They did.
The officers returned and Frau Simmel smiled at her, but Faith looked away.
“It’s time to inspect those packages. Place them on the table and untie the bundles,” the ranking officer said. “Frau Whitney, is there anything you would like to confess to first?”
Faith ignored him, unfastened the bungee cords and heaved the packages one by one onto the table. As she picked at the tight knot, the slick synthetic twine shredded into dozens of thin strands. She broke a fingernail and ripped off the jagged fragment. She finished and stepped aside.
The gangly officer folded back the wrapping paper. He opened a book and a cardboard bear sprang up. The corrupt Nigerian diplomats charged her a fortune to rent the diplomatic immunity of their Mercedes’ trunk, but any price seemed worth it at the moment. The new method of hand-off needed some refinement, she thought, as she ran her finger over her scraped hand.
“What is that?” the officer said.
“Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”
The senior officer pushed the other man aside and picked up a gray clothbound history of the Socialist Unity Party and flipped through the pages. “You expect me to believe you intend to read this, too?”
“I’ve had insomnia lately. Keep having nightmares the Stasi is out to get me.”
He hissed. “Repack the bags and go.” The officer looked her in the eyes. “Pleasant dreams, Frau Doktor.”
The bastard could have released her beyond the final border control, but he didn’t, so she still had to pass the final passport check. More than once she’d seen them release someone here only to return for them within minutes. Four of the fourteen Formica passport-control chutes were open. White metal signs designated lanes for different nationals, separating East from West, West Berliners from West Germans and GDR citizens from everyone else. Faith watched her arm tremble as she handed over her passport. The guard’s head was motionless, but his eyes dashed between the photo and her face.
“Take off your glasses. Push your hair behind your left ear,” he said in a monotone.
A purple light flashed from the computer scanning her passport. He straightened his tie as he waited for her file. He glanced into an angled mirror high on the booth opposite him as if it enabled him to read her thoughts. She emptied her exhausted mind. He turned page after page, studying her movements. He stamped it and then the lock on the door clicked.
She was almost in the West. Almost.
Faith dragged herself down the long corridor and up the concrete stairs on shaky legs, heaving the damn cart up one step at a time. The tourist rush was long past and only a handful of people waited for the train to the West. Sentries toting machine guns paced back and forth on the catwalk above the platform. Their wide, baggy pants were gathered into high black leather boots, casting an ominous shadow of an earlier Germany. She bought Swiss chocolate from a state-run kiosk peddling communist propaganda and duty-free Western luxuries. She devoured the candy, her excitement rising. She had almost beaten them again.
A commuter train rolled into the S-Bahn station. The blond wooden paneling and slatted seats had survived one, maybe two wars. She grabbed both metal handles and pulled open the heavy doors of the first car. Several minutes later, they crept from the station. High fences topped with barbed wire escorted the train the short distance through East German territory. Floodlights bathed the crumbling buildings, their windows bricked over to prevent their occupants from joining the handful of East Berliners who somehow scaled the Wall every month. She prayed tonight wouldn’t be the night for another attempt.
Bright lights cast tall shadows from the dead strip between Berlins. Searchlights scratched the surface of the murky Spree. Spiked grates were invisible underneath the river’s polluted waters, but visible in the mind of every Berliner.
Faith looked, just in case.
After the train rumbled across the bridge into the safety of the West, she smiled; a more buoyant celebration of her little victory went on in her mind. At the first station, flashy Joe Camel and Marlboro man ads greeted her to the West. Her brain needed a few seconds to adjust to the color onslaught.
A West Berlin engineer relieved his Eastern counterpart. The man glanced at Faith a little too long. When would these guys roll over and admit defeat? They couldn’t do anything to her in the West, so she slumped in her seat, closed her eyes and promised herself a shower within the hour.
She couldn’t drag the books another inch, so she decided to leave them on the train and take only the trolley and flowers. At the Tiergarten station she climbed off, anticipating the solitary walk along the Spree canal, gas lamps casting romantic shadows on the cobblestones. Tonight especially she needed the walk.
The stationmaster and two men in formalwear were the only ones on the platform. Faith quickly catalogued the young man’s appearance: tall, blond, blue eyes, athletic-a Nazi dreamboat. The older gentleman seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place him. His high forehead made his face long and kept his wide cheekbones from making it seem round. His silver-gray hair and goatee were meticulously trimmed, as if someone touched them up every day. He was striking now in his early sixties and Faith had the impression he’d been quite a ladies’ man in his youth. Maybe she knew him from the movies.
The men did not board the train. They watched Faith.
Faith swung around toward the back exit, but it was cordoned off for repairs. The stationmaster blew her whistle. The draft of the train rustled the newspapers wrapped around Faith’s flowers. She picked up her pace and veered behind the occupied bench. The men stood.
She walked faster, but they followed her.
“Frau Doktor Whitney. May I have a word with you?” The man with the goatee squeezed her arm. “Walk with me as if nothing’s unexpected.”
“Let me go!” Faith jerked away, dropping her mums, scattering them across stained concrete. “How do you know who I am?”
“You know.” He held her firmly and forced her to walk with him. The Aryan squatted and gathered the flowers while the older one spoke. “We have a proposition for you, Frau Doktor.”
“Sorry, I just got off work for the day. Feier Abend. We can talk tomorrow.” How dare they violate the rules and come after her in the West. They’d played the game fairly for years, each time leaving off when she managed to get to West Berlin and resuming when she returned East. The Cold War depended upon honoring such clear rules of engagement. She sensed her commuter pass had just expired.
“I think these are yours.” The younger man presented Faith with her mums.
The man with the goatee continued to hold her with one arm. “Be calm, Frau Doktor. We’re here to apologize for our associates tonight. The cavity search was unauthorized. Henker is a crude man, usually effective, but crude. When I heard about it, I left my dinner to find you, but you’d already left pass control.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone authorized to go West on a whim. Who the hell are you?”
“Someone in a position to assist you with a visa, among other things. You see, it seems you just paid your last visit to the GDR, unless we can come up with a mutually satisfying agreement, but I’m sure we can.”
“What do you want?”
The older man looked at his watch before descending the stairs. It was Russian-made. “The cabaret hasn’t begun yet. There’s no reason for the entire evening to be ruined. Come along and we can discuss matters.”
“Why should I?”
“You will enjoy it,” he said as if issuing a command.
“I’ve been followed, set up, strip-searched and now you want to take me to dinner and a show? The Stasi has a lot to learn about dating.”