Edge of Eternity (70 page)

By midday she still had not seen Vasili. It was frustrating: he could not be far away.

Irina took her to the management dining room, but Tanya insisted on having lunch in the canteen with the workers. People relaxed while they were eating, and they spoke more honestly and colorfully. Tanya made notes of what they said, and kept looking around the room, choosing the next interviewee and at the same time keeping an eye out for Vasili.

However, the lunch hour went by and he did not appear. The canteen began to empty out. Irina proposed moving on to their next appointment, a visit to a school where Tanya would be able to speak to young mothers. Tanya could not think of a reason for refusing.

She would have to ask for him by name. She imagined saying:
I seem to remember an interesting man I met last time, an electrician, I think, called Vasili . . . Vasili, um, Yenkov? Could you find out whether he still works here?
It was barely plausible. Irina would make the inquiry, but she was not stupid, and she was sure to wonder what was Tanya's special interest in this man. It would not take her long to find out that Vasili had come to Siberia as a political prisoner. Then the question would be whether Irina decided to shut up and mind her own business—often the preferred way in the Soviet Union—or to curry favor by mentioning Tanya's query to someone above her in the Communist Party hierarchy.

For years no one had known of the friendship between Tanya and Vasili. That was their protection. It was why they had not been sentenced to life imprisonment for publishing a subversive magazine. After Vasili's arrest, Tanya had let one person into the secret, her twin brother. And Daniil had guessed. But now she was in danger of arousing the suspicions of a stranger.

She steeled her nerve to speak, and then Vasili appeared.

Tanya clamped her hand over her mouth to stop herself screaming.

Vasili looked like an old man. He was thin and bent. His hair was
long and straggly and streaked with gray. His formerly fleshy, sensual face was drawn and lined. He wore grubby overalls with screwdrivers in the pockets. He dragged his feet as he walked.

Irina said: “Is something wrong, Comrade Tanya?”

“Toothache,” said Tanya, improvising.

“I'm so sorry.”

Tanya could not tell whether Irina believed her.

Her heart was thudding. She was overjoyed to have found Vasili, but horrified by his ravaged appearance. And she had to conceal this storm of emotions from Irina.

She stood up, letting Vasili see her. Few people were left in the canteen, so he could not miss her. She turned her face aside, not looking at him, to divert Irina's suspicion. She picked up her bag as if to go. “I must see a dentist as soon as I get home,” she said.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Vasili stop suddenly, staring at her. So that Irina would not notice, she said: “Tell me about the school we're going to. What age are the pupils?”

They began walking toward the door as Irina answered her question. Tanya tried to observe Vasili without looking directly at him. He remained frozen staring, for several moments. As the two women approached him, Irina gave him a quizzical look.

Tanya then looked directly at Vasili again.

His sunken face was now looking stunned. His mouth hung open and he stared unblinkingly at her. But there was something in his eyes other than shock. Tanya realized it was hope—astonished, incredulous, yearning hope. He was not completely defeated: something had given this wreck of a man the strength to write that wonderful story.

She remembered the words she had prepared. “You look familiar—did I talk to you last time I was here, three years ago? My name is Tanya Dvorkin and I work for TASS.”

Vasili closed his mouth and started to collect himself, but still he seemed dumbstruck.

Tanya kept on talking. “I'm writing a follow-up to my series on emigrants to Siberia. I'm afraid I don't remember your name, though—I've interviewed hundreds of people in the last three years!”

“Yenkov,” he said at last. “Vasili Yenkov.”

“We had a most interesting talk,” Tanya said. “It's coming back to me. I must interview you again.”

Irina looked at her watch. “We're short of time. The schools close early here.”

Tanya nodded at her and said to Vasili: “Could we meet this evening? Would you mind coming to the Central Hotel? Perhaps we could have a drink together.”

“At the Central Hotel,” Vasili repeated.

“At six?”

“Six o'clock at the Central Hotel.”

“I'll see you then,” Tanya said, and she went out.

