 
Sounds of construction roused me from my dream of picnicking with Mama, Daddy, and Dan. Irritated, and hoping to fall back to sleep, I turned over and ran into Marta.

Or rather, the absence of Marta.

Confused, I sat up blearily, wondering where my twin was. It wasn't like Marta to wake up so early; I was the early bird of the family. What was up?

The loud noises of machines started up again, and curious, I went to the window. When I pulled back the curtains, blinking in the sudden stream of early August light, I could see the trucks and men in orange vests striding about. I craned my neck to see more but the small window blocked my vision. I grabbed my bathrobe and headed for the stairs: the kitchen window would provide a better view.

Marta turned when she heard me coming, but didn't offer her usual cheery good morning. I went up beside her and slipped my arm around her waist. Looking sideways, I could see that her delicate face was white, and she was biting her lip. "What is the matter, my Marta? You look as if you'd seen the ghost of Hitler!"

"Oh, Kat," she murmured miserably, "Look!"

Outside the house, construction workers were building an odd barrier of concrete and barbed wire. As we watched, another block of hardened cement was set into place, making the wall, already four or five feet tall, grow increasingly higher.

"Marta! What are they doing?"

"The East German authorities are building the wall to stop the emigrant flow into the west. I read about it in the paper."

I glanced at the newspaper, lying unfolded on the kitchen table, wrinkling my forehead in perplexity. To stop the emigrant flow? It was true that there had been over half a million travelers crossing the border every day for quite a while now. As a West Berliner, I knew all too well of the housing shortage even in my own neighborhood. And attempts had been made to slow it down; West Berlin was getting too crowded. But why this sudden refusal?

"Kat, they say that the wall's being built to protect the Communists from the Capitalists. The government says that all people in the west are fascists who still believe in Hitler! So... the border guards have orders to let no one pass into West Berlin."

That meant...oh, no. I sat down with a thump, and rested my head on my hands. Not allowed to go home? But we had to go home! We didn't belong here!

"Kat... Kat!"

I raised my head to look dully at my sister. "What?"

Marta crouched down so we were eye-to-eye. "Do you have any ideas as to what we can do?"

"Well, we can't stay here, that's for sure."

"Oh I know that; but how d'you think we can convince them to let us go?"

"Ummm... let's ask Oma." Hope rose within me as I jumped off my chair and grabbed Marta's hands. "She'll know what to say."

Upstairs, our grandmother was standing at her window. It was a narrow one like the window in our bedroom, but hers had an easier view of the wall. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she wore a worried look on her face. I went up beside her and peered out.

The Wall had already grown taller.

Chapter One:

Worries

"Ka- at."

I looked up from my history text book. Marta stood in the doorway, beckoning with a hurried gesture. "Ekaterina! Come!" she insisted. I got up reluctantly. "Yes, mother." It had been little over a year since the Berlin Wall had been completed, and Marta had been increasingly more motherly and bossy to me, and even Oma. Therefore, I resisted whenever I could.

Marta glared at me, arms akimbo. "Kat! Please! I need your help."

I sighed and followed unwillingly. "What is so urgent, Marta!? Have your potatoes exploded in the oven again?" Marta fixed her eyes on me with what I called the 'sisterly stare'. "My de\- ar Ekaterina, something is worrying our grandmother. I thought you might be able to talk to her, but you may go back to your history now. I'll do it, and then I'll make dinner. No need for you to do anything when I can."

I quickened my pace. "Oh, Marta, I'm sorry! I didn't know; I just... well, I am sorry. And your cooking's gotten a lot better since the potatoes."

She stopped just as quickly. "I know, it's only that I'm so tired and the Wall is getting on my nerves."

I grinned. "Lately everything is getting on your nerves. They must be carrying a heavy burden!" Marta drooped visibly, and I gave her a hug. "Don't worry liebling. I hate it too."

"And with Oma not having got over her cold, and being short of money..."

I shushed my sister. "I'll go talk to Oma, and you take a break, liebling. You look so spent; you should really take a rest! What if I were to make supper tonight?"

She shot straight up. "Noooo, I wouldn't dare let you in that kitchen! It's a mess already and with the experience you've had, it'd probably explode before you finished!"

We parted laughing and I headed for my grandmother's room. Oma sat in her rocking chair, chin rested on her hand, staring out of her window at the hated boundary. I knelt down beside her. "How are you feeling, Oma? Are you hungry? Do you want anything; Marta is making soup tonight."

She shook her head, and I persisted. "You really ought to eat something. You'd feel better if you did."

"My liebe Kat, I am not hungry, I really couldn't eat a thing, even your sister's soup."

"But Oma, you must! You still haven't got over your cold and it was two weeks ago that you caught it. Marta is worried about you... I am, too."

Oma shook her head decisively. "My darling, I really could not. No," she insisted as I opened my mouth to object, "no, I shall just stay up here and rest. You go down and eat with Marta."

I turned reluctantly. "All right, Oma. We'll keep dinner warm for you if you decide you want it."

"I'll be fine, Kat. Don't worry about me."

But Marta and I did worry. Oma was an independent person, one who loved her freedom. Although she lived in the east side, she had often come to visit them for no particular reason. And now she was as trapped as we were. She could not even take a walk without being interrogated by the soldiers on every corner. She claimed there was nothing wrong, but I knew that over time, the confined situation would eat away at her soul and she would sink into depression. We needed her, and neither of us was sure how long she would last.

Chapter Two:

Curfew

I found my sister in the kitchen, opening cans of Campbell's soup and dumping them into a pot. "Did you talk to Oma? What'd she say?"

I sat down in a chair. "Yes, and she said she doesn't want anything at the moment."

Marta sighed. "She hardly ever eats regular meals now, just nibbles things to keep herself going. I don't know what to do." She heaved another sigh and murmured wistfully, "Mama would know. She can manage anyone." Another sigh and she was herself again, cheerily serving the hot, chunky soup in our heavy crockery bowls. I watched her as she ate, and for the first time noticed that my twin had wide dark circles under her blue eyes and how pale she was. "Marta, you should take a walk with me tomorrow. You look like a china doll; you're so fragile-looking!"

She shook her head, checked the wall clock, and quickly changed the subject. "Kat, would you run to the Postamt for me? I never went when I went to the market; I got stuck talking to Mrs. Vandergelder. At least, she was talking to me. I hardly ever got a world in edgewise!" I giggled, knowing full well what she meant. Mrs. Vandergelder, our neighbor, was extremely chatty, and never wasted an opportunity to exercise her talent. Marta laughed with me, and added, "You've got about forty-five minutes 'till curfew." I got up from my wobbly chair and nodded. "I'll run. I hope there's another letter from Daddy. It's been a long time." Marta grinned at me hopefully.

"Yes. And maybe he'll have met with Mayor Brant by now; he said he would. You know, there's no reason the mayor wouldn't try to do something. He's furious about this whole thing, calls it the Wall of Shame. I heard it on the radioapparat last night."

"Mar-ta! You shouldn't be listening to that! It's against the law and you could get fined and even arrested for it!" I glared at her, arms akimbo.

"But it's the only way I can know what's happening in the West! How can you stand not knowing what's going on the other side of that wall?"

I eyed my twin with my own 'sister stare' (quite fearsome, I thought). "I can stand it because I have to. Marta, have you ever considered what would happen if the soldiers found you? They'd haul you off to jail before you could say hello. It's dangerous and you shouldn't do it."

She tossed her head. "They wouldn't arrest me. I'm a minor still. All they could do would be to talk to me – "

"- And Oma," I reminded her. "They'd fine her, too. Marta, we don't even have money to pay the fine. You know Dan tells us in his letters; why can't you be patient and wait for them?"

Marta bit her lip. "Oh... I know it's risky, but I just can't help it." She looked at me almost pleadingly. "It's the only connection with the outside world. I promise I'll be careful. I just listen at night, anyhow."

I sighed, wavering between safety and assurance. "Well, my Marta, I could not deny you that, but you must be cautious! And please, for my sake, if nothing else, limit the listening."

She nodded. "Now run! You've only got a half-hour."

I scooted for the door, stopping just long enough to pull on my boots, coat and cap. The Postamt was a mere ten minutes walk away; I could reach there and be back before curfew.



But when I reached my destination, a strange sight awaited me. All the doors were locked, the shades fastened, and the CLOSED sign was flipped up in the window. I checked my wrist watch. Curfew was still twenty minutes away. Why were all the shops closed early? It wasn't a holiday as far as I knew, and there was no other reason that I could think of. After all, it couldn't be closed; the postal office was the new, government-appointed news center.

After peeking through the shutters, I spotted a light that appeared to come from a back window. I peered around the corner of the building, and there it was, a shinning square in a sea of darkness. But as I made my way forward into the growing gloom, I banged against something hard.

A tall chain-link fence rose twelve feet tall in front of me. I gritted my teeth, placed my boot-toe into a gap, and swung myself upward. Soon I reached the top and gently eased my right leg over the thick bar. Then came the other leg; my breath hissed out from between set teeth as my knee caught painfully on the sharp metal spikes. Gingerly, I settled my left leg next to my right and found the way down.

Once on solid ground again, it was obvious to me that the window was high above my head. I looked around, and following a few minutes of scouting, found a cardboard box that seemed sturdy enough. When pushed up against the wall it made a nice stool which I quickly mounted.

Inside the little back room \- it was a room, though hardly more than a closet – sat an old man, his trembling fingers quickly sorting the next day's mail. A single, flickering lamp burned on the rickety table beside him, casting shadows on the drab, cracked, and peeling walls.

It was indeed a very gloomy and unhappy sight, and I silently pitied him. I wondered what had reduced him to this pitiless state, and, if this was his job, how could he support his family? No doubt they had been technically forced to live in some broken-down shack because they could not pay rent.

It was at times like these that I hated the Soviets even more that usual. Everywhere I looked poverty stared me in the face, and required me to face the cruel reality that life would never be the same again for the East Berliners. The circumstances also made me even more thankful than ever for my loving family who made it their absolute priority to get Marta and I over the Wall and home. Daddy and Dan's faithful letters, and Mother's notes and packages constantly reminded me that, even in my awful situation, Marta and I were treasured and surely, it would only be a matter of weeks before we would be rescued and finally safe.

Chapter Three

Giraffe

Safe. The thought made me wonder how long I'd been standing there. I again looked to my watch. Thirteen minutes were left and still I had not obtained my mail, whatever it was. It was getting steadily darker, but I stubbornly stuck to my guns and peered into the window again.

The elderly man inside was finishing up his task, and his sporadically flashing lamp seemed to give out more, and then more, light due to the increasing gloom. I disliked the thought of disturbing him: he looked jumpy enough as it was, but the prospect of heart-warming letters from my family cheered me on, and I tapped boldly on the window.

At first, he failed to see me; instead, he looked wildly about the room as if fearful of a lion lurking nearby. Then, having made sure there wasn't any lion, he settled back into his chair cautiously, even making sure to sit down gently, as if dreading the seat would collapse under his weight. I felt sorry for him but knocked harder; gritting my teeth at the thought of the frightful scolding I would get after arriving home late because of my persistence.

This time, the man glanced up to locate the noise and noticed me, a face in the foggy window. Much to my (and his!) surprise, he leaped about two feet in the air and came down flat on the seat of his chair. (I was pleased it did not give way.) Shaking with terror, he scribbled on a piece of scrap paper Sie mussen gehen.

Warum? I mouthed at him.

He didn't answer, only waved his arms wildly and pointed at the clock. I looked at it; the time was identical to mine. Again he held up the paper. This time the message was underlined.

I sighed and jumped off the packing box. If only... if only I could... no. I wouldn't go round the front and demand entrance, although I did so want those letters! But now it was officially dark, and I had only a few minutes to run home; avoiding the soldiers was vital now, for there was no way I could make it in time. Back over the fence I climbed, and then, oh, then how I ran. One thought possessed me, and it was to get as close as I could to my block before the hands of the clock reached eight.

And then disaster struck.

I was running down Handelsweg Street when I heard the harsh voice of the grim corner guard. I was so frightened that I couldn't stop running. In the year I'd lived in East Berlin, I had never had an encounter with the soldiers on the corners. I'd seen them drilling in the city square, and marching past me to their barracks at the end of the day. Never, though, had I spoken to them, or been requested, no, ordered to halt.  
"Halte!" the man shouted, twisting his face in to a smirk which showed he enjoyed interrogating young girls. And again he screamed. "Halte!"

I skidded to a stop, nearly falling on my bottom in my effort; I didn't dare cross the soldier.

"Vhat are you doing out, gel?" When I failed to speak, he grasped my chin and forced my head upward. "I said, vhat are you doing out!"

"I, uh, I went to the post office, and I... well, it took me longer than I thought it would, and I was just heading home, so if you please... " I tried to dodge past him, but he grabbed my arm and held me tight. "Do you know vhat de punishment is for being out over an hour past curfew time, little gel?"

I gasped. "An hour? But curfew... what time is curfew, sir?" I was afraid to ask, and mentally screamed at myself for being so careless. They had changed curfew time again; I knew it before he even spoke. And it was true.

"Curfew is now seven of de clock, little gel. It vas announced in yesterday's paper. Vhy have you not seen dis before?"

"I – I don't read the papers, sir. I don't see any reason to when..." I stopped myself just in time. I was in a scrape as it was and couldn't afford to anger the brute any more.

"Vhen... vhat?" he questioned slyly. I sucked in my breath. "Vhat?!" he asked again, sticking his face close to mine with an awkward gesture. He looked like a giraffe with his long neck stuck out of his high collar, such a funny giraffe that in spite of my predicament I wanted to laugh. But he was glaring at me so fixedly now, his nose almost touching mine, and I knew I had to answer.

"When... when I don't find it beneficial or interesting."

"How can you criticize our fine government's news vhen it is so enlightening?" The Giraffe seemed genuinely shocked. At this I lost my temper. "Because," I steamed, "because your 'fine government' is the same government that is trapping me and my sister here!" I plunged on, enjoying the look of surprise on the man's face. "I see no reason to patronize it when all it does is telling lies about itself and its work. I ha \- ."

The soldier bent down and whispered softly in the most menacing tone I had ever heard, even from a weasel like him. "You vhat?" You hate de government?" He went on, as if talking to himself, "I vonder, vhat vould my commander think of dis feisty little... rebel?" Giraffe grinned evilly at me, apparently relishing in my fear. I almost bit through my tongue in an effort to keep from begging him to leave me alone. He went on. "I vonder... vould dey lock you up? Maybe... shoot you? Or... drown you? Oh, de possibilities!"

He was purposefully tormenting me! I crossed my arms, tried to keep from trembling, stood as tall and straight as possible, and pushed away the thought of my knocking knees. Then, as if my show of defiance -- albeit a fickle one –- demonstrated that I wasn't just a scared girl, his mood changed. "Get along, now, you, go! I haf no time for impudent little vhelps." He shoved me away and strode off quickly into the darkness. I stood there for a moment longer, and then took off towards home, leaving the corner far behind.

Chapter Four

Friends

As I neared Oma's house, I could see Marta's worried face watching for me in the front window. It was almost twenty minutes after what we had both expected curfew to be, and I knew she would be frantic with anxiety and as defensive as a mother bear when she heard of my encounter with the Giraffe.

When I got to the front door, Marta saw me. I waved, trying to look completely normal, and leaned against the side of the house. I didn't have a key so I'd learned to depend on my sister to open doors for me.

And open doors she did! Marta yanked open the front door so violently that I lost my balance and fell against her. She sat down hard and in turn knocked over our umbrella stand. We ended up in a tangle of arms, legs, and umbrellas, snorting with laughter. Suddenly Marta shushed me. "We mustn't be too loud," she cautioned. "Oma's asleep now, and she looked so tired."

"Oh, you," I teased, pushing the umbrella stand off my left leg, "You sound like an old mother hen."

"Kat! Your knee!" Hastily I covered the offending limb with my coat. "No! Don't do that; let me see." I sighed and pulled my coat off, wincing as its rough fabric caught on the torn skin. "Oh, Kat, what'd you do?"

"Scraped it," I answered noncommittally.

"Is that all?" she asked wryly, her blue eyes seeming to bore right through me. I couldn't put off telling her of my escapade any longer. "Well, noooo, I... was climbing a fence, and –"

"What were you doing climbing a fence? Especially at this time of night?"

