Issue 27 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

138
XXII.
And that was how I left Berlin—smuggled, really, inside a
sealed military train, a diplomatic pouch on rails.
I shared a sleeper compartment with three servicemen—a
rangy chaplain named Daryl, a born-again aviator, and a black
enlisted man from Indiana. The chaplain knew lots of horror stories
about East Germany, including one about little kids tricked
into informing on their parents.
"This third grade teacher, she asked the class, 'Hey kids, who
saw the monkey on TV last night?' The monkey was on some
West German nature show. Nothing political, but still forbidden.
The teacher took down the names of all the kids who raised their
hands, and the parents were called in for questioning. Some of
them lost their jobs."
The chaplain also mentioned that the Stasi kept hidden cameras
on the top floors of many East German apartment buildings.
Klaus, I recalled, lived on the fourth floor of a four-story building.
Our conversation faded out, and I lay there in the darkness,
my body rocking along with the rugged thump-thump of the
rails, which, according to the aviator, were not properly maintained
by the East German government. For a long time I couldn't
sleep. I kept visualizing my alternate reality, the events that
might have taken place if I hadn't happened to have dinner with
Bob and Joanie a couple of days after my visit with Klaus. I saw
the apple-cheeked soldier bursting into my compartment, shaking
me awake, demanding to see my passport. I saw my own fear and
the bewilderment of my fellow passengers as I was placed under
arrest and led away at gunpoint. I imagined my parents waiting at
the airport long after the arrival of my flight, wondering what had
happened to me, and I hated Klaus just then like I'd never hated
anyone in my life. Why would he want to hurt me? What had I
ever done to him?
Finally, I must have dozed off. When I opened my eyes, the
chaplain was standing by the window. Outside, the dawn sky and
the countryside were an identical smoky shade of blue.
"Any second now," the chaplain whispered.
Suddenly the clunkythumping below us vanished, replaced by
a soft hum, a whispery gliding sensation. The chaplain clapped me
on the shoulder.
"You made it," he said. "We're back in the West."
XXIII.
After the collapse of the East German government, I read
everything I could about the Stasi, whose presence in the society
turned out to be more pervasive and suffocating than anyone
could have imagined. According to reliable estimates, the Secret
Police kept files on six million citizens, a third of the East German
population. It turned out not to be an exaggeration to say that the
whole country was engaged in an endless routine of spying on
itself.
Some of the spies were full-time agents, but many others were
part-time informers, reporting on the activities and opinions of
their neighbors, co-workers, and even relatives. Some of these
collaborators were apparently willing volunteers, but many of
them had been blackmailed into cooperating, arrested for some
minor, possibly invented transgression, and offered a simple, often
irresistible deal: go to jail and lose everything, or become a Stasi
informer.
I have no way of knowing for sure, but Klaus was probably
an elite agent. Most likely, his behavior in my presence was an
elaborate act, a thoroughly calculated deception. His feelings for
me probably didn't amount to much more than simple contempt.
But there also exists a more complicated possibility. Maybe
some of what he told me was true. Perhaps he really was a former
prisoner, forced into working for the Stasi, cooperating out of
neccessity while still opposing the system in his heart. Maybe he
meant it when he told me that he wanted to escape, that he
couldn't "live like this much longer." Maybe he was even secretly
pleased to learn that I'd slipped through the trap he'd helped
set for me.