•   •   •

Tanya wanted to reassure Vasili that he had not been forgotten. She had done that already, but was it enough? Could she offer him any hope? She also wanted to tell him that his story was wonderful and he should write more, but again she had no encouragement to offer him: “Frostbite” could not be published and the same would probably be true of anything else he produced. She feared she might end up making him feel worse, not better.

She waited for him in the bar. The hotel was not bad. All visitors to Siberia were VIPs—no one came here for a holiday—so the place had the level of luxury expected by the Communist elite.

Vasili came in looking a bit better than he had earlier. He had combed his hair and put on a clean shirt. He still looked like a man recovering from an illness, but the light of intelligence shone in his eyes.

He took both her hands in his. “Thank you for coming here,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “I can't begin to tell you how much it means to me. You're a friend, a solid gold friend.”

She kissed his cheek.

They ordered beer. Vasili ate the free peanuts like a starving man.

“Your story is wonderful,” Tanya said. “Not just good, but extraordinary.”

He smiled. “Thank you. Perhaps something worthwhile can come out of this terrible place.”

“I'm not the only person who admires it. The editors of
New World
accepted it for publication.” He lit up with gladness, and she had to bring him down again. “But they changed their minds when Khrushchev was deposed.”

Vasili looked crestfallen, then he took another handful of nuts. “I'm not surprised,” he said, recovering his equanimity. “At least they liked it—that's the important thing. It was worth writing.”

“I've made a few copies and mailed them—anonymously, of course—to some of the people who used to receive
Dissidence,
” she added. She hesitated. What she planned to say next was bold. Once said, it could not be retracted. She took the plunge. “The only other thing I could do is try to get a copy out to the West.”

She saw the light of optimism in his eyes, but he pretended to be dubious. “That would be dangerous for you.”

“And for you.”

Vasili shrugged. “What are they going to do to me—send me to Siberia? But you could lose everything.”

“Could you write some more stories?”

From underneath his jacket he took a large used envelope. “I have already,” he said, and he gave the envelope to her. He drank some beer, emptying his glass.

She glanced into the envelope. The pages were covered with Vasili's small, neat handwriting. “Why,” she said with elation, “it's enough for a book!” Then she realized that if she were caught with this material she, too, could end up stuck in Siberia. She slipped the envelope into her shoulder bag quickly.

“What will you do with them?” he asked.

Tanya had given this some thought. “There's an annual book fair in Leipzig, in East Germany. I could arrange to cover it for TASS—I speak German, after a fashion. Western publishers attend the fair—editors from Paris and London and New York. I might be able to get your work published in translation.”

His face lit up. “Do you think so?”

“I believe ‘Frostbite' is good enough.”

“That would be so wonderful. But you would be taking a terrible risk.”

She nodded. “So would you. If somehow the Soviet authorities found out who the author was, you'd be in trouble.”

He laughed. “Look at me—starving, dressed in rags, living alone in a hostel for men that is always cold—I'm not worried.”

It had not occurred to her that he might not be getting enough to eat. “There's a restaurant here,” she said. “Shall we have dinner?”

“Yes, please.”

Vasili ordered beef Stroganoff with boiled potatoes. The waitress put a small bowl of bread rolls on the table, as was done at banquets. Vasili ate all the rolls. After the Stroganoff he ordered pirozhki, a fried bun filled with stewed plums. He also ate everything Tanya left on her plate.

She said: “I thought skilled people were highly paid here.”

“Volunteers are, yes. Not ex-prisoners. The authorities submit to the price mechanism only when forced.”

“Can I send you food?”

He shook his head. “Everything is stolen by the KGB. Parcels arrive ripped open, marked ‘Suspicious package, officially inspected,' and everything decent is gone. The guy in the room next to mine received six jars of jam, all empty.”

Tanya signed the bill for dinner.

Vasili said: “Does your hotel room have its own bathroom?”

“Yes.”

“Does it have hot water?”

“Of course.”

“Can I take a shower? At the hostel we get hot water only once a week, and then we have to rush before it runs out.”

They went upstairs.