"Oh, please, my Marta, let me speak. I'm alright, honestly."

"Then tell me, for heaven's sakes, and stop beating round the bush!"

So I told her about the closed post office, the tiny back room and the aged clerk, the tall chain-link barrier, meeting the Giraffe, and the new curfew time.

Marta shook her head at me. "Kat... well, really?"

"Yes, Marta, really," I mimicked. "Seriously, I'm fine! Although," I added, "I will always make sure I know what time curfew officially is before I go out at night."

She sighed. "I know, Kat, but it's not enough! You must be more cautious than you are. This isn't West Berlin or London, it's a war zone and we are its prisoners."

I stiffened at her condescending tone, and she finished more gently. "It's what Daddy and Mama would want."

"Oh, golly! Marta... you must stop saying that!" Exasperatedly, I scrambled to my feet and looked down at her. She had lately begun to use the 'Daddy and Mama' tactic, and I rankled at it. "I know what they want, but it's different now. We're on our own! They're not in the next room listening up on everything I do!"

"I know that, Kat. Do you? You have got to be more vigilant and less impulsive; our safety depends on it."

"I didn't know that curfew was an hour earlier! It's not my fault..."

But the fact that you did climb that fence and you did annoy that guard is your fault! Things like that are unnecessary and dangerous."

"Marta! Stop it! Oh, I just... " I paced up and down, giving way to my frustration. "You've got to remember, we're only twins, and you are only forty minutes older. You're not my mother and you never will be. Quit lecturing me and I'll be fine; but stop... stop hovering!"

"Oh Kat, I... I just want to be wise and think like them... I wish you wouldn't get so angry." She stared at me reproachfully, and sighing, I relented.

"Oh... alright, Marta! You win, I'll be careful."

She looked satisfied, but remorseful. "I – I don't mean to scold, Kat, but I worry every time you leave the house! Goodness, if only I could trust you to hold your tongue and keep still, but I can't. I never could."

I shook my head at her. "No, meine Marta, it's not you. I'm feeling spiteful because I'm scared, and I don't want to listen to anyone who's smarter than me."

She grinned and I felt happy again; I could never stand being angry at my sister for long. With Dan it was another story altogether, but Marta had always been my other half, and our fights usually never lasted long. As we were living in such close quarters with nothing to distract us, they had grown more frequent, but one or both of us generally made things right only a few minutes after we'd begun.

Marta seemed to sense my thoughts. "I hate being mad at you, Kitty," she murmured as we headed for our bedroom. I nodded in assent. "It makes my whole world feel wrong knowing my best friend isn't my friend at the moment."

"Oh, Marta, I'm always your friend, just sometimes I get mad at you for trying to govern me."

"I know, and I do it without thinking. I guess it's just the 'older sister' in me at work."

I smiled. "And my 'younger sister' counters it. I don't mind the mothering so much; only the fact that you're mostly always right!"

Marta smirked and headed to the bathroom to brush her teeth. I sat on the edge of our bed and began to twist my curls into one long braid. It was a ritual my mother had taught me when I was a very little girl, and one I had never forsaken. It helped to keep my unruly ringlets in place during the night. Unlike Marta, whose waves never seemed out of place, my hair was a frizzy red mess unless I took proper care of it.

Marta stuck her head around the bathroom door. "Will you go to the post office for me tomorrow? I'm going to write Sabrina and I want you to post the letter for me."

I readily agreed; I had a letter to send Dan and a question for Mama regarding a favorite recipe. Besides, I always welcomed the prospect of a walk, even if my way was patrolled by stern-faced, stiff soldiers.

Chapter Five

Sleep

"Of course, Marta, of course! I'll go earlier this time. I don't ever want a repeat of last night again! I have some letters to send too, and I can run and pick up our mail."

Marta's eyes widened. "This time, please," she begged, "Kat, don't climb any fences. Your knee's a mess as it is, and you'll have to bandage it so it doesn't get blood on the sheets."

I agreed and she disappeared into the bathroom again to finish her preparations. I secured my braid and followed her. Inside the tiny bathroom, there was barely space enough for us to stand – one of us had to sit on the toilet lid or the rim of the bathtub. Marta was leaning over the sink, spitting her toothpaste into the drain, so I took my place on the tub. "Marta," I murmured, deep in thought, "d' you think that we could make some bread tomorrow?" Her head came up, barely missing the faucet, and she looked at me with wary eyes. "Me... or you?" Marta shuddered. "Oh you, of course! You'd never let me in that kitchen anyhow. But I was thinking, could we try and make it like Mama's bread? I think I can remember the recipe."

"Why?" my sister asked. "It's good, yes, but do you have a reason?"

"Of sorts. I thought maybe we could donate some food to the shelter down the street."

She looked at me curiously. "I can try, Kat. But," and she came to sit down next to me on the tub's shiny rim, "is there any special reason?" I nodded. "When I was at the post office – after I had climbed the fence – I saw a man in a little sorting room. The room was a practically a closet, but he was the sorriest part. And I felt so horrible for him; I hoped we could do something for people like that."

Marta put her arms around me and gave me a hug so tight I thought she'd crack one or two of my bones. "Oh, Kitty, you are a darling! Mama and Daddy would be so proud, and I am too."

"Easy, meine Marta," I protested, straining against her firm hold. "I like my ribs in working order!" When she released me, I felt all over to make sure there wasn't any damage, and then hugged her back. "Thank you, dearest. I like to make you proud of your harum-scarum sister. Though," I reflected, thinking of our equally puckish brother, "Dan would call us big sissies."

"Pooh to Dan-i-el," Marta sniffed scornfully, sticking her pretty nose in the air. "He's on the other side of the monstrosity next door, and he can't tease us at all."

"I wonder what he'll do when we get out?" I reflected. "I know he loves us, but what'll he do to hide that he's overjoyed to see us?"

"Don't be vain, Kat," Marta giggled. "Who's to say he's going to be happy when he sees you? What about me?" She bared her teeth in an unnerving face that made her look like a shriveled up rabbit, tossed her head and fluttered her eyelashes so ridiculously that I almost fell into the tub. "Oh, help... no, Marta, stop! Nonono, help, oh, ow!"

Marta heaved me out of the tub and continued tickling my ribs. It was my tickling DANGER zone and I hated and loved it at the same time. "NOHELPAHHMARTA!"

She was laughing uncontrollably, and so was I, chuckling away as tears of mirth streamed down my cheeks.

My laughter had turned slightly hysterical in a few minutes more, and Marta saw this and stopped her tickling. By the time we settled down to the point where I was no longer shuddering from the constant merriment, I had grown weary and didn't feel like talking anymore. I climbed out of the tub and slowly crawled into my bed. After a moment or two, Marta came in and snuggled down beside me, turning over so we lay back-to-back. A quite peace enveloped me; for once my mind was not cluttered with worrisome thoughts of my family and home. Thus soothed, I fell asleep faster than I had in a long, long time.

Chapter Six

Mail

Marta pushed me over onto my side and wrestled the covers from me. I woke with a start and confusedly stared around, all the while rubbing sleep from my eyes. My sister had rolled over and was asleep again, but I was awake, and besides, Marta had stolen all the blankets! I pulled my bathrobe on over my pajamas and loosened my hair from its braid.

Downstairs was chilly and I wrapped a blanket from the sofa around me as I entered the kitchen. Neither Marta nor Oma was around, so I found a pan and boiled water for the only breakfast food I could manage: oatmeal. Fortunately, it was my favorite, and we had fresh fruit on hand which I diced and sprinkled on my cereal.

By the time Marta came down, blearily rubbing her eyes, I had gulped my oatmeal and was donning my coat, scarf, and hat in the hallway.

"What're you up to, Kat?" she asked, "are you going for a walk?"

"Yes. Also I thought I'd go to the post office and get a newspaper and the mail. After my run-in with Herr Giraffe last week I'd be happy to scour the whole thing just to ease my fears." I grinned ruefully.

"O... kay, but hurry back. Don't even open the letters; run home and save then so we can read them together."

I promised, and opened the door, blinking in the stark sunlight that reflected off the snow and glared in my eyes.

"Oh, and Kat?"

I paused and turned to face my sister. "Hmm?"

"Be... be careful!"

"I will my Marta. Please don't worry for my sake."

But I knew she would worry. Marta had always been motherly, and she had grown even more so in the fourteen months we'd spend in East Berlin.



Throughout the city, people were waking. Signs in streetside shops declared their readiness for customers. Lights flickered on in house windows. Women chattered in the street; a group of boys played football in an alley, their round ball bouncing as they raced after it, kicking furiously. It 'warmed the cockles of my heart to see the cherry scene unfold before me. I was proud of the Germans for striving to continue on with their lives despite the oppressive feeling that never completely vanished. Even though I was mostly English, I felt akin to my German neighbors and considered myself one of them. If they were happy, then Marta and I can be happy, too, I thought determinedly.

Suddenly I noticed that my surroundings had grown strangely quiet. I swiveled my head and spotted the reason: a long column of soldiers marching steadily down the street. I watched as mothers who, minutes before looked as if they hadn't a care in the world, gathered sons and daughters close, stepped back into shadows, and slammed doors. Obviously they weren't going to risk an encounter with the army. I too was worried, and ducked into the nearest alley. As the spectators watched, the men swaggered stiffly on until they had rounded the bend in the road.

The whole street seemed to let out its breath in one moment. Slowly, the crowds re-entered and bustle gradually began the bustle again. But there was now an air of fear about that made me nervous.

I hastened on and finding the post office open, hurried in. The bell over the door jangled too noisily in the quiet room, and the Postbeamtin peeped out from behind his manual. I stood awkwardly, shifting my weight from one foot to the other until he offered, "Um... ja?" Needless to say, he appeared extremely agitated. I was glad he wasn't the man I'd seen the week before, he who I'd probably scared out of his wits. This man, though, looked just as frightened. "Erm, vhat... vhat can I do for you?" His accent was thick, and he had the looks of a native German. Most likely he was some poor jobless man the Soviets had press-ganged into doing their work.

"I've come to see about some mail I'm expecting. My surname is Gorvich."

"Vhere from... um, hem. Vhere are you expecting mail from?"

"West Berlin, sir. My family lives there, and I ... "

"Oh, um well, kleines madchen, you see the East Berlin government has shut down all ways of communication between it and West Berlin. There are no letters for anyone today.

"I am greatly sorry for this but I cannot do anything to stop it. You see how it is?"

I gazed in disbelief. No mail from the west? But how could that be? It was only a week ago that I'd received a characteristic scrawl from Daniel and a package from my mother!

"Has – has Mayor Brant said anything about this? Please, you must tell me! My family... I was so counting on something..."

The man shrugged. "This I do not know. I do not keep up with the west. It is sad I am to say this but no longer will you be able to listen to the western broadcasts on the radioapparat."

I flinched, wondering if he knew Marta's secret. But how could he? No, it must simply be that he was merely stating a fact.

"Kleines madchen? Is there anything I can help you with?"

I faced the anxious Postbeamtin. "Do you have any letters that came through before this happened?"

Chapter Seven

Secrets

I was not used to being stared at with such intensity, such shrewdness. As he continued to stare – perhaps wondering if he could trust this strange English girl – I couldn't help but feel that my soul was bare for the entire world to see. My spirits soared with hope, but just as quickly plummeted when the clerk answered – a trifle too loudly, I thought. "Oh, nein, I do not have any mail from West Berlin. None at all from that place. I am extremely sorry for this but now you must go. I will show you the door." His words sounded so forced and hard that I looked him curiously, but there was nothing but determination in his eyes. He pushed me to through the door and bowed low courteously. And as he did so, I heard him whisper in my ear, so faintly that I almost missed his words.

"Around the back. Postsack. Meet me there."

Then he was gone, so suddenly that a passerby would have deemed him a wizard.

For a while I could do nothing but lean against the side of the post office, turning the matter over and over in my mind and puzzling what to do. I was at a loss, for I felt I could not trust a complete stranger in these times. However, the thought of letters from my loved family literally made me drool since Marta and I hadn't heard from them in over two weeks! And yet... oh, how I wished for some council from someone I could believe.

But I could not stand there for long. If it was true and the clerk really did have letters for me, then it was only a matter of time before he would give up on me and go back to his job. I decided to risk it, hoping that if I was caught, the sight of a young, innocent-looking girl would convince the Soviets that I wasn't to blame.



And so, first checking to see if I was as unobserved as I hoped, I retraced my path of several days ago. A group of men strode busily by, followed by a crowd of children chasing their ball. Then - unable to wait any longer - I ducked around the side of the little building and quietly approached the fence. But to my surprise and secret delight, the gate was unlocked, its bolt thrown. I slipped through and the gate clanged behind me, so loud that I jumped and skittered behind a tall box.

There I found the clerk. His face was frozen in a mask of fear and desperation, which cracked only slightly when he noticed me. Apparently he had assumed I was his employer, though from the fear so complete and obvious in his eyes, the more correct term would be 'slave driver'.

"You have come," he whispered, and I could not mistake the wonder in his voice. "I thought you vould not."

"I almost didn't," I smiled, "but I haven't heard from my parents in days. The mail means too much to me to miss my last opportunity."

He nodded. "Uh, vell, I haf here your letters... here is von, two, tree, four! And now please, leave and leave quickly!"

I scooped up the precious letters and slipped them into the inner pocket of my coat. Without a backward glance, I moved hastily down the alley and let myself out through the fence. Then, once again, I ran – pelted – down the streets of what had once been Germany's finest city, and what was now a grey, forgotten world all to itself. And as I ran, I prayed. I was so tired of living in this cold, dull place. I was ready to emerge into the real world again... to live in the sunshine, to be with my family. My feet pounded onto the pavement; my hand pressed against my chest. Under the lapels of my coat, I could feel the outlines of the precious messages from my mama, my daddy, and my brother. I could only hope that in them contained good news – that we could soon be sent for, that we would return home and once again live in peace.

But... was I hoping for something that could never be?

Chapter Eight

Tears

To the immense relief of Marta, I made it home safely. And yet, through her joy of seeing me back – evidently she'd feared the worst – she was devastated to hear my news. "Why?" She moaned, "why, why, WHY?!"

I tried to pacify her. "Be calm, meine Marta! It's not the end of the world... we'll be fine... "And then I was hugging my crying twin, soothing and comforting her. It wasn't long before I realized that I was crying, too.

Marta clung to me, and we rocked back and forth, back and forth. For we both knew what this new development meant. If the Soviets had cut off all communications with West Berlin and the allies, then it must be they meant to keep their control on this part of the country even stronger. To increase their hold on us, to use East Berliners as bargaining chips. With out the huge supply of prisoners, the Allies were at a definite disadvantage. And what would the government do if the West couldn't meet its feverish demands? I saw the total despair in Marta's eyes and knew she'd read my mind. But my beautiful, brave sister... she gulped in a shakily determined voice, and said what I dreaded the most, and yet knew needed to be done. "We have to go tell Oma, Kat. She must know."



When we finally got around to it and entered her room, Oma was sitting with a half-finished scarf on her lap, the knitting needles still in her lap, but oh, the emptiness in her eyes was too much for either Marta or me. Swiftly I crossed the room and collapsed on my knees beside her chair, taking one of her small hands in mine. Marta grasped the other and held it to her cheek. "Oma, well, I'm not going to beat around the bush – "

I picked up where she left off, for Marta was once again blinking tears from her eyes. "The Soviets have cut off communications between the sectors. I was talking to the clerk at the post office... he didn't give my any reasons but I think I know why. It's because... because... " I seemed to choke on my words, and Marta, squeezing my shoulder, said in what she thought was a reasonable tone, "I'm sure that this won't last long. Mayor Brant will be furious, and probably the mail lines will be up in a couple of weeks."

"And until then, my dears, there are always telephones and telegraphs," Oma said in a surprisingly cheerful voice. My heart sank. She didn't understand! "Oma, this is everything I'm talking about! We're completely cut off... "

"Nein!"

Chapter Nine:

Memories

And so our weeks dragged by, with each day bringing more fear, more hopelessness. It was as if the whole city was suffering from our misfortune, and was now drooping under the same feeling of desolation. For desolation certainly was the feeling which exercised dominion over Oma's little home and it's occupants. Marta did nothing but mope – she could barely speak without emotion; everything she talked of mentioned our family in some way.

And I let her remember. It was only one of few things that would make her happy.

