Harry woke with a start and stared at the ceiling of his apartment, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light. His body was drenched in sweat but he felt cold as the moisture evaporated in the cool air of a Berlin morning. He shivered and instinctively pulled the single sheet over him while he gathered his senses. He’d eventually fallen asleep just before dawn and in his deepest slumber he’d relived the events of eighteen years ago as he did almost every night.
In the dream, he died again. He always died. The outcome was always the same and in the dark hours of the night when he lay awake, fearful and apprehensive yet knowing what sleep would bring, he wondered whether in fact life was the illusion, a cruel deceit visited on him by some force of evil, intent on retribution.
Through the open window, he heard the first sounds of morning emanating from the street below and he turned his head. Petra, the only constant and reliable thing in his life, lay face down, breathing gently, her beautiful slim body curled up under the fine cotton sheet. He rubbed a forearm across his brow and felt the familiar stab of pain in his shoulder, a cruel and constant reminder that part of the dream at least was real, or had been real. Once.
He threw the sheet aside and sat up on the edge of the bed, reaching for his cigarettes, already hearing Petra’s rebuke in his subconsciousness. He slipped on a thin dressing gown and took the cigarette packet through the double doors into the sitting room, then plodded barefoot into the kitchen area. He filled the coffee pot, put it on the stove and lit a cigarette from the gas burner.
He felt drained, as ever, from reliving the events of the past and habitually tormented himself with futile thoughts of what might have been, what he could have done to make things different and what would have happened if he had.
But today, mercifully, he had other things to occupy his mind. He looked through the kitchen window down at the street below; at the growing volume of trams, cars, delivery vans and pedestrians going about their business; at the Wall and beyond it, the desolate death strip, weirdly calm and benign, devoid of any activity.
Escapes from the east were not new, but last night was the first time he had seen one with his own eyes and he wondered whether he’d be in line for the debrief. He hoped so, assuming of course the guy was still alive.
Major Harry Male had worked for Military Intelligence for five years, the last three stationed in West Berlin, where his department specialised in monitoring, intercepting and deciphering coded transmissions from “the enemy” in East Germany. The innocuously titled Department for International Policy Development was also responsible for receiving and debriefing “runners”: the ones who were not only brave enough to run the gauntlet to freedom but lucky enough to succeed. Each escapee was assigned a debrief officer and Harry was one of three in the department.
He thought it iniquitous that, having risked their lives in a bold bid for freedom, these poor souls should be subjected to any sort of interrogation. Most of them were nobodies, ordinary individuals seeking to throw off the shackles of tyranny, or who, having been stranded when the Wall went up, were simply driven to re-join their families in the West.
He saw the irony that, before the Wall had forcefully curtailed freedom of movement between one sector and another, there had been neither the need nor the desire to interrogate those entering the western sectors and failing to return home. But the Wall had changed the rules of the game and it was becoming apparent that people who took such great risks probably had good reason beyond a simple urge for freedom.
The Western powers had found that they were able to garner useful information from academics, scientists and government officials, and in return, they could assist their integration into western society, offer them roles in equivalent disciplines and most important of all, provide sanctuary.
But naturally, they had to be sure that those who appeared to have escaped under the most difficult and dangerous circumstances were indeed who they said they were, neither servants of the communist regime nor agents bent on infiltration and espionage.
Harry poured himself a black coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, taking in the view across the death strip, reliving in his mind the previous night’s events. He took a long draw from his cigarette, savoured the drug for a while and blew the smoke into the air. Last night’s incident was a welcome distraction from his normal train of thought and he would look forward to finding out who the runner had been and whether indeed he was okay.
“Ugh! What a stink!”
Petra came up behind him, wafting her hands in the air, and slid open the kitchen window to let out the fumes.
“Tobacco is a filthy weed—”
“I know. I know,” he said irritably, interrupting her before she got into her stride.
“Then why don’t you stop?” She was barefoot, wearing one of his old shirts with the sleeves rolled up, the shirt tails extending to her thighs offering a tantalising glimpse of buttock whenever she stretched. Even in her dishevelled, just-got-out-of-bed, tangled-hair state, she was beautiful, vibrant and feisty.
“I will,” he sighed. “I just need it at the moment.”
“You’re always saying that. You don’t need it.” It was well intentioned as always, but it sounded like a nag and he wasn’t in the mood.
“How do you know what I need?” he snapped at her, suddenly angry. She had touched a nerve and it was the same nerve as always. Her face dropped and she pursed her lips, then turned on her heel and stomped off towards the bathroom, bare feet slapping on the tiled floor. She slammed the door behind her.
Harry cursed under his breath, wallowing in a cloud of anger and contrition. He hated himself for the outburst and wanted more than anything to rewind the last few seconds and live them again. As soon as the words had come out he’d regretted them, knowing immediately what he’d said was wrong and insensitive and that he’d gone too far.
But just as ever, he couldn’t rewind the past, however recent or distant. He had to live in the moment, cast aside any regrets and move on. Despite having again hurt the one he loved, and hurting himself in the process, he knew he’d be able to make it up to her and they’d forget about it in no time. He scratched his head, took a long look at his smouldering half-cigarette and angrily stubbed it out in the ashtray.
