Chapter 19

Mid-April 1964 – September 1964

My mother closed the door behind us. “Unpack your bags, Will. Bring your dirty washing down and we’ll get it done tomorrow.”

“Okay. Can I ring Col to let him know I’m home?”

“Of course.”

I talked with Col for a few minutes and arranged to go round in the morning. She told me my postcard from West Berlin had arrived. She’d been seeing Lili most days while I was away.

Once in my room, I unpacked my case. The blue and yellow FDJ poster had some wrinkles, but not too many. I hoped it would flatten as its bold yellow and blue colours would make rather a fetching addition to my room. I gathered my dirty washing and carried it back downstairs. When I mentioned the wrinkled poster to my mother, she suggested I try ironing the poster with a cool iron; I retrieved it from my bedroom and spent half an hour smoothing the wrinkles, removing almost all trace of them. I’d have to investigate getting it framed – perhaps Lili would know somewhere.

My father had stayed in London for the weekend, but my sister was at home. Over supper, I saw she was interested in my trip as I answered more of my mother’s questions, but I think she was jealous, as she had yet to leave England. Once we had cleared up, I excused myself, as I was feeling tired.

Lying in bed, I tried to work out what – if any – were the implications of Mr. Watling using me as a courier. I puzzled over this for a while, coming up with several strange theories, but I had no data. I then wondered what it would mean for Mutti Frida now the evidence she had gathered was with British Intelligence.

Would they leave her alone or would they come up with some further plan to involve her? Either way, what would this mean for Col?

With my mind still gnawing at all this, I tossed and turned myself to sleep.

After breakfast, I walked round to see Col. As soon as the front door closed behind me, she flung herself into my arms. We hugged and a few tears dripped on my neck. After a minute, she pulled back. “Oh, Willi. You’re home.” She wiped her cheek and sniffed, laughing at herself. “Come in and tell me all about it.”

She pulled me into the kitchen where Mutti Frida was making coffee.

“Milk and cake, Willi?” she asked.

The aroma of coffee tantalised me. “Could I try some coffee, please?”

“Coffee?” Mutti Frida’s surprise was evident in her voice.

I explained how I had picked up a cup of coffee in Leipzig and its aroma was enticing but it had tasted awful. The aroma of Mutti Frida’s coffee was even better.

“OK, Willi.” She poured me a small cup from the coffee machine on the stove: strong, dark and a touch bitter – good, although not quite up to Melbourne espresso standards.

Col saw my appreciative smile and picked up my cup, taking a sip. “Ugh. That’s awful.” She shuddered with disgust.

I smiled at Mutti Frida. “You’ll have to show me how to make this for myself, Mutti Frida. I like it.”

Mutti Frida smiled and put slices of Mr. Searle’s fruit cake on the table. “Tell us all about your trip, Willi.” She settled on her chair, sipping her coffee.

I peered at them both, knowing what I had to say first would be difficult for them. I breathed in. “In Leipzig, I met Oberstleutnant Schmidt.” Both paled and sudden tension appeared in their stilled hands. “There was a reception at the Leipzig Opera. I didn’t realise he was there until I was being introduced to him.”

Their eyes filled with fear, but something else as well – suspicion? Of me?

“We only talked for about a minute about my essay and the University – nothing else.” Their eyes were still drilling into mine. “And then he moved on.”

They stayed silent, then Mutti Frida shook her head. “It’s all right, Willi. You surprised me,” she said, and caught Col’s eye. “Us.”

Col reached for my hand and smiled. “It’s all right, Willi. I know you would not betray us.”

This was going to surprise them, too. “I also met Mr. Watling.”

Mutti Frida was puzzled. “In Germany?”

“No – on the train, yesterday.”

“Why would he want to meet you?”

I explained I had seen him at the station when I left, although I didn’t know who he was. Then he’d sat down opposite me on the train down from London. “I think my entire trip was ‘arranged’ by Mr. Watling and British security.”

“What makes you think that?” Her voice held some disbelief.

“He told me he had me watched in the DDR and it turns out that, unbeknownst to me, I was bringing back a package of papers. I think it was the evidence against your husband, hidden in a false bottom of my duffel bag.”

“It’s here? You have it?”