"Remember, Kat," she said one day, "the picnics we'd have? Mama would pack us lunches – chicken salad on toasted bread – and we'd beg her for fizzy sodas. She would bring chocolate and apples; Daddy and Dan would have to fend for themselves because we'd be gone for hours!" Her eyes were full to the brim but she kept on going. "And remember when you danced at the theatre downtown? You looked so lovely and graceful... Mama cried and even Dan was impressed."

This memory made me happier; my days at the Theatre Royal in on the west side had been glorious. I hadn't danced there in months. But everyone had congratulated me on my performance.

"I do so love to dance ballet," I sighed wistfully. "But even if we do ever get back, Miss Meier won't ask for me back. I'm so out of practice...!"

Marta straightened. "Yes, she will! Of course! You're amazing... and you could practice. Why don't you?"

"Well... " I didn't know how much I could remember, but then I'd always adored my dancing. Ballet was in my blood and bones.

"And maybe Oma would like it," Marta coaxed. I winced at the thought of my grandmother watching me dance now. Oma, too, had been a ballet dancer in her younger days. She had even performed – after a summons – for Keiser Wilhelm himself, who had wanted to see the ballerina who had had her photograph in the newspaper so many times. I shuddered at what she would surely say of my lack of practice. Marta saw my face beginning to say "No" and quickly interfered. "Oh, please, Kitty?" she begged, batting her dark lashes at me. "Oh, o...kay, " I said reluctantly, "but I don't have my dancing clothes!"

Marta shook her wavy head at me. "You don't fool me one bit, Kat. I know, even if you've forgotten - which I doubt – that you packed warm-up things when we came. Miss Meier wanted you to make sure you didn't get out of shape. You were practicing for Swan Lake, remember?"

Oh, yes. The reminder of the performance I'd missed brought back a flood of old disappointments. I'd been hoping for a star role, and when we'd never come back...

Marta saw the sadness in my eyes and put her arm around me. "You would have been the star," she whispered. "Now go change."

So I headed up to my room, where, deep inside the wardrobe, I found my uniform. The filmy gauze of the red wrap skirt – I had always been required to wear pink or white while practicing at the studio, but I naturally favored the red – and the soft cotton leotard felt like another's. I hadn't even considered them since we'd been here. And yet it was good to put them on again. The practiced movements of securing my wrap and lacing my slippers were not unknown to my hands.

Then I began my warm-up, using the wall for support, because of course there was no barre (much to my chagrin!). A plie, a ronde de jambas, a port de bra, a frappe. Then a pas de chat. A petit battement. A pirouette. On I went until I could glide to the floor in the splits as I could over a year ago: with a smile on my face; without gritting my teeth.

Chapter Ten:

Ballerina

Marta stuck her head into the doorway just as I was finishing with a point tendu. "Oma's downstairs," she said absently, then she winced as she saw my position, for even after a long warm up, standing on my points hurt like the dickens, and my teeth were grinding audibly. "Ooh, Kat, doesn't that hurt? I haven't seen you doing that... whatever you call it... in ages!"

I nodded grimly. "Yes, um – ow! it does hurt, some."

"Well, anyway, we're ready. Do you want Swan Lake or the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy on the phonograph?"

"Swan Lake." I sank to the ground, wiggling my toes to make sure they weren't broken.

"Do you even... um, I mean, do you remember it all?"

My face burned. Thoughts of my frustration and the star role given to another... the long hours spent practicing the dance in hopes that I would shine... flooded back to me. "Yes, Marta! I remember."

She drew back slightly, startled by the sharpness of my tone, but her face softened as she guessed my thoughts like she so often could. "All right. Swan Lake. We'll be waiting."



When I made my way downstairs after rehearsing the intricate steps of Swan Lake once more, I found the living room transformed into a stage. Oma sat at a kitchen chair drinking tea. The idea of a warm drink appealed to me, and Marta refilled the kettle so we could boil water.

Oma smiled at me, a feeble, tired smile. But still, it was a smile, and it cheered me up. She was not doing well, so Marta and I waited on her hand and foot these days.

Marta poked me. "Go turn on the phonograph, Kat!"

I jumped, saluted in a saucy imitation of the Soviet soldiers, and hurried into the "theatre" to find the record. When I brought it back Marta had the ancient machine Oma had always used for her music out and soon the sounds of scratchy – yet audible – Schwanensee filled the air. I faced my audience, lifted my chin and... paused. The opening beats of my music began and my cue passed, playing on without me. Another sound had filled the air: the sound of gunshots.

Marta looked at me, her face white, and as one we rushed to the window. The heavy black-out curtains were drawn – it was almost dark – and she yanked them apart. I pressed my nose to the window, leaving a smudge in an effort to see out its foggy panes.

What I could see – what we both could see – left both of us breathless. Across the street, a crowd of soldiers stood next to the Wall, their rifles pointed upward. Shadowy figures – I couldn't make them out – stood on top. And then one – "Oh!" Marta gasped, and I caught my breath, watching the body fall. Only two of them were left now, and though all of the border guards were lousy shots... yes, there went another one. They were such targets against the cloudless sky.

Marta was trembling, and suddenly I tasted blood. Absently I'd been biting my lip. "Poor things!" she cried. "I just can't bear to watch those... those brutes!"

I put my arm around her. "Marta there's – "

"No!" she declared, "no, there is something. Look, Kat, there's already a crowd. C'mon!"

My eyes wide, I helplessly followed my sister down the hall and out the front door, leaving it open in my haste. Outside it was cruelly cold and windy. The breeze tore ruthlessly at my hair and nearly blew my wrap off; Marta lost her ribbon and her braid came undone. The crowd around us looked bedraggled too, with half of them in pajamas and bathrobes, their bottens unlaced and only partway on. Several men had gathered around the soldiers, and a daring few were throwing punches. This seemed for a moment to distract them and the rifles were dropped in exchange for fists. Within minutes an all-out fight had begun, and soon the townspeople had formed a circle around them, calling out cheers to encourage the brave men. Suddenly the circle broke open, and a few shadows – cowardly soldiers, I assumed – darted out. I watched as a tall, skinny one ran past me. Marta followed his shape too, but in a minute I had grown bored, and turned back to the situation at hand, clenching my fists and occasionally whistling through my teeth.



I was unaware of how much time had passed until I felt fingernails dig into my arm. "Ow, Marta," – for it was my twin – "that hurts! What – "

"Sshhh! Kat... oh Kat, look!"

I followed her pointing finger, bracing myself for anything from an army of Soviets to an elephant on our roof. Yet, at first, it seemed there was naught amiss. Our house, the door left open by one of us, was a beacon in the darkness, the warm yellow glow streaming from the door penetrating the sea of darkness surrounding it... wait.

I hadn't left the door open.

Chapter Eleven:

Intruder

There was terror in Marta's blue eyes that I could not understand. "Oh golly, Marta, what's wrong?"

"K-Kitty, there's... there's one of them... in our h-house!"

Panic gripped me, seemed to freeze my bones and stop my heart. One of those... those brutes, those fiends in our house? How, why? "Oh Marta, wh-what do we do?"

She shook her head, wordlessly conveying her helplessness. It seemed that everything was up to me, so I squeezed her hand, then crept up to the doorway. Marta let out a thin squeal. "Ooh, Kat, Katkatkat, wait for me!" She hurried to my side, and we peered around the frame. I half expected our mystery intruder to be lurking there with a pistol in his hand, but the entryway was empty. Beside me, my sister whimpered. "I know," I agreed, "it's worse when we don't know where he is."

"He could be anywhere," she moaned.

"Though, I suppose," I reasoned, "Oma might be calling for us if he was anywhere near her. Maybe he's hiding."

At this, Marta groaned even louder. I grabbed her hand and pulled her inside, closing the door behind me so if he left, we'd know. Then we crept through the hall into the kitchen. Oma wasn't there anymore, her cup of tea abandoned on the table. I sucked in my breath, and through my head flashed visions of a uniformed maniac stuffing my grandmother into a closet. Marta's face was pale. She said nothing, though, and we carefully surveyed the room once more before moving on to the living room. The records and phonograph were still out, my "stage" yet clear. There were no signs of the tussle I dreaded. "Maybe... maybe she went to her room to lie down," Marta ventured. She looked as if she was desperately praying it was true. So after checking the bathroom, I climbed the stairs and, on tiptoes, crossed the hallway into my bedroom, then adjoining bathroom. The bed was neatly made as Marta had left it and, after gathering my nerves and getting ready to scream, I found the wardrobe empty.

Then I had another thought, and I was desperate enough to act upon it. "Marta," I whispered, and she came in, walking in her socks so she didn't make any sound. "What if he ran straight through the house? And if he has, then he's probably hiding in the back!"

"So," she murmured, her eyes beginning to glow, "so, he's probably not even here!"

"Nein, nein," I agreed, laughing shrilly in my relief, "He couldn't be. That's just what I would do if I were an intruder!"

"Yes, yes," she muttered, and I matched her low tones, trying to sound certain and firm. Both of us couldn't pretend for long however, and Marta was the first to admit it: "He couldn't have, though, Kat. Don't forget, the back door has been stuck since that long rain we had about a month ago. And besides, it's always locked."

I nodded. "Uh-huh, so... so what now?"

We both knew what we had to do. "Marta, I – I don't want to... please, you do it." She shook her head, whipping her loose, tangled hair back and forth. "I couldn't! I'd just faint, that's all!"

"Marta, Marta, please..."

"You do it, I can't."

"Well, I can't, either! I won't..."

"You can't make me do it! I'd rather climb the Wall than open that door!"



When, finally, we could come to an agreement, the task fell on me. Marta was crafty as a fox; she appealed to my vanity, telling me that I was the brave one in the family (which wasn't true, and I full well knew this; I'd always been second in almost everything, after Dan). But it had worked, and so I slowly approached the wooden door. It looked completely harmless, but I knew that terrible things could lurk behind it.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I began to turn the brass knob. My fingers trembled so that I had to use two hands. A few feet away, Marta watched in anxious agony, biting her nails to the quick.

Just as I was about to push inward with my body, she leapt forward and tried to stop me. All of a sudden the door gave way against my weight and both Marta and I tumbled to the floor of Oma's room.

I pushed my hair out of my eyes, looked up, and found myself staring down the barrel of a gun.

Chapter Twelve

Derek

"Wer sie sind?"

The words were cold, fierce, and... and oddly enough, I could detect – was it fear?

"Wer sie sind?"

Again, I heard fear. And then I heard something that, for a moment, I had never expected to hear again. "Oh, my boy, those are my granddaughters, do let them alone."

"Oma!" I cried, and Marta leapt up. I pushed the gun barrel out from under my chin, ignoring its wielder, and joined her at my grandmother's bedside.

Oma was sitting on her bed, propped into a sitting position by numerous pillows. "My dears, how I have worried about you; ever since my friend came and told me about the fighting... why did you go outside?"

"We went to see what was happening, Oma," Marta answered, and I nodded. "But when we came back, the door was open, and..." She shrugged, gesturing towards the soldier hanging awkwardly about in the background.

"Ah yes, where are my manners? Derek dear, come meet my lovely granddaughters, Marta and Ekaterina. They are staying with me until their daddy comes to fetch them."

He didn't move, only gave a sort of sheepish half wave. Oma beamed at him. "I told Derek that he could stay with us for a while. Marta, why don't you take him downstairs? Your water should be hot and you can make tea."

Reluctantly, Marta left the room, sending me a scared look over her shoulder. I noticed that she made sure to walk behind our guest as he shouldered his gun.

"There, dear, isn't he a sweet boy?" Oma asked, leaning back on her pillows. "I really believe he was born under an unlucky star, though; you should ask him about himself. Poor lad," she tisked sympathetically.

"Um, Oma, do you – do you really think that it's a good idea to have a Soviet soldier in our house? I mean... well, he certainly looks capable of shooting any of us! Why'd you have to tell him he could stay?"

"He needs a home, Kat. Now you must not be ungracious to him! I shall vouch for him."

"Oma, you don't even know him! How can you tell me he's a 'sweet boy' if you've only known him for twenty minutes – "

"Fifteen, dear,"

"Fifteen, then! But you know what I mean! You shouldn't put us in danger by doing that, it's risky and foolish. Marta will have told him to leave by now," I finished, strongly hoping that it was true.

"No dear, she wouldn't. Your sister's too good-hearted, unlike you, little skeptic. Don't worry about Derek, just make him a bed on the couch and lock your door tonight if you are really that frightened."

"Yes, Oma," I sulked, and slipped out of the room, closing the door firmly behind me. I thought, before turning to the stairs, of asking her to lock her doors, but decided against it: I would only be rebuffed again.



I could hear Marta's uneasy voice floating up the stairwell trying to make conversation. There were only infrequent low answers from Derek, and try as I might I could not understand what he was saying. I had no choice, much as I would have loved to hide away in my room, but to go downstairs and make his acquaintance. Besides, I couldn't leave Marta alone with him.

The kitchen was bright when I entered; Marta had turned on an extra lamp because of the growing darkness, and I could see our guest's features clearly. What I saw surprised me: he was no more than a boy, at most three years older than me. Tall and skinny, fair-skinned, with blonde hair and blue eyes, the regular German features. He made an effort to smile when he saw me scrutinizing him. "Your grobmutter did the same thing," he offered.

I blinked. "What?"

"Stare at me. Do you have a husband who was a German soldier?"

Taken aback, I could only stare harder. Was he mad? Did I look like someone who could be married? I turned to Marta for help.

"Nein, she's not married," Marta said quickly, putting her arm around me. "We're both only fourteen. But my Opa was a soldier in the Second World War. Did Oma tell you?"

"Ye-es, but... "

"Never mind." I said quickly. It was a painful subject, because my grandfather had been fighting for the Germans. I was proud of my German heritage, and yet I did not like the thought of Opa in a German uniform, obeying Hitler's commands.

Amidst the awkward silence that followed, Marta cleared her throat. "Well," she said in a falsely cheerful voice, "who wants a cup of tea?"



While the water was boiling, I slowly cleaned up the living room. Marta helped me shove the phonograph back into its space beside the fireplace, and then I replaced the records. Carefully slipping the heavy vinyl disks into their covers, I noticed the thick writing on the inside of one of them. Dominik Gorvich.

"He was a good man," I muttered, tracing the distinctive capital D with my finger, "a good man. He just fought for his country. Whatever is wrong with that?"

"What?"

I glanced up into Derek's German eyes. Blue. My Opa had had blue eyes. I looked at the only color photo we had of him on the mantle. I had never liked that picture; the constant reminder of my divided family was agonizing. Marta had always dealt with it better than I had. But there were times when I felt like two countries, England and Germany, owned halves of me, and each was pulling for control of my whole self.

But now I took a better look. Before I'd always avoided the heavy, dark frame, forever dusting around it and being scolded by Oma. And yet, part of me felt sorry for my behavior; after all, I couldn't have chosen my family.

Oma had told me that her husband was a proud man. Proud of himself, proud of his country. And now that I studied his photograph, I saw it. His eyes, ocean blue eyes, were dignified, stern. His whole bearing was stiff in the manner of the German army. He looked a man who would honor and heed the wishes of his country, no matter what the cost. I wondered if he had known... known the devastating results of following Hitler's orders.

"Katrin – Ekat... sorry... is that your grobvater?"

I stifled a grin at Derek's mispronunciation of my name – those who didn't know me always got it wrong – and nodded. "He... he just did what was right, you know. What was loyal."

He looked as if he understood. "You don't need to defend him. It's the honorable thing to do, fighting for your country."

Chapter Thirteen

Story

Over a cup of hot tea, Marta finally – nervously – asked Derek his story. He seemed just as nervous, but after sipping away until I thought I'd go crazy, he began.

"I was born in 1945, in Dresden. About a month after that, my parents decided that they were going to move here, to Berlin, as it was nearer my mother's sister and my father's job. They left me with my aunt while they went back to Dresden to get our boxes and furniture. That was in February."

Marta gasped. "February... Dresden... Oh, that's awful!" I chewed on my lower lip; I too could guess the ending of his seemingly innocent tale. "But keep going," my twin added. "Sorry to interrupt."

He waved his hand, dismissing her remark. "Well, anyway, they were there... on the thirteenth. And... you know what happened! The Allies bombed our city! My parents were killed, by... by an English bomb!"

