Letters Across the Wall
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Epilogue
June, 1979
West Berlin
The Spree moved lazily under a wide, pale-blue sky, sunlight breaking into shards along the surface of the water. Linden trees along the embankment were fully leafed now, their shade dappled and generous. Couples strolled. Cyclists threaded through the path. Somewhere nearby, a radio played faintly — tinny pop drifting through warm air. It was the type of softness Berlin rarely advertised.
Jonathan and Klara walked side by side, their pace unhurried. She wore a light summer dress beneath a thin cardigan; he had rolled his sleeves to his forearms. Their hands brushed occasionally, not out of urgency but habit. When their fingers laced together, it was unconscious.
Six months earlier, their steps had been tentative in this city — as if the pavement might shift beneath them.
Now they moved with ease.
Klara tipped her face briefly toward the sun, eyes closed for a second.
“I’d forgotten what June feels like by water,” she said.
Jonathan smiled faintly. “You said that in January too. Though you were shivering at the time.”
She laughed — a sound lighter than it had once been, no edge beneath it.
“That hardly counts. I was still convinced someone would appear out of the fog.”
He glanced at her.
“How do you feel now?”
“I still look over my shoulder sometimes,” she admitted. “But it doesn’t define the moment.”
They walked in companionable silence for a stretch, the rhythm of their footsteps aligning naturally. A small boat drifted beneath one of the bridges, its wake breaking sunlight into trembling fragments.
“Did Vogel write again?” Klara asked after a while.
“Yesterday,” Jonathan said. “Brief as always.”
“Careful as always.”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“He keeps his distance from anything ... physical,” she said thoughtfully. “But he still knows everything.”
“He prefers to remain useful without being visible.”
“That suits him.”
Klara adjusted her grip on Jonathan’s hand.
“And Kaspar?” she asked quietly.
Jonathan’s expression softened.
“Still in Brno,” he said. “Transferred to a facility with less isolation, according to Král.”
She absorbed that.
“But still imprisoned.”
“Yes.”
They had managed, months earlier, to send a short message through the corridor that still functioned in fragments — a simple note of gratitude, of solidarity, of promise not to forget.
The reply had been briefer still.
Live well. That is sufficient.
Klara’s gaze rested on the river.
“I read his line sometimes when I start to feel...” She searched for the word.
“Unsettled?” Jonathan offered.
“Yes.”
She squeezed his hand once.
“He knew what he was doing,” she said. “At the fence.”
“He did.”
They walked on. A breeze lifted strands of Klara’s hair; Jonathan reached up automatically and tucked them behind her ear. The gesture carried no self-consciousness anymore.
“And Havel?” she asked, though her tone had cooled slightly.
“Still in administrative review,” Jonathan said. “No authority over cases like yours.”
Klara’s mouth curved faintly, but her eyes remained measured.
“I still say that he won’t forgive humiliation,” she said.
“No.”
“I don’t trust a man who builds his sense of order on control.”
Jonathan studied her profile.
“You don’t have to.”
She nodded once.
“I don’t think about him every day anymore,” she added. “That feels ... significant.”
“It is.”
They reached a stretch of the river where the path widened. Children were feeding crumbs to ducks near the bank. An elderly couple sat on a bench sharing a newspaper.
Klara slowed slightly.
“I forgot to tell you. I had a letter from Anja last week,” she said.
Jonathan smiled. “Long?”
“Three pages.”
“That’s practically indulgent.”
“She says the orchard behind the farmhouse finally bore fruit.” Klara’s voice warmed. “And that she’s learned to make jam in a way that leaves no trace of how much sugar she uses.”
Jonathan laughed softly.
“That sounds like her.”
“She writes as if she’s cataloguing a secret library,” Klara said. “Everything coded, everything careful.”
“And you?”
“We compare notes,” she replied. “Books, music, small domestic victories.” A slight hesitation. “She says she never expected to find a friend by smuggling paper.”
Jonathan looked at her.
“You did.”
Klara smiled — a private, knowing expression.
“Yes.”
They continued along the river until the familiar façade of a small riverside eatery came into view — striped awning, chalkboard menu propped near the entrance, windows thrown open to the warm air.
Jonathan slowed.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Klara glanced at the sign and grinned.
“Yes, darling. We should absolutely interrupt our noble walk for pastry.”
“At minimum.”
She tugged him lightly toward the door.
Six months ago, they had crossed a frozen city wrapped in wool and uncertainty, measuring every doorway for threat. Now, sunlight pooled on wooden tables inside, glasses clinked, and the scent of coffee drifted out into the street.
Klara stepped inside first this time, glancing back only long enough to make sure he followed — not out of fear, but out of shared rhythm.
Jonathan came in behind her, the bell above the door chiming softly. They claimed a small table by the window, warmth and laughter mingling easily in the air.
Dusk settled slowly over Berlin, turning the sky beyond the apartment windows a muted wash of lavender and gray. Fading daylight caught the edges of the buildings across the street before slipping away entirely.
Inside, two desk lamps glowed.
Jonathan sat at his writing desk near the window, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, the steady percussion of his typewriter marking the rhythm of the evening. Sheets of paper lay stacked to his left, carbon copies to his right. Every so often he paused, reread a paragraph, and struck a key again with renewed certainty.
Across the room, Klara worked at a smaller desk they had brought in during the spring. Her lamp cast a warmer light, pooling over open dictionaries, a notebook filled with marginalia, and a thin volume propped carefully on a stand.
The apartment no longer looked transitional. It looked inhabited.