booze talking, Tommy.”
“Of course it is. And thanks for the cool gift.”
“You write well with it, got me?”
I nodded, keeping my hurt to myself, wishing myself anywhere but here.
“He must be a nice man,” the woman next to me said, eyeing the seriously stylish red plastic case in which the typewriter was housed.
I said nothing. I just smiled. She noted that.
“So he’s not a nice guy?” she asked.
“He’s a complex guy.”
“And he probably loves you very much . . . and doesn’t know how to express it. Hence the nice gift. If you’re not a journalist, then you must be some sort of writer.”
“So who told you to leave the GDR?” I asked, quickly changing the subject.
“No one did. I overheard talk.”
She lowered her head, lowered her voice.
“My father . . . he was a senior member of the Party in Leipzig. And he was part of a top-secret group that had been briefed by the hierarchy in Berlin. I was thirty at the time. Married, no children, wanting to leave my husband—a functionary in a government bureau in which I had a job. As my father was high up, my position was considered glamorous by GDR standards: a senior receptionist at one of the big international hotels in the city. I had Saturday lunch every week with my parents. We were close, especially as I was their only child. My father doted on me, even though, given his Party connections, I could never express what I silently thought: our country was becoming more and more of a place where you were either with the Party or shut out of anything the society could offer you. I wanted to travel. That was simply impossible, except to other gray fraternal socialist states. But I articulated none of this to my parents, as they were both true believers. Until I heard my father, on that Saturday, tell my mother that she should stay indoors Sunday and not answer the phone, as there was going to be a ‘big change’ happening overnight.
“I had heard rumors for weeks, months, that the government was going to finally seal the borders—which, in Berlin, still remained porous. Walter Ulbricht—he was the general secretary of the Party at the time—was always going on about the ‘leakage’ at the frontier; the traitors who turned their back on our ‘humane, utopian’ society for the ‘nightmarish filth of the capitalist West.’
“I was returning from the bathroom when my father told my mother about staying inside the next day, and only overheard it as I approached the sitting room where we were taking coffee. I froze when my father’s voice whispered to her about the ‘big change overnight.’ I felt as if I was in free fall. Because I knew what this meant. And I knew that I had only hours to act if I wanted to . . .
“I checked my watch. It was twelve minutes to three. I steadied myself. I went back into the sitting room. I finished drinking coffee with my parents, then excused myself, telling them I was going swimming with a girlfriend at the public baths. I kissed them both good-bye and resisted the desire to hold them close, especially my father, because I sensed I would not be seeing them again for a very long time.
“Then I rode my bicycle home. Happily, Stefan, my husband, was playing football that afternoon with the other functionaries from the housing department where he worked. So he was away from the sad little apartment we shared together. I always thought that one of life’s greater ironies. Stefan worked in the department in charge of allocating apartments in Leipzig, and he could only get us this depressing little place. But that was Stefan. He always thought very small. Anyway, I let myself into our place. Once inside I collected a few small items: a change of clothes, a small stash of actual west deutsche marks, my passport, and whatever eastmarks I could find. I was there no longer than ten minutes. Then I rode my bike to the Hauptbahnhof and boarded the three-forty-eight express to Berlin. Within two hours I was there. I had a
“Of course it is. And thanks for the cool gift.”
“You write well with it, got me?”
I nodded, keeping my hurt to myself, wishing myself anywhere but here.
“He must be a nice man,” the woman next to me said, eyeing the seriously stylish red plastic case in which the typewriter was housed.
I said nothing. I just smiled. She noted that.
“So he’s not a nice guy?” she asked.
“He’s a complex guy.”
“And he probably loves you very much . . . and doesn’t know how to express it. Hence the nice gift. If you’re not a journalist, then you must be some sort of writer.”
“So who told you to leave the GDR?” I asked, quickly changing the subject.
“No one did. I overheard talk.”
She lowered her head, lowered her voice.
“My father . . . he was a senior member of the Party in Leipzig. And he was part of a top-secret group that had been briefed by the hierarchy in Berlin. I was thirty at the time. Married, no children, wanting to leave my husband—a functionary in a government bureau in which I had a job. As my father was high up, my position was considered glamorous by GDR standards: a senior receptionist at one of the big international hotels in the city. I had Saturday lunch every week with my parents. We were close, especially as I was their only child. My father doted on me, even though, given his Party connections, I could never express what I silently thought: our country was becoming more and more of a place where you were either with the Party or shut out of anything the society could offer you. I wanted to travel. That was simply impossible, except to other gray fraternal socialist states. But I articulated none of this to my parents, as they were both true believers. Until I heard my father, on that Saturday, tell my mother that she should stay indoors Sunday and not answer the phone, as there was going to be a ‘big change’ happening overnight.
“I had heard rumors for weeks, months, that the government was going to finally seal the borders—which, in Berlin, still remained porous. Walter Ulbricht—he was the general secretary of the Party at the time—was always going on about the ‘leakage’ at the frontier; the traitors who turned their back on our ‘humane, utopian’ society for the ‘nightmarish filth of the capitalist West.’
“I was returning from the bathroom when my father told my mother about staying inside the next day, and only overheard it as I approached the sitting room where we were taking coffee. I froze when my father’s voice whispered to her about the ‘big change overnight.’ I felt as if I was in free fall. Because I knew what this meant. And I knew that I had only hours to act if I wanted to . . .
“I checked my watch. It was twelve minutes to three. I steadied myself. I went back into the sitting room. I finished drinking coffee with my parents, then excused myself, telling them I was going swimming with a girlfriend at the public baths. I kissed them both good-bye and resisted the desire to hold them close, especially my father, because I sensed I would not be seeing them again for a very long time.
“Then I rode my bicycle home. Happily, Stefan, my husband, was playing football that afternoon with the other functionaries from the housing department where he worked. So he was away from the sad little apartment we shared together. I always thought that one of life’s greater ironies. Stefan worked in the department in charge of allocating apartments in Leipzig, and he could only get us this depressing little place. But that was Stefan. He always thought very small. Anyway, I let myself into our place. Once inside I collected a few small items: a change of clothes, a small stash of actual west deutsche marks, my passport, and whatever eastmarks I could find. I was there no longer than ten minutes. Then I rode my bike to the Hauptbahnhof and boarded the three-forty-eight express to Berlin. Within two hours I was there. I had a
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