I winced, and under the table, Marta squeezed my hand. I hated to think what our guest would do if he knew: we were both more than half English. Derek didn't notice and plunged on in his rage. "So I stayed with my aunt until I was about sixteen, then she died. The house was hers, an' I figured I had enough money to last me at least till I could get a job of some sort. But then – about three months later – I got a letter from the Soviet commander saying I'd been drafted and to report for duty. So I went, just figured I'd better go of my own free will, y'know? And I've been a "soldier" since then. But mostly I'm just their laufbursche and flunky.

"Before that fight broke out last night, we were drilling in the square, and so my company was the first to respond. I guess we didn't figure on that big of an uprising. So while they were distracted, I just made a run for it. Cowardly, I guess, but I just couldn't stand it any more! I had to, y'see?" Desperately he searched my face, and then Marta's, silently asking for our agreement.

Marta was the first to respond. "Yes, I do see," she said slowly. "Do... do you miss your aunt?"

I raised my eyebrows at her; normally she was not the one for insensitive questions, as I was. Yet even I had thought it best not to ask such things, not now! But his answer surprised me.

"Yes, I suppose. But she was never really a mother to me... guess we never got close. I mean, it's like I knew, even as a baby, that she wasn't mine. I always sort of resented her for that."

"But she was the only parent you knew, right? I should think you couldn't help but love her."

"Nein. I'm kind of a loner... don't much need any one else. I've been virtually on my own for two years, so I'm used to it."

"Hmmm," was all I said, and with that the conversation was over. I had the prickly feeling, though, that there was more to Derek than the orphan boy-soldier he seemed to be.



After Derek had finished, the liveliness died down, and I found myself yawning for the third time. Marta noticed my sleepiness and said immediately "Well, I'm beat. Kat, why don't you get out the blankets and I'll clean up." Before I could protest, she was seizing our cups and saucers, clattering them together in her haste, and bearing them off to the sink. I shook my head, rolled my eyes, and headed for the stairs. When I returned in a moment with several quilts, Marta had gone upstairs and Derek was alone at the table.

Swiftly I made up a sleeping bag on our worn, frayed sofa, and gestured to it. "You can sleep here for now. Sorry we don't have a guest room."

"'S alright. I've slept on worse before."

"Well... g'night, sleep well," I said, turning to go. "Wait," he called after me, "sorry, how do you say your name? I can't remember, never was one for names."

"E-kat-er-ina," I sounded out. "Like Katerina but with an 'E'. It's Russian."

"Russian? But you're - "

"Ja, but one of my great-grandmothers was a Russian lady who married a Gorvich. Her name was Ekaterina and my father had always thought it was pretty. 'Marta' is German through and through, though."

"E-kat-er-ina," he imitated, overly pronouncing the syllables. "I like it."

Surprised, I could only thank him. "Well, good night."

"Good night, Ekaterina. Thanks for... for letting me stay."

"You're welcome. And... please, call me Kat. All my friends do."

I was certain I could feel his smile even in the darkness.

Chapter Fourteen

Letter

"Oh, Ka-at!"

A persistent sound seemed to be pulling me out of my dream-land. I followed it reluctantly, unwilling for the moment to leave it, for there I imagined myself back with my family; only there could I loose myself.

"Kat! Wake up, now! Y'can't sleep all day!"

Slowly I roused myself enough to open one eye. There was Marta, already dressed with hair neatly brushed, leaning over me and shaking my shoulder. "Oh, Marta, do I have to?" I moaned, just as I had when I was a little child and Mama would wake me on school mornings.

"Yes, you do, silly! Get up, or you'll get no breakfast..."

"You don't scare me Marta," I muttered, already sinking back underneath my blanket, "I can make my own."

"I made French toast, Kat, but I'm plenty hungry and I'll bet Derek is too!" She yanked the quilt off me, exposing my body to the frigid November air. "Huch, my Marta," I complained, sitting up and brushing a lock of hair out of my eyes. "That's not playing fair."

"I don't care, Kat, you can't sleep the day away! The stores are being restocked today and I want to be there as soon as possible; but I can't leave Oma here without you to look after her. I still don't completely trust Derek."

Derek? Who?

"C'mon, Kat." Marta's voice held a warning tone. "Who's Derek?" I asked, ignoring the bossy fit that was sure to follow.

"Kat, you monkey, Derek! You know, the boy-soldier that Oma let stay with us?!"

"Oh!" The events of last night came flooding back to me. "Sorry, I had other things on the brain."

"Uh-huh, yeah. Get dressed and I'll see you downstairs." She sounded clipped and precise and I groaned inwardly. Marta was always hard to deal with on these sorts of days.

When I came downstairs, dressed in a sweater and blue jeans, my hair tumbling over my shoulders in an avalanche of red, Marta was already gone. But there was a platter of, as promised, French toast and buttery eggs on the table, and a pot of tea. I was surprised; evidently she'd wanted to impress our visitor.

The visitor in question was sitting on his neatly made "bed", reading a thick book from the shelf. I didn't want to disturb him so I merely sat down at the table and served myself breakfast, admiring Marta's skill with the dysfunctional stove-top as I did. But it was boring eating alone; instead I pulled from my jeans pocket the last letter from Daniel. I kept it with me always, and so I settled down to re-read it for the thirty-seventh time.

Dear Kat,

I'm writing to you on pain of death. Mother says I've been neglecting you shamefully, and has threatened to lock me up if I don't send you pages.

Things are going well here. Mother and Dad are always talking about you. Sometimes I hear her crying – she misses you more than her letters say, and that's saying a lot! And Dad's working frantically to bring you home. He's even been to see Mayor Brant, who's been very sympathetic. But... I can tell they're worried. Oops, maybe I shouldn't have said that. Just write quickly and tell us you and Marta are doing well. How's Oma? I hope for your sakes she's functioning.

What is it like, over there? I wish I could know. Dad says that if there was a way to get over there safely, he would do it in a heartbeat. I would too, you know. Our house is lonely without you girls. Mom spends more and more time away from home when I'm at school and Dad's working. She says she doesn't like the way one person "rattles around" inside.

People ask about you a lot. Old Mr. Einsen came for coffee two nights ago, and he asked all sorts of questions. Mom even got out some of your letters to show him. He said if we ever needed help he'd be glad to give it – he's on the town council, you know. People are so nice, Kat, I wish you could see how much they care.

I hope you're still alright, Kitty. Not hearing from you is making me nervous. I wish I could be there with you. Marta's sensible. I worry less about her than I do about you. Just... just take care of yourself, okay? Don't do anything foolish! Always try and remember what I would do in your situation.

I miss you. Really! I miss my headstrong little pest of a sister who until a year ago was always there to annoy and embarrass me. Funny, huh? It's like the old saying... you know the one... that says something like "You never truly appreciate things until they're gone". I don't even know what you look like anymore! It's hard to picture your face. Oh, drat. Anymore of this and I'll be – well, you know. What girls do when they get emotional. Anyhow, write soon.

Your favorite brother,

Dan

The letter made me "do what girls do" every time I read it, and today was no exception. I longed to write him back, to confide in my brother like I had never dared to do in person. And then, suddenly, I was struck by thought so obvious that I wondered why in the world I'd never thought of it before. Even though Dan could never receive it, I would write him back.

Dear Daniel,

You have been neglecting me shamefully, but I understand. The life of a junior in high school must be a hard one. Let's see, what have you been doing lately? Playing hooky and ding-dong ditching in the middle of the night? Whew! Like I said, tough times! I'm glad I'm only a sophomore.

All teasing aside, though: you aren't very consistent. Was Mama happy when you showed her your dutifully long letter? I sure was glad to get it. It's nice, once in a while, to get something other than "Hi. How're you? Hope you come home soon. 'Bye, Dan" once in a while. But am I being too picky?

Oh, things are just jolly here. Fabulous, actually. We had dinner with Mr. Soviet Government last night. He was so warm and friendly; I think we might just stay. Plus, I think Marta's in love with his second son. He's a bit fat, yes, but once you get used to him he's quite the looker.

And you needn't worry about us, Dan. We're all right as rain. Oma's having coffee with a vornehm old bachelor. He's enormous, but she's so skinny; and they say opposites attract (Maybe that's why Marta's in love with the son?).

Well, I must go. We've got a formal to attend and Marta's going to a salon before. I'm going, too... just to keep her company, of course. Hope you're having a nice life over in West Berlin. Too bad you can't just hop the wall and come live with us. You're really missing out! Say hi to Mama and Daddy for me.

Love,

Kat

I read over my letter once more. It was light, frivolous; in short, just was he would expect. None of my letters every betrayed how much I missed him, how much I missed all of them. Dan hated to show emotion; and so did I. It was a pride issue, not wanting to seem vulnerable, and we both suffered mightily from it. Yet, I knew he felt the same.

Chapter Fifteen

Questions

After a moment, I looked over at Derek. He was still intently scouring a book; upon closer inspection I discovered it was one of my favorites: the newly published The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.

"What do you think?" I asked, setting aside my letter and sitting down beside him.

"It's faszinierend!" he bubbled. "Tolkien must be very renowned for writing such a wonderful story."

"And he's already written two sequels. They're on the bookshelf," I told him, nodding my head at the far corner of the room. Then, hesitantly, I added, "You know, Tolkien is English."

"Really? I'm surprised. I never did think much of English authors."

"No, no, I suppose not," I agreed, suppressing my chagrin. He would have to find out sooner or later, but I didn't relish the thought of telling him.

"Kat... I was wondering... why d'you have red hair?" He stared at me pointedly. "You sure don't look German."

"Um – " here it came – "Um, well, my mother had red hair... I guess I didn't get the blonde gene from my father. He's very German-looking, but my mother's not."

"You don't have blue eyes either. They're grey-green. You look... well, almost English!"

"I am, half English. My mother is English, but my father is German." I confessed. "I'm sorry... I know how you feel about the Allies." Anxiously I watched Derek's face. His jaw was steadily working back and forth, grinding his teeth. Suddenly he turned to me and said, almost viciously, "I know you're not to blame for what your country did, but before you say more, just know that I'm completely German. I'm proud of my country and my heritage. I am and always will be."

"Of course!" I reassured, happy that he wasn't angrier. "And don't forget that I'm half German, and I support her in most things. In spirit I'm all German... I can't even remember much of living in London, anyway."

"You lived in London?"

"Yes, until I was eight. That was five years ago, and it seems like I've always lived here. We grew up speaking German since my dad's fluent in both that and English, and the move was so simple."

"Is your Oma your father's or your mother's mom?"

"Daddy's. That's why we call her 'Oma', you know. My other grandmother requested she be called 'Grandmother' by all of us when Dan was born; she's dreadfully stuffy!"

"But you're lucky, you know. That you have both of your grandmothers alive. I don't have any family living close by; I think the closest ones live in somewhere in southwestern Germany. I don't know. At least you have someone who cares for you." He looked so forlorn, and I felt a pull on my heartstrings. I'd never thought about that this way; always I'd taken Grandmother for granted, and until recently, Oma as well. But I was blessed, infinitely so.

"Thank you," I said, smiling at my new friend.

"For what?" he asked confusedly.

"Just... just for showing me what I have. I don't really love my grandmother, but I have her. And Oma... well, there's no one like her. And my parents, too. They're not much good to me here, but I know they're trying to get us home, Marta and me.

"Like I said, thanks. I'd never thought like that before."

Chapter Sixteen

Needs

Marta came home an hour later, a tired expression etched across her pretty features and only a small sack of groceries in her arms. I ran to meet her, worry clutching at my heart. "Marta! What's wrong, liebe; didn't you get more food than that?"

She sat down on the sofa, sighing dejectedly. "Nein, Kat, there was a line... I didn't get there in time. It seems all of Germany was there!" Marta tried to laugh, but it ended in a cough. I put my arms around her. "And there was a brawl in the streets... " She pulled up her skirt, revealing skinned knees, and shrugged ruefully. "Anyway, by the time I got in there, the shelves were nearly empty. I took what I could, but... I don't know, Kat, it doesn't look good."

"But the stores are re-stocked once every three weeks; don't you think we can make do until then? And there are always other places you can go... don't give up, my Marta, don't loose hope!"

"Oh, Kat, how can I help it? I see Oma practically wasting away, you're lonely, I'm disheartened... what are we going to do? Sometimes I think there isn't any hope!"

I gasped, and hugged her tighter. "Don't say that, Marta, never say that! It's not true... we'll be fine... "

She gazed levelly with her blue eyes into my grey-green ones, searching my soul and penetrating my mind. "Do you really believe that, Kitty? Do you really think that we will survive this war?"

"Ja, Marta, of course!" I pulled back to stare at her face. "We have each other, a new friend, Oma; you mustn't fret."

"But Kat... how can I not? Why must I be expected to never worry? I am worried... why should I hide it?"

"Promise me this, meine Marta," I whispered, squeezing her hand and leaning my head on her shoulder, "promise me, that you'll never give up."

"I can't – "

"Yes, you can. We'll be tough, we'll survive somehow. But... just tell me that you'll stay strong, for me."

Marta nodded, her eyes solemn. "I – I promise, Kat. I promise."



Derek came in a moment later and looked surprised to see us huddled on the couch. "What's wrong?" he asked uncertainly, as if worried that he had caused terrible things.

I jumped up, and Marta went into the kitchen to search the cupboards. "The lebensmittelgeschäft was almost empty when she got there, so we don't have much food."

"Oh."

"Yes, but we'll make do somehow," I said, trying to sound confident, although I wasn't quite sure how. But I turned and followed Marta's path into the kitchen, where I found her pulling cans of soup and beans out of the pantry, making an inventory of out entire food supply.

"It's not much," she said dejectedly when she saw me. "But I think I can scrounge a few meals out of these cans and things... so we're alright for a week, I should think."

"Is it really that bad?" I asked, coming up behind her and peering over her shoulder.

"I'm afraid so," she answered, then "Derek, you don't happen to know where we could buy some more food, do you?"

He looked thoughtful, scratching his head. "I don't think so... but I can ask around if you like."

"But if you do that, won't you be in danger of being seen by your patrol?" I wondered.

He shrugged. "I know Berlin well; after all I've been roaming the streets since I could walk. I think I could make it."

Marta looked as if she was going to disagree, but then she shook her head and only said "If you're willing to do that, then yes, I would be very thankful. Don't put yourself in danger for us, though."

I giggled. She was already sounding motherly and "hen-ish" as Dan had always said, so I lightly punched her arm.

"Ow! Ka- at!" she exclaimed, rubbing her forearm and making a face. "What'd you do that for, what have I done?"

"Oh, Marta," I teased, "you're already mothering him!" I waved a hand at Derek. "Don't pay attention to the old wet henne here, Derek, she's just being herself."

"Kat!" Marta shrieked, shocked, but soon she was chasing me around the table as Derek tried to dodge us, laughing hysterically. Finally she caught and tackled me on the sofa, buried my head with a cushion, and promptly sat on me.

"You monkey, Kat!" she tittered, as I tried in vain to free myself.

"Hey, no fair," I groaned, "that's Dan's low-down, dirty trick. I never would have assumed you to be so dishonest!"

"You know me so well," Marta joked, digging a finger into my ribs, "I'm surprised at you. You obviously need to let me win more often so you can get used to my roguish side!"

I looked up at her, fully intending to make good use of a snappy comeback, but suddenly I caught Derek looking at us, with such an expression of wistful longing in his face that I sat up abruptly, tumbling Marta off my back.

"What, Kat... oh." Then she stood up and said quickly, "Well, I need to go check on Oma. She must still be asleep." She darted out of the room, and left Derek and me staring at each other, neither one of us wanting to speak.

Chapter Seventeen

Sickness

Time seemed to stand still. My heart rose into my throat as I followed the sound of my sister's scream up the stairs and into our grandmother's bedroom. There I found her standing over the bed, her face white and her hands, clasping Oma's left one, shaking.

"Oma!" Marta cried again, and I flung myself across the room to take her other hand. "Marta, what's wrong?"

On the other side of the bed, she looked up at me with huge eyes. "I – I don't know, I just came up here and she was lying so still..."

I felt Oma's forehead, and Marta shook her head. "No fever, I checked. I've never seen symptoms like these before."

I wheeled on my heel and faced the door. Opening it, I turned towards my sister. "You stay with her, meine Marta, I'll call the arzt."

"Arzt?" she asked incredulously. "The only doctor is an army surgeon from the Soviets! We can't have them here!"