***
They sat quietly across the kitchen table, picking at their Brötchen and coffee, having hardly exchanged a word since their little spat, which was over, if not yet forgotten.
Harry craved another cigarette, but it was out of the question. He’d have to wait until he got outside before he lit up again. Petra was engrossed in some papers, pen in one hand, scribbling and scoring in red, the other hand alternating between bread roll and coffee cup. He watched her work and marvelled at her concentration, her focus on the task at hand, something he’d always struggled with. He was forever distracted, wary and watchful, anticipating the next interruption and when it came, knowing it was usually self-induced. They would give it a name one day; it would be a syndrome or a condition or something, but for now, he was content to put it down as a character defect.
If Petra was aware of his attention, she showed no sign of it, her brow furrowed and pen poised over a student’s thesis. A graduate in international politics from the University of Bonn, fluent in English and French, competent in Russian and Czech, and now lecturer in philosophy and humanities at the Free University of Berlin, Petra was fourteen years his junior. Beautiful, intelligent, gregarious and light-hearted, a glass half full of a woman bursting with enthusiasm for everyone and everything and the myriad possibilities and opportunities that life and the future held. That she made him feel inadequate and undeserving was no fault of hers, nor a consequence of anything she said or did, just another example of his own insecurity. Another character defect.
“Busy day today?” he ventured, not wishing to disturb her, just wanting to break the ice. She looked up and smiled at him, the earlier incident now forgotten, her natural warmth preventing the formation of any ice.
“Nothing special. Second year student lecture on Leibniz and analytical philosophy, followed by a tutorial on Nieztsche and the influence of the übermenschlich on the Third Reich. Spot of lunch, first year lecture on humanistic theories and practices then it’s head down in the office to finish marking these dissertations.”
He nodded knowingly as if, other than the stuff involving the red pen, he had any clue what she was talking about. As usual, her answer to his simple question made him feel stupid and inadequate in equal measure. But that was his fault, not hers; she didn’t mean it and he didn’t love her any less.
“Oh, I forgot to say,” she went on, “we’ve got a management meeting at five and it’ll probably go on a while so you go ahead and have something to eat.” It sounded like an afterthought, which was unusual for Petra, so organised and precise about everything.
“What, again?”
She gave him a patronising look that compounded his feeling of inadequacy. “We have one every month?”
“Oh yes. Of course. Just came around quick, that’s all.”
“Go to the Kronestube and have some dinner. You like it there,” she said, brightening. She was making the event sound like an opportunity for him, encouraging him to socialise a little, and not for the first time.
“By myself? No thanks.”
“Can’t you get someone from the office to go with you?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged, but even if he’d been enthusiastic about the notion, he didn’t want to show it. He didn’t need any help organising his social affairs because he never had any so they didn’t need organising. He knew he looked and sounded disgruntled. Petra sighed and changed the subject.
“Wonder what happened to that guy?”
Harry would have been on safer ground with this subject, but Petra had no idea what he did at work. He couldn’t tell her and although she’d asked way back when they first met, she’d learned not to ask again. She knew he was a civil servant and that was all, but she was far from stupid, had probably drawn fairly accurate conclusions and decided long ago it was futile to probe any further.
“No idea. I still can’t believe he took those bullets and survived. Unless of course he didn’t.”
“Didn’t take the bullets or didn’t survive?”
Harry shrugged. “Either. But if he’s still in this world, I’m sure the MPs will hand him over to the right people.” That was as far as he was prepared to go. Petra, without her knowledge, had been vetted right at the beginning and he’d been given the all clear to continue the relationship. But her professional and private life would be subject to routine review so the less she knew, the less she could say. Better for them both.
He had a feeling this job would come his way, especially when they found out he’d witnessed the entire incident, and he regretted he couldn’t share it with her as he knew she’d be interested. He looked forward to jobs like that. He was always intrigued to find out what story the runner had to tell and if he were being honest, he liked best the task of separating the truth from the lies. It was one thing he knew he was good at, spotting duplicity and deceit, seeing through half-truths and embellishments, and that was the reason he enjoyed doing it.
Petra shuffled her papers together. “Must be off.”
“Yes, you go. I’ll deal with these,” he said and reached for her cup.
“No. Leave them. Helga’s in today.”
He had forgotten it was Thursday. The apartment and most of its contents belonged to the MoD and they lived rent-free for as long as he was posted there. The weekly houseclean was all part of the package so every Thursday Frau Leitner would arrive after they’d left for work, beaver away for as many hours as it took and disappear before they got home when they would find the whole place restored to pristine condition.
They walked down the stairs together and out into the street, exchanging brief kisses and wishing each other a good day before setting off in opposite directions.
Harry lit a cigarette and sucked in the poison with relish, the dark memories of his dream dissipating, at least for now. He slung his jacket over one shoulder and crossed the cobbled street, striding out on another warm summer’s day in West Berlin with a spring in his step. Tobacco is a filthy weed…