Vasili was a long time in the bathroom. Tanya sat on the bed looking out at the grimy snow. She felt stunned. She knew, in a vague way, what labor camps were like, but seeing Vasili had brought it home to her in a devastatingly vivid way. Her imagination had not previously stretched to the extent of the prisoners' suffering. And yet, despite everything, Vasili had not succumbed to despair. In fact, he had summoned, from somewhere, the strength and courage to write about his experiences with passion and humor. She admired him more than ever.

When at last he emerged from the bathroom, they said good-bye. In the old days he would have made a pass at her, but today the thought did not seem to cross his mind.

She gave him all the money in her purse, a bar of chocolate, and two pairs of long underwear that would be too short but otherwise would fit him. “They might be better than what you've got,” she said.

“They certainly are,” he said. “I don't have any underwear.”

After he left, she cried.

E
very time they played “Love Is It” on Radio Luxembourg, Karolin cried.

Lili, now sixteen, thought she knew how Karolin felt. It was like having Walli back home, singing and playing in the next room, except that they could not walk in and see him and tell him how good it sounded.

If Alice was awake they would sit her close to the radio and say: “That's your daddy!” She did not understand, but she knew it was something exciting. Sometimes Karolin sang the song to her, and Lili accompanied her on the guitar and sang the harmony.

Lili's mission in life was to help Karolin and Alice emigrate to the West and be reunited with Walli.

Karolin was still living at the Franck family house in Berlin-Mitte. Her parents would have nothing to do with her. They said she had disgraced them by giving birth to an illegitimate child. But the truth was that the Stasi had told her father he would lose his job as a bus station supervisor because of Karolin's involvement with Walli. So they had thrown her out, and she had moved in with Walli's family.

Lili was glad to have her there. Karolin was like an older sister to replace Rebecca. And Lili adored the baby. Every day when she came home from school she watched Alice for a couple of hours, to give Karolin a break.

Today was Alice's first birthday, and Lili made a cake. Alice sat in her high chair and happily banged a bowl with a wooden spoon while Lili mixed a light sponge cake that the baby could eat.

Karolin was upstairs in her room, listening to Radio Luxembourg.

Alice's birthday was also the anniversary of the assassination. West
German radio and television had programs about President Kennedy and the impact of his death. East German stations were playing it down.

Lyndon Johnson had been president by default for almost a year, but three weeks ago he had won an election by a landslide, defeating the Republican ultraconservative Barry Goldwater. Lili was glad. Although Hitler had died before she was born, she knew her country's history, and she was frightened by politicians who made excuses for racial hatred.

Johnson was not as inspiring as Kennedy, but he seemed equally determined to defend West Berlin, which was what mattered most to Germans on both sides of the Wall.

As Lili was taking the cake out of the oven, her mother arrived home from work. Carla had managed to keep her job as nursing manager in a large hospital, even though she was known to have been a Social Democrat. One time when a rumor had gone around that she was to be fired, the nurses had threatened to go on strike, and the hospital director had been obliged to avert trouble by reassuring them that Carla would continue to be their boss.

Lili's father had been forced to take a job, even though he was still trying to run his business in West Berlin by remote control. He had to work as an engineer in a state-owned factory in East Berlin, making televisions that were far inferior to the West German sets. At the outset he had made some suggestions for improving the product, but this was seen as a way of criticizing his superiors, so he stopped. This evening as soon as he arrived home from work he came into the kitchen and they all sang “Hoch Soll Sie Leben,” the traditional German birthday song meaning: “Long may she live.”

Then they sat around the kitchen table and talked about whether Alice would ever see her father.

Karolin had applied to emigrate. Escape was becoming more difficult every year: Karolin might have tried to cross, all the same, had she been alone; but she was not willing to risk Alice's life. Every year a few people were allowed out legally. No one could find out the grounds on which applications were judged, but it seemed that most of those allowed to leave were unproductive dependents, children and old people.

Karolin and Alice were unproductive dependents, but their application had been refused.

As always, no reason was given.

Naturally, the government would not say whether any appeal was possible. Once again, rumor filled the information gap. People said you could petition the country's leader, Walter Ulbricht.

He seemed an unlikely savior, a short man with a beard that imitated Lenin's, slavishly orthodox in everything. He was rumored to be happy about the coup in Moscow because he had thought Khrushchev insufficiently doctrinaire. All the same, Karolin had written him a personal letter, explaining that she needed to emigrate in order to marry the father of her child.

