“Men don’t do things like that.”
“You’re not a man. Your opinion on us doesn’t count.”
“Well, you’re not a woman,” she replied indignantly.
“I’m your training officer. Your opinion on women doesn’t matter either.”
“Do any of my opinions matter?”
“Well…” he thought about this for a moment, before brushing a few fingers through his hair and smiling in an exaggerated fashion, “How do you like my hair?”
“It’s terrible,” Lena said, irritated.
“Well then,” he rolled his eyes, “your opinion doesn’t matter on that either, then. Dress so you won’t draw attention.”
The conversation continued in a more light-hearted fashion. This young Stasi officer wasn’t the meanest person she had ever met by a long shot. He was handsome, funny, and intelligent. Yet he had an air of boredom about him that most of the officers she met had, as if training her in the arcane realm of tailing and spying was more of an annoyance than a purpose-filled project. Honestly though, that’s probably exactly what this all was to them—an annoyance.
Still, the young officer seemed to enjoy their conversations somewhat. He bought her dinner and coffee, and would complement her music or hair. He called her nice things often, and seemed rather amiable about it; and even though they were ‘dating’, he would only kiss her on the cheek for appearances. Other than that, he was more like an annoying older brother that was much smarter than her, and knew it.
“Well, it looks like our time is just about up,” he said, as he fumbled for his keys. “I have another mission for you, and then you will be meeting with your Grandfather.”
Lena’s heart skipped; she had only seen him once after she was released from prison. She had honestly wondered if she was ever to see him again. The world had grown three sizes since she began her training with the Stasi, and it looked to be growing larger by the minute.
“What is it?” she asked eagerly.
“I want you to take this,” he said, handing her a small, nondescript black pen.
She fumbled it around in her fingers for a second before clicking the end of it.
“Don’t do that too much,” he chastised her. “It’s a camera. Each time you click the end, you take a picture through the nib, but first you need to twist the end to expose the lens”
“Alright,” Lena said, impressed.
“Do not… I repeat, do NOT try to write with it,” he spoke with an authoritative tone, “There’s only a small amount of ink inside the nib itself. The CIA and MI6 know about this model now. That’s why we don’t use it anymore. Don’t break it, either! There were only ten of these ever made, as they have to be made by hand, and they are really expensive. Obviously, do not let someone else use it, and for the love of God don’t lose it! That got a KGB agent killed—by the KGB, which happens an awful lot, by the way.” With a wry grin, he added, “Just… be natural.”
“What should I take pictures of?”
“That’s up to you. It takes 150 pictures, but I only want a few. Impress me, Lena! If you get it right and impress me, then I’ll give Grandfather my stamp of approval.”
With that, they both stood up, gathering their coats for the cold walk home. Her ‘date’ put his hands warmly over her arms and kissed her sweetly on the cheek. The kiss felt real, but she could tell that there was no pressure under his hands when he touched her. Strangely, she felt a little disappointment at the fakeness of the embrace.
“Until we meet again, my love,” he said genuinely enough, and clasped her hand warmly in his. It was a sort of romantic handshake, with both of the palms of their right hands touching, and his left hand placed over the back of her right. He looked longingly into her eyes, as if to convey how very much he wanted to meet with her again as soon as possible.
Strangely—perhaps pleasantly strange—he held the look, and began stroking the back of her hand. Suddenly, Lena realized that she was nearly beginning to enjoy this. He was handsome after all, and that stroking of her hand was stimulating in a sort of way. “Is this wrong?” she thought to herself, and she considered it for a moment. Her and a Stasi officer… that would be too much! No, best to avoid letting this evolve into something she would regret. Yet as the moment continued on, perhaps a little too long, his romantic gaze shifted slightly, and the rubbing on the back of her hand became rougher. Almost irritating.
“Take the piece of paper, dammit,” he whispered under his breath. Finally, Lena noticed the piece of paper he was trying to discreetly pass along, and that she wasn’t paying close enough attention to recognize it pressing against her palm.
“Oh!” she muttered under her breath as she took it as sneakily as possible.
“Dumbass,” he muttered under his breath playfully as he turned to walk away.
Trying her hardest to look natural, she gathered herself and walked out of the small café. She walked slowly through the door, and then paced around the corner. Once she was sure she could do so unburdened by the prospect of prying eyes, she glanced down at the piece of paper. It was folded in half, so she unfolded it as casually as she could. On it, the words, “Metropol Interhostel—9pm—tomorrow—Dress fancy!” were written. Suddenly, Lena had a bit of an idea what her new super-secret spy-pen would be used for. Excited and pensive all the same, she walked towards the exit to leave.
Lena was already tired as she started out of the cafe. It had been a long day, and she knew tomorrow would be as well. Her life since leaving the prison had become quite active—her Grandfather had seen to that. After being allowed a few blessed nights of sleep back in her own bed, her new job as the lead singer of Nicht Zustimmen had begun. Typically, when starting a new band, a lone musician pools his or her resources and tries to get the word out to all the known musicians for interest. Then auditions start and if it’s a good fit, viola!… you have a band.
However, this new band had already been waiting for her after the three days of rest. She had a guitarist, a keyboardist (a keyboardist! Of all things!), a drummer and… no bassist (Grandfather had stressed that the keyboardist would be enough). All of them looked perfect, and all were perfectly willing to play the parts given to them. And the parts were given to them—by Lena, apparently. By the time Lena met her new band-mates, several songs had already been written, lyrics to boot, with all the parts fleshed out, which made for easy learning. They had been practicing twice a week for a while now, and, in spite of the fact that the practice sessions were mostly spent arguing (as bands do), trading gross and terrible stories, and chain-smoking cigarettes, Lena thought they actually sounded pretty good. The road ahead was also clearly paved with booked gigs, so there was nearly no work involved. At least as far as music was concerned.
The music itself was masterfully written. The inclusion of a keyboard had added a dynamic that wasn’t all too common in punk music—even in East German punk, which was well known for having a plethora of influences. The only band that even remotely compared was perhaps Feeling B, but this was something else entirely. While Feeling B’s music was weird and extremely fast, Lena’s band bordered on simply angry dance music. Her Grandfather felt that this would play well in the West “with all the New Wave, British, hippy nonsense flooding the streets like diarrhea.” Lena had to admit that she was pretty excited to see how audiences would respond.