My voice was apologetic. “I’m afraid not. I didn’t know I had it until Mr. Watling told me about it and then he took it.”

Mutti Frida’s gaze was intense. “Are you sure it was my evidence?”

“Well, Mr. Watling wouldn’t tell me what the package was, but when I suggested that’s what it was, he was quite uncomfortable and got rather huffy.”

“You think British Intelligence set all this up so you could act as a courier?” Col didn’t believe me. “They somehow arranged for a prize winner to withdraw and for you to be offered the prize instead?”

“I don’t know, but it fits the facts.”

Mutti Frida’s face was quite hard. “They were playing a dangerous game, if that’s the case. What if you’d slipped up and revealed you knew us?” She paused, her mouth working. “I’ll have some hard words with Mr. Watling the next time I see him.”

“No, you can’t.” I jumped in. “He told me not to tell anyone, but I had to share this with you.”

“I’ll have to see what he tells me the next time we talk.” She let out a sigh of frustration and then turned to me. “Now, Willi, tell us all about your trip.”

Col smiled. “How was your first flight in an aeroplane?”

“Fantastic – apart from Ginnie getting sick.”

Col inclined her head and her eyes showed a dangerous glint. “Who’s Ginnie?”

I kept a straight face. “She’s an attractive red-headed girl I sat with for most of the trip.”

I saw Col tense and then I smiled. “It’s all right, Col. She’s much older than me, in her final year of high school and lives in Devon.”

I saw Mutti Frida’s eyes were full of humour and she chuckled at Col’s reaction.

“I think you’d like her, Col. She wants to be a doctor.” I took a sip of my coffee. “She learned German from the wife of a German POW who stayed in England after the war, working on her parents’ dairy farm.”

I saw Col relax. She leaned across and punched me on the arm, realising she had been had.

“Ouch.” I rubbed my arm, pretending she’d hit me much harder – and then smiled. “Ginnie was quite nervous on the plane and even though I tried to help her, the nerves got to her when she tried to eat lunch.”

“Oh, the poor girl,” Col empathised.

“She was fine once we landed – and we walked in the Tiergarten for some fresh air.”

“Was she all right on the flight home?”

“Oh yes. In fact, I think the trip has helped her self-confidence. She had to make several speeches, as she was the only girl on the trip.”

“How many of you were there?” Mutti Frida asked.

“There were two chaperones – a man and a woman – and five of us prize winners. I was the youngest – all the others were about eighteen, in their final year of school. The FDJ hosted us everywhere – and I got to meet a young Polish delegation in Leipzig, too.”

Mutti Frida stood up. “Well, I must get lunch together. Lili’s going to join us. Why don’t you two sit and talk so you’re not under my feet?”

Col and I snuggled together on the couch, revelling in the closeness after two weeks apart. We shared few words, but many kisses.

After a while, Col whispered, “When are we having that conversation with Mutti about our promise?”

I was conscious of the beautiful young woman beside me. “We should talk about this when we’re alone. Then, when we are sure about what we want to do, we can talk to her.”

“I’m already sure.” Col snuggled closer and leaned in to give me a kiss, her tongue sliding over my lips.

“Well, perhaps first we should talk about the things we can do that won’t break our promise to her.”

Col’s eyes rested on mine and I knew she was about to speak when Lili knocked on the door. Col’s face expressed her frustration, promising more discussion soon, and got up to let Lili in.

We chatted about my trip until lunchtime. Lili was interested in what the young Pole had told me about the views of young people in Poland and that, of course, led to my meeting with Col’s father.

Mutti Frida called us in for lunch and I realised this was a Monday, and Mutti Frida should have been at work.

“I took the day off, Willi.” She smiled. “I wanted to welcome you home and hear about your trip.”

Lili grabbed my hand. “Oh, Willi. My mother wants to invite you to dinner at our house on Wednesday evening – you too, Col and Frau Schmidt. She wants to know all about your trip, Willi.”

Col caught my frown and elbowed me. “You’re not surprised, are you? Not after all the effort she put in to get you to go?”

I huffed, remembering the worry Mrs. Wiśniewski had caused with the photographer and articles in the paper. “I suppose not, but I’ll have to ask my mother if it’s okay.”

