West as well.”

“You’re right, maybe it is human
nature. Maybe greed, envy and violence are just a part of us. But
I’ve been over to the West, and I can tell you I’ve seen more happy
people in our poor villages than I’ve seen in your rich cities.
Just give it time. You’ll make them feel poor, slowly convincing
them that their lives were inadequate without some of your useless
products. The real tragedy is that we’ll lose the little we’ve got
and gain nothing worthwhile in return.”

“What do you mean?”

“The majority of our people don’t
realize they’re poor by your standards. East Germany is considered
the jewel of the Warsaw Pact. But when they come over and get
absorbed into your cities, they’ll feel poor. And nothing you can
do or give them will make them feel better. The real, black market
exchange rate is what, ten to one? They won’t be able to afford
your lifestyle. Do you understand this?”

Thomas nodded in silence. Bettina
got up and put an Eterna recording of Puccini’s Tosca on her
rudimentary stereo system, which drowned the distant clamouring of
voices they could hear coming from outside.

Finally he took up the courage to
ask. “Bettina, I have the impression there’s something else on your
mind that you’re not telling me. Some other impact of what’s
happening that disturbs you. Has it got something to do with the
Stasi, or your dad, is it something you can’t talk
about?”

“You’re becoming more perceptive
every time I talk to you, Thomas.” She smiled at him. “The first
time I met you I thought you’d have hardly noticed a dead body in
the street, you were so focused on yourself, what you wanted. Yes,
you’re right, there is something else. It’s about my brother and
it’s connected with the Stasi but that’s all I’m going to tell you.
Another time perhaps. I don't want to talk about it right now. Why
don’t you tell me exactly what it is they’re singing? I don’t
understand Italian.”

Thomas translated roughly the
words of the painter Cavaradossi to her. It was the aria in the
church, when a jealous Tosca inquires about the painting of the
blonde woman.

“How did you learn Italian, by
the way?”

“It’s because of my father. He
was stationed in Italy during the war, and he learned the language.
And he loved opera, so he kept putting it on all the time at home.
One day, I must have been four or five years old, I started singing
along. My dad laughed, and asked me if I wanted to learn it. I said
yes, so he started teaching it to me.”

“Does your mother speak it as
well?”

“No. She hated it, and told dad
various times to stop.” He laughed. “She said it was a slithery,
messy language with nothing of the crispness and certainty of
German. She insisted that as Germans, living here in Germany, we
should use our own language. But we continued regardless. It became
our own private language.”

She took a long sip from her
glass. “You miss him very much, I think?”

“More than I can say. I miss
having someone I can confide with. You’re the only person I can
talk to now. And to be honest, Bettina, I never really know if what
you’re saying is really what you think or just what you feel you
should tell me.”

“You might find it hard to
believe, Thomas, but I never lie. At least, not about anything
important. I think I know how you feel. I felt the same way when I
decided to take up Dieter’s offer about working for the Stasi. It’s
difficult not to be able to confide with anyone.”

Thomas shared the last remnants
of the bottle between them as she watched silently. Her expression
had changed to one he’d never seen before.

“Would you mind staying? I really
don’t feel like being alone tonight.”

Chapter 18

Friday November 10
1989

AFTER the drama and emotional
stress of the previous day Bettina, exhausted, slept on, not waking
until well past eight. It was another bright, cold day. The window
was uncurtained and the sun warmed her face as she lay on her side
drowsily watching the dust motes dance in the shafts of light. She
turned over and then noticed the dishevelled state of the other
side of her bed. She frowned and stared uncertainly over, then
raised herself on an elbow, leant over and sniffed at the pillow.
She couldn't be sure, she decided. She lay back, struggling to
piece together her fragmented memories of the recent past. She
rarely drank much and perhaps the Hungarian wine had been stronger
than she’d expected, she thought.