“They say he's a believer in old-fashioned family morality,” Karolin said. “If that's true, he ought to help a woman who only wants her child to have a father.”

People in East Germany spent half their lives trying to guess what the government planned or wanted or thought. The regime was unpredictable. They would allow a few rock-and-roll records to be played in youth clubs, then suddenly ban them altogether. For a while they would be tolerant about clothing, then they would start arresting boys in blue jeans. The country's constitution guaranteed the right to travel, but very few people got permission to visit their relatives in West Germany.

Grandmother Maud joined in the conversation. “You can't tell what a tyrant is going to do,” she said. “Uncertainty is one of their weapons. I've lived under the Nazis as well as the Communists. They're depressingly similar.”

There was a knock at the front door. Lili opened it and was horrified to see, standing on the doorstep, her former brother-in-law, Hans Hoffmann.

Lili held the door a few inches ajar and said: “What do you want, Hans?”

He was a big man, and could easily have shoved her out of the way, but he did not. “Open up, Lili,” he said in a voice of weary impatience. “I'm with the police, you can't keep me out.”

Lili's heart was pounding, but she stayed where she was and shouted over her shoulder: “Mother! Hans Hoffmann is at the door!”

Carla came running. “Did you say Hans?”

“Yes.”

Carla took Lili's place at the door. “You're not welcome here, Hans,” she said. She spoke with calm defiance, but Lili could hear her breathing, fast and anxious.

“Is that so?” Hans said coolly. “All the same, I need to speak to Karolin Koontz.”

Lili gave a small cry of fear. Why Karolin?

Carla asked the question. “Why?”

“She has written a letter to the comrade general secretary, Walter Ulbricht.”

“Is that a crime?”

“On the contrary. He is the leader of the people. Anyone may write to him. He is glad to hear from them.”

“So why have you come here to bully and frighten Karolin?”

“I'll explain my purpose to Fräulein Koontz. Don't you think you'd better ask me in?”

Carla murmured to Lili: “He might have something to tell us about her application to emigrate. We'd better find out.” She opened the door wide.

Hans stepped into the hall. He was in his late thirties, a big man who stooped slightly. He wore a heavy double-breasted dark-blue coat of a quality not generally available in East German shops. It made him look larger and more menacing. Lili instinctively moved away from him.

He knew the house, and now he acted as if he still lived here. He took off his coat and hung it on a hook in the hall, then without invitation he walked into the kitchen.

Lili and Carla followed him.

Werner was standing up. Lili wondered fearfully if he had taken his pistol from its hiding place behind the saucepan drawer. Perhaps Carla had been arguing on the doorstep in order to give him time to do just that. Lili tried to stop her hands shaking.

Werner did not hide his hostility. “I'm surprised to see you in this house,” he said to Hans. “After what you did, you should be ashamed to show your face.”

Karolin was looking puzzled and anxious, and Lili realized she did
not know who Hans was. In an aside Lili explained: “He's with the Stasi. He married my sister and lived here for a year, spying on us.”

Karolin's hand went to her mouth and she gasped. “That's him?” she whispered. “Walli told me. How could he do such a thing?”

Hans heard them whispering. “You must be Karolin,” he said. “You wrote to the comrade general secretary.”

Karolin looked scared but defiant. “I want to marry the father of my child. Are you going to let me?”

Hans looked at Alice in her high chair. “Such a lovely baby,” he said. “Boy or girl?”

It made Lili shake with fear just that Hans was looking at Alice.

Reluctantly, Karolin said: “Girl.”

“And what's her name?”

“Alice.”

“Alice. Yes, I think you said that in your letter.”

Somehow this pretense of being nice about the baby was even more frightening than a threat.

Hans pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table. “So, Karolin, you seem to want to leave your country.”

“I should think you'd be glad—the government disapproves of my music.”

“But why do you want to play decadent American pop songs?”

“Rock and roll was invented by American Negroes. It's the music of oppressed people. It's revolutionary. That's why it's so strange to me that Comrade Ulbricht hates rock and roll.”

