My heart leaps for joy and I’m sure he can see it in my eyes, but I can’t speak. It’s as if Ulrich’s hands are still tight around my throat. My father taught me never to trust strangers and that if something seems too good to be true, it probably is. This boy could be anyone. It could be a trap.
“If you’re interested we can help you. But we’d need you to do something for us first.”
I study a postmark on a letter, hoping that he’ll keep talking. I’ve heard how this sort of thing works. Help has to be earned, like when I did my bit to dig the tunnel beneath the Wall. Ana once told me there are some groups who get each other out leapfrog-style: as new people join, old members can escape. That way the groups’ secrets are kept alive. But how did this young man know to approach me? Perhaps Volker’s sinister reputation and my injuries are enough for to him to believe that I’m suffering enough to want to flee
to the West.
He watches me for a moment, amused that I still haven’t said anything. “You don’t talk much, do you? My name’s Peter.” He hands me another stack of letters and says softly, “Don’t lose hope. And don’t tell anyone we talked.”
I can’t let him go like this. “Wait!” I hiss. When he turns back to me I whisper, “If someone was interested, what would they have to do?”
Peter casts a quick look over his shoulder and comes back into the filing room. “We need dirt on Volker. Things that he has lying around his apartment that might incriminate him. Details of any shady activities. And we want to know where he goes at night. He’s up to something and we don’t like it.”
My excitement dims. Gather information on Volker. Spy on Volker, he who must know every surveillance trick in the book. How long would it take for him to realize what I was doing?
Peter watches my face closely and his eyes brim with sudden amusement. “I know what you’re thinking, but he’s only human. It can be done.” With a jaunty whistle, he grasps his cart and pushes it out into the corridor. I listen to the tune as it fades away, and realize it’s one of the Free German Youth songs that Ana and I would sing on car trips to exasperate my father.
I go over and over the conversation with Peter for the rest of the day, thinking about every time I’ve seen him around the office; trying to discover from these remembered glimpses whether I can trust him.
I can’t trust him. He works for the Stasi.
Yes, but in the mail room. The mail room is probably staffed by ordinary people.
So he just approached me out of the blue and asked if I wanted to flee to the West? Sure. That’s normal.
I look like I’ve been beaten up, and he thinks Volker did it. Maybe that made him angry enough to approach me. And he was honest about wanting something in return.
The needing something in return makes him seem authentic, but I would rather be sure.
That night, I get into bed just after eleven, tense and exhausted, and in my distraction I realize I’ve forgotten to bring a glass of water with me. Telling myself it doesn’t matter I try to fall asleep, but soon my mouth is dry and all I can think of is water, so I throw the covers off and tie a dressing gown over my nightclothes.
The apartment is dark and quiet except for a single lamp burning in the living room, casting a pool of light over stacks of files and paper. There’s no sign of Volker. The papers are just lying there, unprotected.
We need dirt on Volker. Things that he has lying around his apartment that might incriminate him.
Incriminate him in what way, exactly? Does Peter’s group believe he’s involved in illegal activities? Perhaps they are trying to topple him from his position of power. That could be useful to them if they believe that he’s an inordinately good Stasi officer and whoever would replace him wouldn’t have his zeal and cunning. Or maybe it’s just that Volker’s captured a lot of their friends and they want revenge.
These papers that Volker brings home, I’ve always assumed they’re unclassified reports that he reads out of thoroughness, but the possibility crosses my mind that they might be something more. I take a step toward the sofa—
And Volker steps out of the darkened kitchen rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He stops short when he sees me, and studies my face and my long, loose hair. His eyes travel over my fading bruises, the redness of my lower lip. Frau Fischer has taken the stitches out and told me my lip is healing nicely. He steps closer and with a gentle forefinger traces my mouth, his touch feather-soft.
I stand stock still, my heart pounding. Did he see me looking at his reports, and do I look guilty now? I can never trust my face.
Then his finger is gone and his mouth is on mine, his kiss gentle as if careful of hurting me. I feel that magnetic pull toward him as I always do when he’s close to me. In this strange, unpredictable world he is safety, warmth, strength. It’s madness, this desire, but I feel myself sinking deeper and deeper into him just the same. I kiss him back, my mouth opening beneath his.
It’s not madness if his desire for you could be useful.
My eyes open wide and I see his dark lashes against his cheeks as he kisses me. I could do it. Use this against him to escape. But it doesn’t make me feel triumphant, this realization, only wretched, and I shove him away from me.
“No. Stop it.” I don’t want to become like the Stasi, sneaky, lying, betraying. I’m not like them. I’m not like him.
But how badly do you want your freedom?
Not like that. There must be another way.
As I turn toward my room he grasps me by the wrist and pulls me back. “You wanted me for a few moments, Liebling. Remember? You needed me.”
I’m confused, thinking that he’s talking about the incident in his office with the stockings. But then I realize he means how I clung to him, struggling to draw breath after Ulrich strangled me, and begged him not to go. We were both so raw in those moments, so afraid. Amid the blood and pain and fear I had needed him.