Issue 27 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

132
It was an illustrated history of German Literature printed in an
unreadable gothic-style typeface that gave me an instant headache.
"This is an important book," he said. "As a student of
literature, I'm sure you'll find it quite useful."
I didn't need or want a five-pound illustrated history of
German Literature, but knew it would be impolite to refuse him
twice.
"Okay," I said. "Thank you."
Klaus seemed pleased. He took the book into his bedroom
for a couple of minutes. When he returned, the book was neatly
wrapped in plain gray paper.
"My gift to you," he said proudly.
XIV.
We took a streetcar back into the center of the city and got
off in an unfamiliar neighborhood of crumbling apartment buildings
and bombed-out ruins from World War II. Klaus said he
wanted to show me something.
The streets were deserted at sunset, except for two husky
guys who appeared to be following at a distance of a block or so.
Klaus glanced over his shoulder and whispered, "Gibt man ein
schlechtes Gefuhl—it gives you a bad feeling." We picked up our
pace, making several turns in rapid succession to throw them off
our trail.
I knew we were close to the Wall, but I hadn't realized how
close until we rounded a corner and there it was, dead ahead at a
distance of maybe fifty yards. Not the graffiti-covered novelty I
knew from the western side, but something else entirely—the
white, white prison wall of East Berlin.
Klaus put his arm around me and walked me right up to the
edge of the forbidden zone, a step or two beyond the signs that
warned us to Halt! Residents of surrounding buildings poked
their heads out of windows to see what we were up to. The guards
in their watchtowers snapped to attention. On the western side, a
group of tourists floated dreamily above the Wall, gazing down at
us from an observation deck.
"Do you see?" Klaus said angrily. "It's like living in a zoo."
I understood his point, but was too nervous to respond. The
camera hung like a stone""around my neck.
Klaus told me that the observation deck was located on
Bernauer Strasse in West Berlin. He said I could go there sometime,
and we could wave to each other across the barbed wire and
land mines.
"Sure," I said, prepared just then to agree to anything.
"You could take pictures, too. So people in America can
know the truth."
"Sure," I said again. This didn't seem like the time to explain
that pictures of the Wall were a dime a dozen in the West.
"You know," he said, as though the idea had just occurred to
him, "if I were to try to escape, I think I would do it here. It's a
very short distance to the other side. It would really help me if
you took those pictures."
"Sure," I said a third time, as though it were my mantra.
xv.
At a bar near the train station, we drank a farewell beer, then
moved on to the ritual exchange of addresses. While searching for
a scrap of paper, I emptied the contents of my pockets onto the
table—wallet, passport, visa, keys, change.
"Can I look at your passport?" he asked.
"Why?"
He might have heard the suspicion in my voice.
"I'm just curious," he said. "I've never seen an American passport
before."
"Okay." With an odd, queasy feeling, I pushed it across the
table.
Klaus studied the cover for what seemed like a long time, then
opened the little book to the page with my picture on it.
"You look frightened," he said with a laugh.
XVI.
He accompanied me to the train station, right up to the edge of
the checkpoint area. He hugged me and told me to keep in touch.
Then he cast a swift, surreptitious glance at the border guards.