I left the doorway and put my arm around my sister. "Marta, we have to! There's clearly something wrong with her – and if she doesn't have medical attention, she could get worse. And Marta – "our eyes met, and I knew that she knew what I was thinking, "– we need her alive. She's our only guardian, and we can't take care of ourselves."

She sighed. "I just don't want those... those brutto in our house." Pleadingly she raised her eyes to mine. "Is there not someone else?"

I shook my head, mimicking her gesture of a few moments ago. "I don't think so, Marta. Just let me go."

Briefly, she nodded, accepting what had to be. "Okay, Kat.

Before I left the room, she added, "And hurry!"



A thickly German-accented voice greeted me on the other end of the line, and I winced at its sharp tones. "Hallo? Who is dis?"

"Herr," I began carefully, fighting to keep panic out of my voice, "I have my grandmother here, she is very sick, and I'm not sure what it is."

"Does she have fieber?"

"Nein, sir; but her skin is grey and she is gasping for breath."

I could hear him muttering to himself in rapid German, so fast that even I, who had been speaking the language for over half my life, couldn't understand him. Finally he spoke up again. "Keep her varm. I do not know for certain but I haf an idea, and if I am write zen you vill be very vorried. Vhat is your street?"

"Dimitroffstraße," I told him breathlessly. "I'll be waiting for you. And danke, sir!"

"Auf Wiedersehen," he said, and then hung up. I placed the phone in its cradle and let out a breath, not really sure if I was relieved or more apprehensive. He had said we'd be worried if he was right – what did he think Oma had caught?

I looked over at Derek, who was once again burying himself if The Fellowship of the Ring. He felt my gaze and glanced up from its pages. "What's wrong with your grandmother?"

I sighed and collapsed in a chair. "We don't know, but the arzt is coming. He said – oh, I've got to go tell Marta to keep her warm!"

He put the book down. "I'll stay and watch for the doctor while you do that, if y'like."

"Oh, thanks," I said gratefully. Then I whirled back up the stairs and into the bedroom, where Marta was anxiously watching Oma. She was sleeping, but her breath was ragged and shallow. Marta looked up, seeming relieved to see me. "Kat! What'd the doctor say?"

"He said to keep Oma warm..." I pulled the coverlet up to her wrinkled chin. "Oh, Marta, she's as cold as ice!"

Marta clasped Oma's hand again, holding it to her cheek and blinking back tears.

"Cheer up, liebling. The doctor will be here soon and he said... he said that she would be alright." I fibbed, feeling remorseful but not wanting to depress my twin with the arzt's news.

Downstairs I heard the door slam, and the same thick German voice I'd heard over the telephone floated up the stairwell, followed by Derek's lighter one. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but in a few minutes both of them entered the room.

"Hallo, I am Doctor Vladimir Demikhov. Is dis de patient?"

I nodded wordlessly, and stepped aside, almost unwilling to surrender my awakened grandmother to this huge, powerfully built man. He was grizzled, grey-haired, and his shoulders were slightly stooped, but he was obviously strong and his hands were large and square. They did not seem at all gentle as they pulled the blanket back from Oma's body and felt her pulse.

"How long has she been dis vay?" he asked.

"I – I don't know," Marta confessed. "I think for about two weeks or so, if I remember correctly, but I can't be sure. She's always resting, and she has never been completely well since the wall went up, so..." she drifted off.

I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know either. Not long, but it's not new."

He continued with his examination, inspecting Oma's tongue, listening to her heartbeat, and asking her questions.

"Are you thirsty?"

"Ja, ja, I am very thirsty." Marta hurried to get her a glass of water.

"And are you aching, all over?"

"Yes, I am. How did you know this?"

The doctor looked reluctant to say anything. "I... I have seen many cases of dis throughout zhe past few weeks. I do not know yet how serious zhe epidemic is, but I am fairly sure it is a böse one."

"The epidemic of what?" Marta asked in a trembling voice.

"Cholera," he intoned grimly, and once again, my world came to a halt.

Chapter Eighteen

Invalid

Over and over, around and around, I turned the bottle of small capsules in my hands, hating its white sticker label that declared what the contents were for: cholera patients. Marta reached for the bottle, fished out two of the pills, and dropped them into a glass of water, which she held over Oma's lips. "Come, Oma, you must try and drink this, it will make you well." She tried to sound cheerful but I knew how she really felt, because her feelings mirrored mine. Doctor Demikhov had informed me; only me, that there was little chance – hardly any – that Oma could survive the disease that had invaded her small intestine. She was much weakened, and her frail body was, it seemed, giving up to the virus. I hadn't yet told Marta; I couldn't bring myself to speak the words.



Several days later, I still had not been able to break the news to my sister. I'd not told anyone, but last night I couldn't help it and had cried into my pillow. Marta, worn out from faithfully nursing Oma, slept on, and I was glad. Before I'd always told her everything, but... how could I tell her? How does one tell someone that their loved one will probably die? In desperation, I sat down and began another letter to my brother. I found myself missing him more than ever now, because Marta was so often at Oma's bedside – I even carried her meals to her on trays – and Derek wasn't yet a close friend, one to confide in.

Dear Dan,

I'll be brief: we just found out Oma has cholera. And the doctor told me – just me – that she's most likely not going to live through it. I guess there's an epidemic here, thank goodness we haven't gone out much lately, and it's a big one. Dan, I'm so worried. Worried about what will happen to us, worried about Oma, of course, worried about the food situation here, worried... oh, and just worried! You can't know what it's like, don't try to be sympathetic. I need somebody to talk to because I haven't told Marta – or Oma for that matter – yet. Do you think that's wrong? I can't bring myself to! I hope you never have to go through this.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table right now. The sun's out, even though it's freezing and snowy, and despite the cold it's quite a lovely day. I've not been outside in a while, though, because I don't want to leave Oma and Marta. My dear twin! Dan, she's been nursing Oma this whole week. I've hardly done a thing to help... I feel badly! Marta's a dear, though.

Dan, I miss you. I wish it had been your turn to come to Oma's, too. I wouldn't give up Marta for the world, but I wish, oh, how I wish you were here! It's funny, I was glad to get away from you for a "couple of weeks" last year. I never dreamed it would be so long... and I've spent the whole of this time wishing that it hadn't happened. That something had come up and we'd not been able to go. But now I'm sort of glad. At least, glad that someone's here with Oma while she's sick. We'd probably never have seen her again if we weren't here... I mean, because she would have... you know. I don't even like thinking about it! She must live, she must! And yet, I know she won't. I feel it in the pit of my stomach, and in my heart. I'll tell her you love her, that we all do.

Something was tickling my nose. I brushed at it, and found it to be a tear. And there was another one, trickling down my check and curving against my jawbone. I sniffled, blinked hard, and laid the letter aside on the table. Suddenly I felt the strong desire to hold Oma's hand, to tell her I loved her and that we'd be with her till... till whatever happened.

Upstairs Marta was asleep in the armchair next to Oma's bed, but Oma herself was awake, her eyes focused on the ceiling. "Kat, my dear," she murmured when she saw me. Her voice was awful to hear: dry, raspy, and rough. It sounded like she'd not had a drink of water for days, and I went into the bathroom to get her some. "Oma, how're you feeling? Are you – are you worse?"

"Kat... liebling, I know. I know."

I nearly choked. "Know what, Oma?"

"I'm dying, my dearest. My old bones are finally giving up, and this cholera is doing me in."

"Oma, no! Please... no. No." I quivered. How could she know, how could she know?

"Ja, my darling Ekaterina. Yes. And do not worry for me, you and faithful Marta. My soul is at rest; I am not afraid to die."

"But Oma... what will we do without you? We can't – I can't – "

"Meine Kat. Listen to me while I still can speak." I shut my mouth and squeezed her hand. "I know that you and Marta will miss me. I will miss being here with you girls and watching you grow. But, Kat, I'm an old woman. I can't prevent what will happen eventually, and I am only happy that I can be here with you and your twin before I die.

"You need to let me go, Kat."

"Oma," I gasped, unable to say more. I buried my head on the quilt and sobbed out all my heartbreak, all my worries and fears and sorrows. Everything was changing, and I was powerless to stop it... my grandmother, my only relation whom I truly knew and trusted outside of my family, my Oma was dying, and I could do nothing but sit back and watch. Why was I so incapable? How was there nothing I could do for her, nothing anyone could do? There had to be some way!

Oma saw determination rising up in my face, and quietly raised her hand.

"Nein, Kat. Oh, my beautiful granddaughter, my namesake. Your sister is the beauty of the family, ja, but you... you have the German features of your father and you are just like him."

I blinked. Oma's namesake? "Oma, I don't understand. I always thought that the other Ekaterina was Russian."

"And so – and so I am, Kat. I am Russian-born, but my soul is here, with your Opa, in Germany. Please let me be buried beside him."

"I am your namesake, Oma?" I asked again, still unable to take it in. "Truly, you're that other Ekaterina Gorvich?"

She coughed hard, and Marta stirred in her chair, then went on sleeping. "Yes, yes, liebe, though your Opa always called me Trina. I suppose that was why you never knew."

"Oh, Oma," I blinked back more tears. "I'm glad, so, so glad!"

"I am too... Ekaterina. I – I love you, my darling."

"I love you too, Oma. I love you too." I quavered, clenching her fingers in mine as she closed her eyes. Gently I released her hand, and as I did so, I saw that my fingerprints were imprinted in the folds of skin on its back.

Chapter Nineteen

Ache

Marta found my un-finished letter to Dan on the table. She read it, and looked at me with hurt and disbelief in her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?" she whispered.

"Oh, Marta," I melted into her arms. "I'm sorry... so, so sorry! I know I should've told you, but I – I couldn't."

"Why not, Kat? You used to tell me everything."

"I know – I know... forgive me, meine Marta." She hugged me and answered my question wordlessly.



The day of the funeral was drizzly and frigid. Dressed in black, Marta and I trudged home from the chapel. My twin's face was still blotchy and red an hour later; mine white as a sheet. We picked at out food, pretending to eat, in silence, and after Marta and I were in our bed with the dark ceiling high above us, I heard her sobbing into her pillow. Myself, I could not cry. All my tears were gone, spent the night before while Oma was still... still alive. I missed her so.

The next morning, Marta was too quiet. I knew she was thinking about the past few days, and I longed to comfort her. But what could I say? I couldn't think of anything that would console her grieving heart. As for myself, I was restless. My mind replayed my last conversation with Oma over and over again, remembering her touch, her voice, and her eyes. All my life I had loved my Oma's eyes: deep, dark blue. Not pale, sky-blue like Marta's, but blue, so blue that they were almost purple. I had longed for such lovely ones since I was a young girl. They were wise eyes, deep and warm, full of knowledge and truth. I would miss seeing their level gaze focused on me.

One morning, Marta opened the cupboards and pulled out the last of the bread. She sighed heavily, as she had been wont to do lately, and placed it on the counter. "Well, from now on we're going to have to be frugal with this. I can go to the lebensmittelgeschäft today, but I have no idea of what I'll find."

Derek spoke up from his usual spot on the couch. "I know where we can get some," he offered.

"Where?" I demanded incredulously. If he knew where to buy food, we had to know!

He looked shifty for a fraction of a second, and glancing at Marta, I guessed she hadn't seen it. Her eyes were glued to Derek's face as if he was the most wonderful person in the world. "Oh, just around. I'll go later today, if you want."

"Please," Marta breathed. He nodded. I was touched that he would help us, but I couldn't forget the craftiness in his eyes. Something was wrong – but what?

All that long day, rain pattered against the window. It seemed like the whole world was crying for our loss, mourning along with Marta and I for things that could never be. I felt trapped, trapped in a sea of misery that seemed to hover over the atmosphere inside. Only a few lamps were lit, and their feeble light was not enough to penetrate the gloom that clung to the windows and smothered their rays. And suddenly I felt that I could not stand it anymore. With more force than was required, I stood up, marched to the hall closet, and took out my coat. "Marta," I announced, "I'm going for a walk."

I didn't care to ask whether or not she'd come with me, and apparently that was what she wanted, for she only nodded her head slowly, as if she was so drained of strength that a nod was all she could manage. I yanked on my rain boots and threw open the door, then slammed it behind me. In my imagination, I could almost hear Oma gently reprimanding me. "Kat, liebe," she'd say, "please don't slam the door." It seemed I'd already forgotten her words.

The rain poured down on my head once I left the shelter of our doorway, in streams, rivers, and floods, wetting through the now-useless hood of my coat. I threw it back, regardless of the cold, and let the droplets soak my hair. How good it felt, to be standing alone in the shower. I let the clouds cry for me; I had no tears left.

I walked and walked through the neighborhoods of East Berlin, passing the post office, the market-place, and the abandoned park, where I had often played in happier days of my childhood. The childhood that, because of the events of the past year, was gone forever now. I strayed wistfully there, seeing in my mind's eye little girls, one dark, the other a redhead playing on its towers and swings. Those days, long and carefree, were forever behind me now, and I could not dwell on them; doing so would only make me depressed, so I moved on, only pausing when I drew near to the Soviet barracks. Rather than risk seeing them and being seen, I turned down a side street. Someone was at the end of the alley... someone tall and skinny, with blonde hair. He turned, and I gasped.

"Derek!"

"Kat," he said nervously, hurrying forward and literally shoving me down the street. "What are you doing here?"

"I went for a walk," I told him. Something was prickling at the back of my mind, something... but I couldn't put my finger on it.

"Uh – just getting some stuff." He put his hand on my shoulder, guiding me along as he gestured to the canvas bag in his other hand. "Look." I peered in and gasped in delight and wonder at what I saw. A carton of milk, chunks of white and yellow cheese, pounds of tea, flour, sugar and oatmeal, dried fruits and even a small paper sack of large cookies. "Derek! Where – how?"

He shrugged. "I know people."

For me, however, that wasn't enough. "No, where? Can you go there again?"

Again, he looked nervous. "Oh... it's not important. And yes, they'll supply me."

"Do they know it's for us?"

"I told them it was for some friends. They said whatever I wanted, I could take. D'you think it's enough?" he asked. I nodded enthusiastically, my worry forgotten for a moment. "Marta will be so happy. Not much cheers her these days, you know – and... well, I'm so grateful. Thank you."



Marta was, as I had predicted, thrilled to see us trudging through the rain, the precious bag of supplies wrapped in my arms beneath my coat. I was soaked through by the time we arrived, and I watched amused while I wrung out my hair, as she threw her arms around Derek. The very tips of his ears were bright red by the time I laughingly pulled her off of him. "He's never going to do it again if you don't stop, my Marta."

She ignored me. "I can make bread now," she rejoiced as she scooped up the groceries from where they'd been dumped before the fireplace in her bliss. "With the flour, and sugar to activate the yeast... ooh Kat, won't you find Tante Therese's sourdough recipe?"
Chapter Twenty

Fight

"Oh, Derek, not again!"

"Yes, again," he said wearily, collapsing on the couch and handing his bundle off to me. "They caught me just as I was rounding the corner. It was all I could do to save – well, open it, Kat."

Curiously, I undid the brown-paper wrappings, did a double take, and nearly screamed. "Derek – you didn't!"

He smiled crookedly as Marta dabbed at his bloody lip with a wet washcloth. "Just for you two," he told us.

Marta came over to admire with me. "A whole roast chicken," she breathed. "How ever did you do it?"

"Well – anyway, I've got lots of bruises now to show for it, so you'd better make it good, Marta."



Later that evening over the chicken, Marta seemed almost cheerful; chattering with me and Derek animatedly, and (for the first time in a long time) finishing her food. It warmed my heart to see her that way. Derek was certainly good medicine, and I knew Marta saw him as a friend, a close friend. Even if it was mysterious that he wasn't revealing his secret, she had obviously accepted him, and he was almost a brother to us. In a way it seemed that he had taken Dan's place, and though I resented the fact that Marta could forget our brother, I'd realized she needed someone other than me, to lean on.



"Oh, Derek, not again!"

The familiar phrase, so often heard from Marta's mouth, floated up the stairwell again. I flew downstairs, wondering what had happened this time. Ever since he'd started coming home with packages of food, various gangs had begun to corner him... he'd arrive home bloody and beaten, having fought valiantly.

This time he was not submitting to Marta's first aid, but fiercely pacing the floor. His nose was dripping blood onto his shirt collar but he paid no attention.

