Issue 27 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

i36
day might have been some kind of set-up, from the moment
Klaus called to tell me he would be wearing his safari suit—the
thugs outside the train station, the postcards in his mailbox, our
seemingly impromptu visit to the Wall, all of it. Bob interrupted
my story.
"Let me ask you one thing, Tommy. Did he get a hold of
your passport?"
"Yeah. He asked to see it at the bar."
Bob gave Joanie a long look, then reached into his back pocket.
He flipped open his wallet like a TV cop.
"I'm with counter-intelligence," he said. "I think you need to
come down to the Consulate tomorrow."
xx.
When I got home that night, Dr. G. asked to have a word with
me. She seemed slightly agitated.
"Your friend from the East called," she said, putting a distasteful
spin on the word friend. "He wanted to know if you got the
book across the border without too much trouble."
I told her I had.
"Show me the book," she said.
Dr. G. frowned as soon as she saw the title: Geschichte der
Deutschen Literatur, by Paul Fechter. She turned to the title page
and showed me the publication date—1941.
"This is a fascist book," she explained. "You could have gotten
arrested just for having it in your possession."
A sick feeling came over me. I hadn't even wanted the stupid
book. I had only accepted it out of politeness, because the angel
was too absurd.
"All phone calls from the East are monitored," she explained.
"Your friend was trying to get you in trouble for smuggling."
Klaus's treachery seemed clear enough at that point, but his
purpose remained murky. Had I passed through the checkpoint
by pure luck, or was that part of the plan, too? Had he wrapped
the book to help me avoid detection, or to make it look more suspicious?
And what about the ledger papers? If the book itself was
illegal, weren't the papers overkill?
"Listen," Dr. G. said wearily. "There are good people over
there. You're just not going to meet them."
XXI.
At the Consulate, Bob taped my story, then told me he didn't
think I should risk taking the train out ofWest Berlin.
"As soon as you cross the border you're fair game," he said.
"The Stasi will probably pull you off the train and hold you for
questioning. They might even arrest you."
"But why? I didn't even do anything."
He said it looked like I was being set up for a charge of
Fluchthilfe—the crime of helping someone to escape. Bob was
especially concerned that Klaus had asked me to photograph a
particular section of the Wall.
"But I didn't take the pictures," I pointed out.
Bob shrugged. "It's up to you, Tommy. But if they take you,
it's anyone's guess when we'll be able to get you back. And
besides, they could also try and get you for smuggling."
"Do they do it a lot? Yank people off trains?"
"It happens to West Germans all the time," he said. "Hardly
ever to Americans. But it's not worth chancing it. I really think
you should get a plane out of here."
When I said I couldn't afford a plane ticket, Bob told me
about the duty train, the sealed U.S. military train that was off-limits
to the East German border guards. He said he might be able
to get me a spot on the train leaving the following evening.
"Sit tight," he said. "I'll be right back."
A couple of minutes passed. I waited anxiously in the
Interrogation Room, staring at a brown paper bag with the words,
"Classified Waste—Must Be Burned," written on the side. I still
had trouble making myself believe that Klaus had been -working
for the Secret Police. I just couldn't see the point of it. And yet
here I was in the Consulate, making secret arrangements to leave
the city. Bob burst back in the room, grinning.
"You're in luck,Tommy. We got you a bunk on the duty train.
And don't worry. Uncle Sam's picking up the tab."