When Hans was defeated by an argument he always just ignored it. “But Germany has such a wealth of beautiful traditional music,” he said.

“I love traditional German songs. I'm sure I know more than you do. But music is international.”

Grandmother Maud leaned forward and said waspishly: “Like socialism, comrade.”

Hans ignored her.

Karolin said: “And my parents threw me out of the house.”

“Because of your immoral way of life.”

Lili was outraged. “They threw her out because you, Hans, threatened her father!”

“Not at all,” he said blandly. “What are respectable parents to do when their daughter becomes antisocial and promiscuous?”

Angry tears came to Karolin's eyes. “I have never been promiscuous.”

“But you have an illegitimate child.”

Maud spoke again. “You seem a little confused about biology, Hans. Only one man is required to make a baby, legitimate or otherwise. Promiscuity has nothing to do with it.”

Hans looked stung, but once again he refused to rise to the bait. Still addressing Karolin, he said: “The man you wish to marry is wanted for murder. He killed a border guard and fled to the West.”

“I love him.”

“So, Karolin, you beg the general secretary to grant you the privilege of emigration.”

Carla said: “It's not a privilege, it's a right. Free people may go where they like.”

That got to Hans. “You people think you can do anything! You don't realize that you belong to a society that has to act as one. Even fish in the sea know enough to swim in schools!”

“We're not fish.”

Hans ignored that and turned back to Karolin. “You are an immoral woman who has been rejected by her family because of outrageous behavior. You have taken refuge in a family with known antisocial tendencies. And you wish to marry a murderer.”

“He's not a murderer,” Karolin whispered.

“When people write to Ulbricht, their letters are passed to the Stasi for evaluation,” Hans said. “Yours, Karolin, was given to a junior officer. Being young and inexperienced, he took pity on an unmarried mother, and recommended that permission be granted.” This sounded like good news, Lili thought, but she felt sure there would be a twist in the tail. She was right. Hans went on: “Fortunately, his superior passed his report to me, recalling that I have had previous dealings with this”—he looked around with an expression of disgust—“with this undisciplined, nonconformist, troublemaking group.”

Lili knew what he was going to say now. It was heartbreaking. Hans had come here to tell them that he had been responsible for the rejection of Karolin's application—and to rub it in personally.

“You will receive a formal reply—everyone does,” he said. “But I can tell you now that you will not be permitted to emigrate.”

“Can I visit Walli?” Karolin begged. “Just for a few days? Alice has never even seen her father!”

“No,” said Hans with a tight smile. “People who have applied for emigration are never subsequently allowed to take holidays abroad.” His hatred showed through momentarily as he added: “What do you think we are, stupid?”

“I will apply again in a year's time,” said Karolin.

Hans stood up, a smile of triumphant superiority playing around his lips. “The answer will be the same next year, and the year after, and always.” He looked around at all of them. “None of you will be given permission to leave. Ever. I promise you.”

With that he left.

•   •   •

Dave Williams phoned Classic Records. “Hello, Cherry, this is Dave,” he said. “Can I speak to Eric?”

“He's out at the moment,” she said.

Dave was disappointed and indignant. “This is the third time I've phoned!”

“Unlucky.”

“He could phone me back.”

“I'll ask him.”

Dave hung up.

He was not unlucky. Something was wrong.

Plum Nellie had had a great 1964. “Love Is It” had gone to number one on the hit parade, and the group—without Lenny—had done a tour of Britain with a package of pop stars including the legendary Chuck Berry. Dave and Walli had moved into a two-bedroom apartment in the theater district.

But things had now cooled right down. It was frustrating.

Plum Nellie had a second record out. Classic had released “Shake, Rattle and Roll,” with “Hoochie Coochie Man” on the B side, rushing it out for Christmas. Eric had not consulted the group, and Dave would have preferred to record a new song.

Dave had proved right. “Shake, Rattle and Roll” had flopped. Now it was January 1965, and as Dave thought about the year ahead he had a sense of panic. At night he had dreams about falling—from a roof, out of a plane, off a ladder—and woke up feeling that his life was about to end. The same sensation came over him when he contemplated his future.