"Derek, what's wrong?" I asked.

"I can't stand it anymore!" he growled, irritably shaking off Marta, who kept pace beside him.

"What?"

"Those gangs! I don't want... well I don't want trouble anymore!" He pulled up his trouser legs, revealing black-and-blue, blood-spattered knees and shins. "I'm sick and tired of it, that's all!" Breathing hard, he turned to face Marta and me squarely in the face. "I want to leave East Berlin."

"What?!" we gasped as one. "Leave?"

"Yes," he said, quieter now, but still just as determined. "I have to, don't you see? After what they're doing to me... and Elsa..." he trailed off.

"Derek, who's Elsa?" Marta probed gently. I shot her a warning glance which she promptly ignored; but because I too was curious, I said nothing.

"Elsa... was my sister. My twin."

"You – you had a sister?" I couldn't resist asking – Marta rolled her eyes at me.

"Yes. She was my sister. I didn't tell you, but when the army came for me – they did come, you know, I didn't go willingly like I said – I didn't want to go. The commander asked me why; an' I said because I had to take care of her. And he..." Derek's voice broke, and his lower lip trembled. "He k - ... right in front... I watched... "

Marta's eyes filled with tears of compassion, and she unashamedly reached for his hand. "Oh, I'm sorry... so, so sorry."

Again he shook his head, as if brushing the memories – like annoying cobwebs – from the corners of his mind. "But... but I can't stay here anymore. I've got to leave, and I know all the places that the border guards hardly patrol. There are even some spots that don't have barbed wire. Won't – won't you both come with me?"

There was pleading in his voice and manner, and through my shock, I couldn't help but dimly wonder why.

"C – come with y – you?"

"Leave East Berlin? How?"

Chapter Twenty-One

Conversation

"It's so dark," I whispered to Marta that night. "I can barely see the ceiling."

"Me neither. The moon's not out tonight... 'cause of the cloud cover, y'know."

"Maybe... maybe that would be helpful if – well, on a dark night it would be less easy for – "

"Kat – tell me, I must know. Do you want to?"

"I – oh Marta, how can I know? I mean... I don't want to stay here, especially with Oma gone... but how? Here is my life!"

I could hear Marta swallow in the stillness before she responded. "Kat, I – I think we should go."

"Marta!" I gasped. "What are you thinking?"

"Well, do you want to stay here?" she demanded, suddenly becoming defensive. "I don't! There's no reason to, Kat! And with Oma gone, I think – well, maybe it's a good thing..."

"Mar-ta!" I was still shocked. "Have you ever thought about the dangers? About the dozens of people killed trying to escape? That could be you or I – we need to think about this!"

"I know Kat, but I can't help but feel that this is what we need to do. Derek's our friend, I don't think he would do something that risky unless he knew what he was doing... do you?"

Now it was my turn to be the sensible older sister. "I don't know! He's desperate, Marta, and I think he'd do anything... I just can't know, not now! But I do know that we need to think this over. Y'can't just climb over the wall, meine Marta."

She sighed, a discouraged sigh. "Well... good night, Kitty. I – I love you." Then she turned over and closed her eyes.

Soon the room echoed faintly with the sound of her soft breathing, and I was left alone in my bed, staring up at the ceiling that I could not see. One though possessed me, ran through my mind and would not leave.

Could we escape?



A strange clinking filled my ears and I couldn't place it. I hadn't set the alarm, nor had Marta. What was it? The incessant ringing was unbearable. And then I realized: it was the telephone.

What? I though groggily. Who could be calling at this hour? I wrestled my right wrist – the one that bore my watch – from where it was entangled in the blankets and peered closely at its face, my nose nearly touching the glass. It was six o' clock in the morning, and the sun hadn't yet risen. Why –

But then the ringing stopped; suddenly, mid-ring, which lead me to believe that the caller hadn't given up. Derek must've – but why would he...?

Blearily I swung my legs over the side of the bed and shoved my feet into the slippers that waited there. Marta was still asleep and I tucked the covers back around her form before slipping out of our room and down the stairs.

"Ja, ja, sir."

It was Derek!

"Yes. They were very pleased." He listened for a while longer, than spoke again. "They did an excellent job. Mm-hm." There was again another pause. "Yes sir. I will be by later today. And everything is going wonderfully. Thank you. Ja. Auf Wiedersehen."

I furrowed my brow in perplexity. What could he mean? Thoughtfully I leaned against the wall, waiting to see if he'd say anything else. As I did so, a board creaked; and I saw Derek's head shoot up. His face went pale when he saw me. "Kat," he croaked. "What are you doing up?'

I forced a sleepy smile. I couldn't help but think that it was wiser for him to believe I'd heard nothing. "Oh, the telephone woke me up. Who was it, anyway?"

He looked uneasy. "Um... just a well-wisher. She said that she knew your Oma... wanted to offer her condolences."

I nodded even though my head was spinning. I knew he was lying; his very face betrayed that. But why couldn't he tell me who he'd been talking to?

"Well – I'm going to go back to bed... how about you?" he asked awkwardly, clearly wishing that I would just go away. Again I nodded, to make him feel at ease. "Yes... g'night. See you in an hour!"

He pivoted and lay down on the couch, while I mimicked his motion and headed up the stairs. Something was nagging at my mind. What had he said? "They were very pleased"? Who was "they"? What were they pleased with? And where would he be later that day?

For the second time in just several hours, I sank down near Marta. Her warm body beside me was comforting, a reminder that at least someone was true. I would have to discuss things with her in privacy as soon as she woke up – if she would believe me.

I could only pray that she would.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Follower

"Kat."

For the second time that morning, I was rudely awakened. This time, however, it was only Marta. "Kat," she whispered again, and I came swimming back into consciousness. "What?" I asked groggily.

"Kat – I think we need to go downstairs. Derek's been calling. He says he wants our decision."

I was fully awake now. "What? So soon?"

"Yes. It's getting too late in the year. He said we'd have to go within the next week or so before the walls would get slippery and we'd have a harder time. C'mon, please, Kat. I shouldn't do this alone."

Reluctantly I got up, and was surprised to see that my slippers were still on my feet. Marta looked at me strangely. "Why are your slippers on, Kat? Didn't you take them off before bed? I could've sworn you did..."

"Umm, yes, but... never mind. I'll tell you later."

Hastily I pulled on my clothes, and joined Marta at the top of the stairs. "Are you ready?" she murmured, and I nodded. Hand-in-hand we went down.

Derek was sitting at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cold cereal. Marta brought out bowls for the two of us and we joined him, crunching on the frosty sweetness for several moments before either of us spoke.

"Soooo," Marta finally began. "What are your plans?"

Derek beamed and produced a folded paper from his pocket. "I have this chart. It shows all the guard towers and barriers. So if we start here," and with his finger he tapped a spot on the map, "we're right in the middle of a long stretch in between two towers. I'd say this is our best bet."

I bent my head forward to look where his finger was. True, it did look reasonably safe, but –

"What's that X right there?" I asked, showing him the bold, capitol letter. "And look, here's two more. They're both in generally the same area."

Marta too leaned in to study it, but Derek quickly folded the paper up. "To tell you the truth, I – don't know. Probably nothing," he hastened to add, seeing my apprehensive look.

"But isn't there a stretch where they've hidden land mines and explosives?" Marta wondered aloud. "We've heard stories on the radi – ow! Kat, you hurt!"

Smoothly, I cut in. "Yes –" with a worried frown, but all the while pinching Marta's arm under the table, "– yes, I've heard that, in the paper, too. Are there?"

He nodded. "But most of those are near Checkpoint Charlie, which is here." He unfolded the chart again and jabbed at another spot. Marta shuddered. "We know all about Checkpoint Charlie."

I agreed; the tall building which stood guard over its section of the Berlin Wall could be seen for miles on clear days. Just a few months earlier, a teenaged boy name Peter Fechter had been shot in the pelvis while trying to escape there.

Marta was thinking, her brow furrowed. "But, Derek," she mused, "Checkpoint Charlie is the most popular spot for escapees... don't you think we should try there? After all, there must be some reason."

He shook his head vehemently. "Nein! They'll be expecting us at – I mean, they'll expect people, people crossing there. Here is much, much safer. Trust me, I – I know these things. Uh, I was, in any case, a guard for two-and-a-half years."

Marta seemed at peace, but I wasn't so easily convinced. Something about Derek's nervous, jumpy behavior made me uneasy. But I didn't want to question him – how could I, when he was trying to help us escape?



"I'm going out again," Derek called later that afternoon. Marta, engrossed in reading The Scarlet Pimpernel, barely looked up from its pages, but I trailed him to the door. "Derek," I began carefully, watching as he buttoned up his overcoat, "um, I'm sorry to bring it up again, but I do really want to know. Where do you go to get all this food?"

He fidgeted and played with the flaps of the coat. "Why – why do you want to know?"

"I'd love to thank them," I lied. All I wanted was to know and be reassured that he was getting everything honestly.

"Well, like I said, they don't want everyone to know. If I told you – well, word might get out and they wouldn't like that... in return for my silence they give me the food."

"But... but you said that they were your friends."

"Oh they are – they are, Kat! I've got to go – see you later – please stop asking – "

And then he was gone. I stared out the window, watching his path. I was fairly sure that he was lying now, telling full-on fibs to keep the secret, whatever it was. I was mildly offended that he couldn't trust me; after all we'd been through together.

After squinting after him for a few seconds more, I quietly slipped on my coat, eased open the door, and stood on the front step. He'd turned right at the end of the block, toward the center of town...

I began to run blindly, for the rain that had once again begun to fall clouded my vision. I concentrated on my feet pounding into the pavement, relying on landmarks like fire hydrants and sewers to direct my path. When I glanced up again, I was standing in the square. And Derek, perhaps taking advantage of the downpour, had vanished.

Like a child having a tantrum, I stamped my foot in frustration. But then I remembered my wet walk a few days ago. That I'd seen Derek, near the barracks, coming down a side street. Joy rose within me as I turned my route towards the long grey buildings, hoping against hope that I would find him there.



This time, however, I did not run to meet him when I spotted the tall, lean form waiting in a doorway at the end of the alley. I watched as he peered around nervously, perhaps on the lookout for me. It hurt to think that he could be doing something illegal.

Safely hidden in the shadows, I had a first-class seat to view the operations. When the door opened I gasped, for in it I could see a lofty figure, dressed in the familiar drab uniform of a German soldier. He and Derek exchanged a few words in rapid German that I had to strain to understand.

"Next week..."

"Ja, Herr..."

"And bring... money..."

"Understand... I will..."

"Fünf days time... waiting for..."

Abruptly, the conversation ceased and, fearing they had heard me, I ducked around the corner and sped off for home, my coat flapping behind me and my hair dripping. The mysterious dialogue ran through my head over and over. What would Marta think? Now I knew I had to tell her. And Derek's secret would have to come out.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Decisions

And so it was decided. We were to leave in five days time, on a Friday. Derek was especially specific about this day, which made me suspicious. But when I tried to talk to Marta about what I had seen, she brushed me off.

"Probably you just mistook a light sweater for a uniform, Kat," she yawned. "And anyway, I don't think it was very nice of you to follow him when he asked you not to."

"But Marta," I protested, "I know what I heard and what I saw! You need to listen to me; we're supposed to escape with this boy in five days and it could be dangerous!"

"Sshhh!" Marta shot me a warning glance. "The walls have ears!"

"I mean it, Marta."

"Silly," she said affectionately, putting her arm around me.



However, three days later it was Marta who was worried. "Two days, only two days," she complained, turning in circles in the living room as she surveyed our meager possessions.

"Mar-ta," I teased, putting my hands on my shoulders to stop her spinning, "We don't have to bring everything!"

She halted and I hugged her. "Oh, Kat, I know – but...!"

"Marta! Calm down! All of this isn't ours – really, anyway."

"Whose is it, then?" she shot back. I shrugged.

"Well, Oma's I guess, but then I think Daddy's the executor of her estate. Regardless, we shouldn't take it all. If we lock the doors chances are everything would be untouched. Whatever we don't bring, we can hide or something – whatever you want to do."

She nodded and I left her, slowly meandering through the house and inspecting it, studying it from every angle. The truth was, though I had spoken to reassure my sister, I was not free from anxiety myself. For I knew that, much as I would have preferred to think otherwise, these two days were most likely the last I'd ever spend in the little house. I had grown up in it – forced to become an adult overnight – forced to become wily and knowledgeable, forced to learn how to survive in a war zone. The result was a traumatized soul.

What would it be like, I wondered, to live without fear. The Americans were friendly, even kind; this I remembered from life in their sector. How could I ever go back to normal life again?



Derek called us for a meeting around the table. He gestured to the chart, open again, and pointed to a large red circle. "This is us. And here – "making another mark a little ways down "is where we'll climb."

"That's a while away," Marta noted fretfully.

"Yes," he agreed. "It's nine miles. We're going to have to walk."

"All that way?!" I shrieked. "How?"

"Well, at least we can do it in the daytime," Marta reasoned. "We can take a bus, and hide somewhere until dark."

Derek sighed. "No, we can't do that. It will look suspicious to be carrying bundles and things around – and soldiers are everywhere." He looked rueful. "I should know: I had to memorize the postings throughout the whole city." We chuckled together for a moment, enjoying the burst of humor amidst the seriousness of the day.

"And we're going to need satchels – one apiece. I am going to – well, get some supplies and blankets, maybe – "

"Whatever for?" Marta asked. "We can go home to Mama and Daddy, of course! They'll be happy to see you..." she looked up shyly. "Maybe you can stay always. I'll be Dan would be glad to have another brother."

Derek looked so touched for a moment, but the shook his head. "I – I have friends. And anyway, we may just want to sleep in a police station."

I shook my head as well. "Are you kidding? We haven't seen our family in months – "

"It feels like years," Marta added.

"– yes, years, and I can't wait! I'm not sleeping at any old police station."

Again he looked wistful. "I wish – I wish I knew what that was like. His voice broke slightly. "I've always wished for a family – knew that I needed one. But I had Elsa... and then – "

Marta looked as if she were about to cry. She had always been the compassionate one of us two. "Derek – I know that we can never replace Elsa and your parents. But... if you would like, I know my parents would be honored to call you their son. After you've helped us so much – we'd never be going home if it wasn't for you."

I nodded my agreement. "You'll like them – and if your friends don't want you, you could at least come and stay with us until you find a place of your own. We'd love to have you."

Derek sniffed and swiped angrily at his eyes, obviously embarrassed at being so emotional in front of Marta and me. "Thanks, girls. I – I better go now." With that he disappeared into the hall, leaving Marta and me to pack up the few possessions.



Unlike Marta, I had not been given the gift of orderliness. While she neatly folded her blue jeans and sweaters, jerseys and skirts, I threw everything in helter-skelter, jamming things in every corner. After a while Marta stopped to watch me in shock.

"Kat!"

I rolled my eyes at her. "What does it matter how I pack my clothes as long as they fit? It's not like anyone is going to critique it."

"But, Kitty, things will fit better if you fold them, like... oh, see mine. We have all the same clothes, and I've got room left."

I let her take charge of my satchel and instead wandered about the house, filling a pillowcase with momentums: the picture of Opa and the one of Mama and Daddy on their wedding day, one of Oma in her wedding dress, and three tiny little photographs of Dan, Marta, and me. Oma had been a very keeping grandmother and in boxes she had old letters from when she and Opa were courting. These as well, I tucked into the pillowcase.

Marta came downstairs then, and saw what I was doing. "Oh, good," she said happily. "I was worried we wouldn't be able to take those things along – no room in the satchels!"

I hefted the sack. "It's awful heavy, meine Marta – I wonder who'll carry it all those miles."

"We can take turns," she said confidently. "I won't leave them behind for the world – and Mama will be so glad to have them."

I hugged her. "Oh, Marta," I whispered. "I'm so excited I can hardly stand it – in two days we'll be home!"

Chapter Twenty-Four

Graveside

The next morning, despite the once-again drizzling rain, Marta and I set off alone for Oma's grave. Derek watched us with concerned eyes as we trudged away. "Are you sure you don't want me to come?" he'd asked, as we pulled on coats and boots in the hallway. "I don't want anything to happen."

Marta had smiled her lovely, gentle smile at him. "We'll be fine, Derek," she told him. "Thanks for offering, but we'd prefer to go by ourselves. This is our last goodbye, you know."



We'd packed a picnic lunch, and now we sat side by side on the little church porch. The cemetery, enclosed by a little, worn, white picket fence, belonged to the church and connected with the property. As I chewed my sandwich and watched the rain come down, I wondered longingly if Oma knew what we were doing now.

Marta dusted off her slacks and tucked the empty paper sack into her pocket. I scooped up the virgin rosebush we'd transplanted from the window box that morning. Their sweet fragrance penetrated the smell of wet earth and soggy trees, and Marta sighed pensively.

"Oma loved the roses," I remarked, something that was not necessary. But I felt that the silence was too oppressive and Marta too gloomy.

"Ja... especially these little red buds. I wish we could see them when they bloom." Silently, as we made our way over to the fresh mound of earth, she began to sniffle. "Oh, my Marta," I cried, throwing my arms around her and leaning my head on her shoulder. "You mustn't be sad – Oma wouldn't like it – "

"I know, Kitty, but... well it's so hard!" Suddenly she was angry, at what I didn't know. "I can be sad if I want. Why shouldn't I be? Oma's died, she's dead – that's a sad thing!"

I was shocked. "Marta – I – "

And then she was quiet. "I know, Kat, I'm sorry." She heaved a sigh of pent-up frustration and was herself again.

Together we dug a small hole in front of the marble tombstone. I traced the chiseled letters on its face slowly.

Ekaterina Gorvich

1893-1962

Beloved Wife

Revered Mother

"They didn't say anything about her being our grandmother," Marta choked. "They didn't say the reason why she died."

"Cholera isn't that rare, sis. It's not that important."

"No, I meant – the real reason – I meant what killed her, what killed her soul."

I understood. "You mean the Wall. No, they didn't mention that. But why would they, Marta? It's ruined so many, and it might make the wrong people angry."

"I wouldn't have cared."

"Because it wouldn't bother us. We're – well, you know. But maybe the person who cut the stone would have caused trouble."

"But everyone should know – it's the truth!"

"And sometimes the truth is known, not spoken, Marta." I took her hand, squeezed three times – she knew what it meant, and looked her in the eyes. "Don't let it change you, liebling. Don't become bitter."

She looked away and smoothed the dirt over the rosebush, as if trying to smooth out our problems and our world. Wrinkles persisted, however, mirroring her heart. Tears filled my eyes for my sister – what was she becoming?



Droplets of water hit the ground in slow monotony in front of Marta. But the rain had stopped – and I realized she was weeping silently. "Oh, Marta..." I embraced her and let her tears soak my already damp shoulder.

"I'm going to miss her, so much," she whispered against my coat. "I wish we could take her with us."

"Me, too, meine Marta. Me, too. But please, cheer up, I don't like for you to be sad – it makes me sad – "

"Kat."

She was quiet now, her face pale and her eyes red. "Kat – how're we going to tell them? Mama, Daddy – they don't know!"

"Oh, crumb," I gasped. "I'd never though of that... what are we going to do?"

Marta blew out her lips and screwed them to one side, thinking. "I suppose when they ask where she is, we could tell them – oh, but how? How?"

My mind flashed back to my thoughts of several days earlier, when I struggled to think of a way to tell my twin the awful news. She'd found my letter – how could we do that for our parents?

Marta knew what I was thinking. "Well, I found your letter to Dan... that told me. Could we write someone a letter and let them find it?"

I shook my head. "That's too mean of a way. We'll just have to face it."

She nodded.



We stayed a while longer, waiting in the on-and-off rain, unwilling to leave. I couldn't bring myself to; the thought that today might be my last goodbye to my loved grandmother made me heartsick. "Marta," I cracked, "I can't believe this is it. This is goodbye. I'm going to miss her so much..."

"Me too, Kitty...don't worry, though. Don't be sad... it makes me sad, remember?"

I hugged her, then knelt down and touched the tombstone. "I love you Oma. I – we – will miss you so much. Thank you for all that you did."

"Oma... sleep well." Marta sobbed. "We – we have all your pictures and things and we'll tell Daddy you love him – them, I mean. We'll miss you."

And then we turned and left the cemetery, closing the white picket fence behind us and letting the rain wash our tear-stained faces.

I never once looked back.



Derek was gone when we came back, but there was a note on the table.

Marta and Kat –

I've gone out. Should be back soon, and then we'll finalize things. See you in a little while,

Derek

"I wonder where he goes," Marta mused. "But we'll never know, I guess. After tomorrow they're going to loose his business."

"Do they bribe him?" I asked, horrified that he might be putting himself out for us.

"I – I don't know... but don't question him, Kat. If he is, then it's none of our business, and besides, it's sweet that he would."

But I was not satisfied.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Apology

There was a knock on the door, and I hurried to answer it, fully expecting to see Derek there. But no, it was our neighbor Mrs. Vandergelder.

"Oh, hallo, Ekaterina de-ar. I – I came to say I'm sorry about your de-ar grandmother. I will miss her... she's always been a good neighbor... and I wanted to invite you and Marta to have dinner with me and Mr. Vandergelder tomorrow night – and your friend of course. Do come."

"Tha – "

"Oh, I knew you'd say yes. 7:30, sharp, liebe. See you then."

"Bu – "

"Oh, don't worry about a thing, de-ar. Just you leave it to me. Ta-ta, now. Good-bye!"

Marta peered through the curtains at the retreating figure of Mrs. Vandergelder. "What'd she come for?"

I leaned heavily against the door, sighing deeply. "She wanted to invite us to dinner."

She groaned. "What'd you say? We can't, obviously, but still."

I grinned, the funny side coming out. "I didn't say a thing. She just took it for granted that it was what we most wanted in the world. But – I suppose maybe it's a good thing I couldn't tell her anything. I hate lying to anybody, but it would be worse to lie for no reason at all. And she's really a kind-hearted soul."

We giggled together at the thought of Mrs. Vandergelder being a kind-hearted soul – at some times she could be quite vicious. "Her and her de-ars," I chuckled.

"Yes, and – "Another knock cut across Marta's sentence. I peeked out the window before answering it. "It's Derek this time. I'll let him in."

"Hey," he said, stamping his feet on the step to warm them. "How're you girls?"

"Oh, fine," I said, heaving another gusty sigh, "but I'm afraid we can't go tomorrow night. We've got a dinner invitation that we can't possibly refuse."

"What?!" he demanded, "We have to! It's the scheduled day, and – "

"Derek!" Marta laughed, "She's just kidding! We did get an invitation – "

"More like a summons," I muttered darkly.

"– but we're not going to accept, of course! And – "at this she paused, "– what difference would it make anyway? It's just one night."

"Um... no difference."

My eyes narrowed. He was hiding something, and before it jeopardized our escape, I was going to find out what.



I watched him once again sink into the world of Middle Earth. He was almost half-way through The Two Towers, having read every spare moment that he had. He glanced up and saw me looking at him.

"I wish that I could take this," he said longingly. "It's so good... even though Tolkien is English, of course."

I sat down next to him. "You can if you like. They're my books, but I got them for a song; they're nothing special, if you know what I mean. I'd like you to have them."

"Really?"

I nodded. "Really. To be honest, I don't have room for them anyway. My satchel is stuffed full of clothes – both mine and Marta's! Any space that's not filled with my stuff she's used for hers."

He chucked amusedly. I did too, but when our giggles dwindled there was left an awkward silence that I did not like.

And suddenly I couldn't stand it anymore. I had to know. "Derek," and my voice was cold, much colder than I'd meant it to be, "Derek, are your "friends" Soviet soldiers?"

He looked stunned. "W – What friends?"

"Oh, don't pretend," I snapped. "I saw him. Tall fellow, neck like a giraffe's..." I sucked in a breath. Derek was conspiring with the Giraffe!

Derek looked around frenetically. "Sshhh, Kat! You can't tell anyone, promise you won't. What they're doing is illegal; they could be shot for doing it. That food is from the Soviets' personal store."

"But that man – he's a cruel...!"

"Please, you must keep quiet about this. I couldn't tell you before for fear you'd be angry. But not all Soviets are bad, I promise you that."

I sat back, my mind whirling and seething inside. Why had I been so judgmental? How could I have jumped to so many conclusions where, in my wildest dreams, I'd been imagining Derek to be a Soviet spy!

Finally I spoke quietly, faltering, because I did not like and was not used to saying I was sorry.

"Derek... I'm sorry, so, so sorry. I – I didn't have a reason, I just jumped to conclusions... and you've been so kind to Marta and me. I... well, I shouldn't have accused you, and I am sorry. Forgive me, please."

He squirmed, obviously uncomfortable. "Uh, yeah, sure. It's all right, 'smatter of fact I don't wonder that you were suspicious. I mean, a Soviet soldier alone is enough..."

We laughed nervously, but I couldn't help but feel that our budding friendship had been damaged. And by my own foolishness!

I mentally berated myself as I climbed the stairs – stupid, stupid, stupid! I was glad that Marta had not overheard the conversation – her disgust would be evident, and while I was not usually fazed when she was angry, I couldn't stand it whenever she was disappointed in me.

Marta was reading on Oma's bed. She'd finished The Scarlet Pimpernel, and so had started Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontё. "Oh, Kat," she gushed, looking up at me, "you've simply got to read it! It's just marvelous."

"Which one?" I asked carelessly, throwing myself across her feet. She wiggled away from me and flipped a page. Then, realizing I had spoken, she looked up again. "Ooh, both of them! But I meant The Scarlet Pimpernel. It's so sweet – and the plot's got spectacular twists." And with that she dove back into the world of Jane Eyre. I snickered: there was no disturbing Marta when she got into her books.

Abruptly, Marta snapped the book shut. "Oh, Kat," she breathed. "In the book, Jane leaves for boarding school in the fifth chapter. There is a sense of beginning a new life – leaving her old, horrid one behind. And Kitty," and her eyes were tender, "that's like us. We're starting a new life, tomorrow. Leaving our horrid one behind and starting afresh. I can't wait."

I hugged her feet tightly. "But we're luckier, Marta. We have each other, and Derek. Jane had no one."

She looked amused. "So you've stopped suspecting Derek of treachery? I thought you'd never give it up!"

I flushed. "Well, I... talked to him, and he's told me some things – anyway, I think he's true, now."

"Good." Marta's voice was ever so slightly smug. "I thought you would. Just needed some sense knocked into your head."

"Enough, Marta!" I was both exasperated and rueful. "Whatever the cause, you don't need to rub it in. You had nothing to do with it, anyway."

"I know, Kat, but I'm still glad. You trust him now?"

"I trust him."

Chapter Twenty-Six

Journey

5:20.

Only ten more minutes now, and it would be fully dark. I clutched at Marta's hand, and she understood. Derek had left with more 'last minute preparations'. I'd told him to thank his friends for Marta and me – for that was surely where he was going. So we were waiting for him.

It was 5:25. Five more minutes.

And then a heavy thumping noise could be heard at the door, and when Marta opened it, there was Derek, his arms heaped with blankets, foot poised in midair. I lightened his load, while my twin ushered him inside. "Finally," she breathed. "Now we can get ready."

I snickered. We were all as ready as was possible – our packs were set neatly in a row on the table, with coats tucked between straps. Both Marta and I wore warm clothes and sturdy oxfords. As I fiddled with the grimy, fraying laces – for who living in East Berlin had had new shoes in months? – I wondered what trying to escape would be like. I'd studied the Wall countless times, ran my hands over its semi-smoothness when no one was looking, but never even dreamed of climbing it. How could I? It was, in some places, twelve feet tall, without grooves except for the occasional vertical ones. The more I thought about it, the more I worried. The Wall had been constructed to keep people from climbing it. And the Soviets were master builders – so far they had succeeded. Was it impossible, the thought of flight just a foolish dream of an ex-soldier?

Could we do it?

"Kat?"

I looked up, surprised. Unconsciously I'd hidden my face in my hands.

"Are you all right?" Marta asked gently.

I jumped to my feet. "Oh – yes. I'm fine – but what are we waiting for?"

Derek grinned. "You, Kat."



Twenty-five minutes into our walk, my feet were already aching. Marta was faring no better – her delicate body was not used to walking far at all. Derek seemed to be the only one who was ready to follow through with our plan.

"Oh, where are we now?" Marta groaned in a whisper. So far we'd been forced to keep our voices down and creep along in the shadows, slinking around like spies at Derek's command.

He consulted the map. "Umm... I would say 'bout seven more miles, give or take a few."

"Haven't we walked that far already?" she begged.

Derek pursed his lips philosophically. "No. Just a couple of miles... why?" He took a closer looked at my sister's red face and frowned. "Oh, Marta. You're not looking so well... hey, Kat! C'mere and look at Marta."

I hurried over, but saw nothing worse than what I imagined my own face to look like. "She's just tired, Derek, and she's looked this way since we've started. Haven't you noticed?"

He was taken aback. "Why, no I haven't. Are y'sure?"

I raised an eyebrow. Dan had never been very observant either, but sometimes the things that boys tended to ignore amused me.

We started off again, walking a bit more freely that it was now pitch dark, our path lit only by occasional street lamps. As I slowed down my pace to walk with Marta, she pinched me viciously. "By the way," she hissed, "I haven't been red in the face since we started! That's a total exaggeration. Hmmph!"

I laughed. "Oh, Marta, don't worry! I don't care about your red face!" After thinking this over for a minute, and listening to her heaving breathing, I added slyly, "And neither does Derek, liebling."

"Oh!" She pinched me again, and then dissolved into giggles.

We were both extremely giddy for a while, but Derek soon shushed us. After that we were quiet. I was almost in awe of what was going to happen – we, Marta, Derek, and I, were going to try the most daring thing of our lives.

We were going to attempt to climb the Berlin Wall.

What was I thinking??!!?

Suddenly, I stopped. Marta did, too, and Derek, who was by now several paces ahead of us, halted. He turned around and hurried to me.

"Kat? Something wrong?" There was concern in his voice, and he supported me as my knees wobbled.

"I – I can't," I whispered, so lightly that they had to strain to catch my voice.

"Say it again, Kitty. We're right here."

"I can't do it!"

Marta looked at me, horror in her blue eyes. "What do you mean, Kat? Of course you can – we all can – wait, what am I saying?"

Derek understood. "At this point, Kat, you really do have to. But it'll be fine; Marta and I will be right beside you."

I pushed his hand off my trembling shoulder. "No... no! I can't, I can't, I can't!" I searched his face, desperately looking for signs that he understood me, understood the fear that was raging inside me. "Don't you see? We're going to die!"

"Kat – no! We are not!"

Panting, I looked up from the pavement where I'd curled myself into a little ball. There was Marta, standing – no, towering above me, stretching herself to her full five feet, four inches.

"Kat!" she insisted again, and I unwilling scrambled up to stand beside her. "You are not going to die! We are going to climb this wall, and we will survive!"

She stooped slightly to peer into my eyes – she'd always been taller than me – and pushed dangling red curls out of my face. When she spoke, her voice was softer and sweeter. "Kat, you must think of Mama and Daddy... Dan, too. Think of our life; what once was, and what will be."

"But Marta – I – "

"And think of Oma." Marta's voice was strangled, her eyes full of tears. "She would not want you to be weak. Be strong for her, Kat! Live up to your name."

"Don't worry, Kitty. You'll see, it'll all work out! I'm here, we're here, and we've come so far! You can't give up now."

With a whoosh, my breath tumbled out of me, and I realized for the first time that I'd been holding it. "Yes – okay. Let's go."

Derek smiled at me. "That's my Kat."

I shivered. It was getting colder by the minute, and my threadbare coat didn't seem to block a fraction of the icy November winds that blustered and threatened to tear everything that I carried right away from me. But with Marta's hand in mine, and Derek on my other side, I suddenly felt invincible. My stride lengthened, and I thrust my head up. I was Ekaterina Gorvich, named after a survivor of both the World Wars, daughter of Marten and Olivia Gorvich. They were not here, but I was. I was here, and I was strong. And I was coming back to them.

It was not till a few minutes later that I realized that Derek had called me Kitty. Twice.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Wall

It seemed we would never stop walking. My feet were beyond blisters, just quivering pieces of raw flesh and bone. Marta, too, was limping along, making a valiant effort to conceal her pain and tiredness. We stopped frequently and hid ourselves in doorways and shadows, guzzling the water that Derek had gotten from who knew where.

"H – How much longer?" Marta asked, a shuddery sigh escaping her lips. Derek consulted the map. His face brightened, and he grinned at us. "We're almost there, girls! Just about a mile or so."

"I c – can't," Marta faltered, and I put my arms around her. "I'm s – so tired... and cold... and achy, and I want to go back."

Derek knelt down beside her. "C'mon, Marta! Think of what'll happen. You'll get to see your parents, soon, and your brother... you'll be home."

"Home." Marta's eyes seemed less dim for a moment. "Y – Yes... home." She struggled to her feet. "I – I'm ready now – let's go."

He nodded approvingly, and checked his watch. "Right on schedule," he muttered. "We'll be there in time."

I put Marta's arm around my shoulders, and Derek took the other one. Supporting her between us, we moved forward, every step bringing us closer to our destination.



I stared up at the massive height. Derek whistled, and Marta blanched. "I – I had forgotten how tall it was," she swallowed.

I nodded staunchly. "It's not that bad – but how're we going to climb it, Derek? It's too tall to grab onto the top."

Derek was gratified by my show of bravery. "Okay. So here is what I'll do. Kat, you're the youngest, you'll go first –"

"Why do I have to go first?" I steamed. "Marta and I are twins, remember?"

He rolled his eyes at me. "She's older, Kat. You and I know that."

Grumbling, I consented. "Oh, all right. What do I have to do?"

"I was in the middle of telling you," Derek explained patiently. "Now, as I was saying," – with a pointed look at me – "Kat will go first, and I'll give her a boost. Then Marta. You both have to be as stable as possible so if I need help climbing up myself."

He paused for a moment, and then added, "And if you hear shots, don't do anything. Just stay up there."

I wrinkled my nose. "What? Shouldn't we try and climb down? I mean – if they're shooting at us, then we don't want – "

"Nein!" Derek was almost shouting, but with a look around he quieted. "I mean... that's not the safe way. Glauben sie mir! – I know."

This seemed strange to me – but I did not say more. I could tell Marta didn't think much of it. But, well, it did not matter.



"So," Marta ventured after another hour, "is it time, yet?"

We'd been sitting there for what seemed like an eternity. But Derek seemed bent on leaving at a distinct time. I peered at his face, which looked like a statue, grey and hard as marble. "Um... Derek?"

He jumped. "W – What?"

"Can't we start now? Please, it's getting colder, and..." Marta stared helplessly.

Suddenly Derek checked his watch, and leapt to his feet. "C'mon, it's time. Let's go!" He hustled Marta and I over to the ditch that bordered the Wall. There was no time even to think – no time to question what we were doing; I just knew that I had to make my choice.

"Kat – Kat, c'mon."

My eyes flew open. Derek was beside me, fingers interlocked to help me up. Marta held out her hand, too, but I doubted that she, in her weakened state, would be much help.

Slowly, oh, so slowly, I placed my feet into their hands, and pushed up. Marta rocked back and forth on her heels, but Derek steadied her. Gently, and careful not to disturb me, he got from his knees to his feet and lifted me higher. After a moment of bracing myself against the smooth concrete side, I was able to grab onto the curved edge, and pull myself up. Then I discovered that it was going to be harder than I had ever thought, for the top was curved, and the barbed wire was close to the rim. But, fortunately, the wire was situated at least six inches above the cement, and I was able to slip my hands underneath it. Nevertheless, it took some skilled maneuvering to find me, wobbling and breathless, at the top.

Luckily, looking down failed to make me queasy, so I was able to guide Marta with my words as she headed after me. I watched as she inched her way up, keeping a look-out for possible guards, and wondering as I waited if it had taken me that long.

"Kat," Marta wheezed, and I pulled her up. Together we stood on the great dividing line. In front of us – West Berlin. Our true home, the place we'd longed for so often. And now it was right there. Behind me – East Berlin. Marta couldn't stop staring at our city, but I turned around for one last glimpse of the place where we'd lived for almost two years. It was not a happy place, but – well, things in it were dear to me. Life would never be the same without them.

"Where's Derek?" Marta whispered hoarsely beside me, and I was jolted back to reality. She was right – where was he? I peered down and saw him standing about fifty feet away on a street corner. What was he doing? It appeared as if he was waiting for something – but what? I groaned softly. "I can't call out to him, Marta! He's too far away and we'd be heard. I can't risk it."

"But – we can't just stay here forever! What are we going to do?"

I shrugged desperately. "I don't know! We can't leave without him, and... I almost wonder if we should just jump."

"Jump?!" Marta's voice was shrill and high – too high. "Sshhh! Meine Marta, you must be quiet!" I hissed urgently. "Oh, Kat," she whimpered, "I can't jump."

"Well, Marta," and my voice was needlessly sarcastic from tension, "did you expect someone to send a litter for you?"

She was about to respond with a trace of her old spirit, but another sound cut through the night air and split the silence in two.

"Gunshots!" Marta gasped, and I felt my world spinning out of focus.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Alone

"Derek!" Marta screamed, and in clapping my hand over her mouth, I almost lost my balance. She plunged away from me and cried out his name again, gasping for air.

"Derek!"

For the third time, she screamed into the night, and I found myself joining her. Anyone near two would-be escapers, and out after curfew besides, might be shot down before being asked questions.

And then I saw them – ten big, armed brutto with huge guns and bone-chilling expressions. They were walking with a swing in their steps – in fact, almost jauntily, as if the had not a care in the world But I saw their gazes rest first on Marta's face, and then mine, and the evil in those hard, cold eyes was fearsome indeed.

I grabbed wildly for Marta's hand, and found her already clutching for mine. "Jump, Marta," I whispered, so softly that she did not hear me, and then louder, firmer. "Jump, my Marta!"

She shook her head wordlessly. Paralyzed with fear, her limbs would not obey her brain. Her – our – worst nightmare had come true: we had been discovered, and there were soldiers coming after us.

To hunt and murder us like the fools we were.

For no one – no one – could escape this Wall.



How long we stood there, I would never know. But finally, dimly, I heard Marta's frantic screams that pulled me back into the real world. And then, training my ear, I heard a familiar sound. A sound that I had come to love, and appreciate over the past several days.

The sound of Derek's laughter.

Disbelief seemed to hover over me like a cloud as I glanced over the clump of soldiers. They were all tall – but broad shouldered. None of them was our friend.

Then I spotted him, leaning against a lamppost with another young man that appeared about his age. They looked happy and cheerful – he wasn't running away. What was he doing? How could he not be doing anything to help us? To help me?

Our eyes met over the crowd and he pulled away from his friend and walked towards me. He was snickering.

"Derek," I whispered helplessly, and glancing at Marta, I saw that her eyes were glued to his face.

"Oh, Kat," he admonished, his voice full of condescending sarcasm, "did you really ever think that you'd actually be able to escape over our Wall?"

Our wall? Whatever could he mean?

Derek went on, his eyes gleaming with a new and blood-freezing light. "I was right with you all the way. Whatever plans we made, I'd report to my commander.

"You and Marta were so desperate to be helped," he scoffed, "that I was able to lead you along like puppies on a leash. Everything I suggested, you did. I never knew it could be so easy."

"What? No... no!" My voice was dry, my throat muscles unmoving. How could I have been so blind, so idiotic? It was all coming into place now – Derek, slipping off to unknown places. Keeping his "friends" a secret, and when I'd found out, saying that it was because they were acting illegally. That they were doing it to help him. Insisting on a certain time and place for our escape – and now I knew the reason.

We had paid the price for stupidity.

Derek was walking closer now, jabbing a finger at my chest. "You're a fool, Kat," he sneered, his voice low and dangerous. Fear clutched at my heart as I listened to the boy I'd once thought my friend.

"You're such a fool! To think that a Soviet soldier would be completely cut off from his company? To think that my "Soviet friends" were had actually cut ties with the government? To think that nothing would happen when you'd try to escape – all lies, Kat! Did you never even see?"

He was laughed now, the ugly sounds in his throat sardonic and mocking. "You were so busy wallowing in your grief about your beloved grandmother; you were willing to do anything! Anything!

"All I had to do was dangle the though of flight right in front of your nose, make it seem glorious and great, and you would snatch at it. The more you though, the more it seemed like a good idea. Well, it wasn't, was it? Because now, Kat," – and I thought as I looked into his malicious, malevolent face that I had never seen someone appear so delighted with cruelty – "you and your precious sister will rot in a Soviet jail... forever.

"You're a fool, Marta. You're a fool, Kat. Because, no matter how hard you try, you will never escape our Grand Wall. Never."

"Verräter!" I screeched, meaning it with the core of my being.

"Kat," Marta mumbled. I felt for her hand, but avoided her face. Shame washed over me in huge, cold waves. I was the cause of all this – it was my fault! How could I ever make it right?

"Kat," Marta insisted, her voice barely reaching my ears over the sound of carousing guards, and finally I looked at her. "Kat – I... I – "

And then as one last desperate cry of horror tore itself from my mouth, Marta wobbled, lost her balance, and fell.

Off the Berlin Wall.

Right into the arms of a soldier waiting for her.

"Marta!" I screamed, and then again, "Marta!" She struggled mightily, but her captor was big and bulky – her waif-like form was no match for his prize-fighter's build.

As I watched, vulnerable, unable to do nothing but stare, two of the men started forward. "Greifen sie," one of them muttered, and they moved towards me.

"Nein... no!" I cried. "Marta!"

She called to me, but her scream was muffled by a big, rough hand. My heart squeezed to see her so harshly treated. "Give me back my sister," I faltered, staring the large soldiers in the eyes. "Let her go, and we'll both just be on our way. Please... let her go!"

Rumbling guffaws and chuckles filled my ears. "Come down, now, kleines madchen," one of them coaxed. "Come down and we vill just take you off to a nice, varm cell. You deserve it, you know, but I tink your sentence vill not be too long." He grinned evilly at me, and stretched out his long arms as if to pluck me right off the top of the Wall. I backed up, and felt the prick of barbed-wire against my legs. I couldn't go back farther; I couldn't jump down on either side. To jump forward would only bring capture; to go backwards would mean leaving Marta behind. And I was not ready to do that.

I appealed to the soldiers on last time. "Please – let Marta go. We'll go back home, we'll – "

But they wouldn't listen to me. Even now they were skidding down the ditch and one knelt on the ground, mimicking Derek's gesture. My heart twisted in fear.

Time seemed to stand still, and I was frozen, too, defenseless to do anything except stand there, at the gateway to my freedom, and watch as a thug inched his way up the face of the Wall.

A hand appeared – a gloved hand that gripped the overhanging ledge and clung till the fingers were white at the knuckles. I lifted my leg and arched it carefully over the coils of wire that threatened to slice into my calves. There was an elbow. I moved my left leg to stand next to my right and teetered, flailed...

And then there was another hand – a face. Fingers reached out to grab mine and pull me back to imprisonment.

Tugging away, I seemed to stand there, torn between the East and the West, spiraling my arms in the air as I wavered. Then I caught sight of Derek's cold, hard face, and made my decision. I would never go back.

My body relented to my choice, and I felt myself falling, falling... and distantly heard Marta screaming my name.

Then I collapsed into blissful darkness.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Home

"Fehl... fehl, are you all right?"

Amidst the bright starburst of pain that boomed in my head, I could make out a concerned face, inches from mine. My senses revived slowly as I came to, and found myself slumped on the pavement. I jerked away from the man and glanced at the sun. It was high and shiny-white. "Wh – Where am I?" I asked groggily, rubbing my hand over my head. It came away sticky with blood – my blood. "What?"

"Kleines madchen, you are hurt. Please, tell me what happened," the Berliner Polizei said, flashing his badge. I gratefully took his hand, for my muscles were weak and unstable. He helped me, wobbling, over to a nearby bench, and sat me down. Then he looked at me curiously. "Did you escape over zhe Wall?" he asked gravely. I nodded – then started. The Wall. Marta!

I leapt up, and staggered over to the Wall. Rapidly I pounded on it with my fists, as if doing so would somehow get me back over. "Marta... Marta!" I sobbed, as guilt washed over me like a red-hot wave. The Polizei ran over to me. "Fehl, vhat is vrong?"

I turned and buckled against the wall, sliding down it until I sat with my back against it. "My sister," I faltered. "She – we tried to escape, but I – I left her... we were almost taken, but I left her!" Tears of rage and humiliation ran down my pale cheeks. The poor man who was trying so desperately to help me put his arm awkwardly around my shaking shoulders. "Kleines madchen, I am great sorry for your loss. Do you have family here? Someone we could contact?"

"Uh – yes. My parents... they live near Treptewer Park."

He looked relieved. "But ve are so close to dat place – ja, ja, I vill take you there, now."

I shook my head. "No, thank you, Herr. I can find my own way."

"Are you sure...?"

"Ja," I said firmly. And I was sure. I'd lived there for years, after all, and I didn't want strangers ruining my reunion with Daddy and Mama.

So I twisted away from the kind Polizei and walked towards my house. The square itself was familiar, and I would be able to find my way by street signs and landmarks if nothing else.

But before I took the last few steps of my long, long journey, I turned once again towards the Berlin Wall. It was an ugly thing, so tall and grey, with its hateful coils of barbed wire. I placed my hands on it and leaned my forehead against it. "Goodbye for now, Marta," I whispered. "I'll come back soon. I'm coming to get you. And – I love you."

Then I swung around and did not look back. For I, Ekaterina Gorvich, was going home.

Peter Fleischer, member of the Berliner Polizei, stared in awe at the dull, grey landscape of East Berlin around him. He wondered absently if it still looked the way his wife remembered it. He recalled her sad, grey-green eyes that morning as she'd kissed him goodbye. He knew she'd been thinking of her own loved ones that had been lost to her as a result of the Cold War.

As a captain of his police force, Peter was assigned to free the prisoners in Einsen Prison, a cold, dank building just north of the government headquarters. He shuddered at the thought of what it must have been like to spend all those years in a cell.

The journey through the ravaged city of East Berlin was a terrible one. Stores and even private buildings had been looted. Homeless people were everywhere, with legs and arms like sticks, and eyes too big for faces. Peter winced at each new horrific scene. He'd lived in West Berlin all his life, and compared to what these starved creatures were going through now his was a life of luxury. He though wistfully of his comfortable home in downtown West Berlin, of his young, pretty wife – Trina was his nickname for her, after her late grandmother – with her red curls and mischievous smile. Her compassionate heart would have burst and overflowed with love for the needy.

Once he arrived at the prison, Peter wasted no time in freeing its captives. Long rows of cells filled two hallway-like structures – most of them gloomily empty. But the sight of the prison mates was even more miserable. They were nothing but skeletons. Skin was stretched tight over bones that protruded from stomachs, arms, and faces. Peter himself was a slender man, but next to these poor souls, he looked immensely heavy.

Finally, he came to the last cell, in which a small form crouched on the metal bed suspended from the wall. When he rattled his key ring in the lock, the head looked up.

It was a woman, and the sorriest woman Peter had ever seen. Her face was wrinkled into a thousand creases, and her hair, which hung disheveled and limp about her face, was snow-white. Her eyes were so pale they were nearly white, and they sat deep back in the sockets. He barely held back a gasp at the frightful sight of her, and when she spoke, her voice was so small that it sounded like a child's.

"Who – who are you?" she quavered listlessly. Peter felt his heart go out to her; she was so pathetically frightened of him.

"Have you come to take me away?" she asked in that horrible, dull tone. It seemed that she could not care less where he took her or what she did. Peter gently helped her up and she stood on wobbly legs that were so scrawny, they resembled chicken's feet.

"Nein, Frau," Peter said soothingly. "I've come to liberate you. The Wall has been torn down, and you're free."

She didn't even seem to hear him. "What is today, Herr?"

"November 9, 1989," he answered. "The day the East is set free! There is a large celebration in West Berlin, Frau. Do you have family that I could take you to?"

"All those long years," she mumbled, lost in her own world. "I remember the day I came."

"Frau," Peter said again, "do you have relatives in East Berlin? Will they be looking for you? Do you know where they live?"

She looked surprised. "Nein – nein, I don't have family here. I... used to, but – "

"But what?"

When she failed to respond, Peter tried a different tactic. "Frau, what is your last name? I might be able to locate family in the phone book if you tell me," he coaxed.

She muttered something that he didn't hear. "What's that, Frau?" he asked once more.

She looked up into his eyes. "My name is... Gorvich. Marta Gorvich."

80