“It’s early closing on Wednesdays,” Mutti Frida reminded us. “We can walk down together from here. Would you like to spend Wednesday night here, Willi?”

“I’ll speak to my mother and let you know tomorrow, Mutti Frida. Is that okay, Lili?”

She nodded.

We spent the afternoon chatting some more and then playing cards before Lili had to leave to get home for tea.

I asked my mother about having dinner at Lili’s on Wednesday night and staying over with Col afterwards.

“You’ve been away for two weeks, Will. It would be nice for you to spend some time at home.”

“I’m home now – and you’ll have surgery on Wednesday, anyway.”

My mother gave her head a dismissive shake. “All right, Will.”

The following morning, I walked round to Col’s house. Mutti Frida would not be there and we could talk. Col had been waiting for me as the door opened before I could knock. She led me into the lounge room, and we sat on the couch. She leaned in and we kissed for a while before she leaned back, a slight blush on her face. “Are you going to tell me about these other things we can do ... things that won’t get me pregnant?” The blush deepened, but her eyes were shining with desire. In spite of the boys’ clothes she was wearing, she was gorgeous.

“I’m not sure talking is the right way to go about this.”

I slid my hand up her arm and caressed her neck. She leaned into my hand, rubbing her cheek against it like a cat enjoying the sensuous touch. Her lips invited kisses. After a while of mutual exploration, she pulled back.

“Oh, goodness.” Her eyes were languorous beneath those long eyelashes and she stretched, a relaxed feline. “I think we’d better stop for now. I want more, but let’s explore later.”

I kissed her nose. “You’re in charge, liebling.”

We spent most of the day close together on the couch, reading and later in another gentle exploration. The following morning was filled with the same wondrous explorations – and we had yet to remove any clothing. Now the dark threat posed by my trip to the DDR was past, we both felt we had plenty of time for us, for a slow exploration.

After we sat in companionable silence for a while, Col shifted in my arms. “Do you think it will take twenty-five years this time?”

I stared at her in confusion. “What will take twenty-five years?”

“For the Wall to come down. For the Soviet empire to collapse.”

“I don’t know.”

Col swivelled on my lap, her eyes boring into mine. “Why not? Isn’t it different this time? Can’t you tell?”

“I don’t know, Col. I’m sorry – I do not know what it was like in the DDR in my previous life. There’s no way to make a comparison.”

Col shook her head in frustration. “I don’t want to spend the next twenty-five years in hiding, pretending to be a boy.”

“Things are different between now and the last time – you know that as we’ve talked about them.” I let out an exasperated sigh. “Perhaps the collapse will happen sooner, perhaps later. I don’t know.”

Col closed her eyes and slumped back, leaning against me. “We have to find a way to end the hiding, then.”

“I don’t know how to do that, Col ... perhaps Mutti Frida can talk to Herr Watling about it?”

We sat for a while; our mood darkened by the situation Col was in.

“Come on, Col.” I pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go for a walk. We need some fresh air.”

Mutti Frida arrived home soon after we got back from a wander along the cliff tops and we sat down for lunch together.

Col glanced across at her mother. “Mutti, we need to ask Herr Watling how much longer we need to hide.”

“Why’s that so important, Col?”

“I want to stop being a boy. I want to become a girl again.” Frustration and longing filled her voice.

Mutti Frida nodded in understanding. “I know, Col, but we need to be safe. That comes first, sure...”

“No, Mutti.” Col leapt on to her mother’s commitment to safety. “I want you to ask him. I’m fed-up with pretending to be a boy, which is getting more and more difficult.” Her voice was sharp. “I want to be a girl with other girls.”

Mutti Frida sighed. “All right, Col, I’ll ask him – and I’ll point out the increasing difficulties we are going to have if you stay as a boy.”

Col seemed somewhat mollified and we carried on with lunch. Later, I changed into the smarter clothes I had brought with me while Mutti Frida and Col readied themselves. Then the three of us walked into town as a gentle dusk settled over the sea beyond the Downs.

Lili ushered us into Mrs. Wiśniewski’s elegant drawing-room.

“So, Willi,” Mrs. Wiśniewski said, after we had settled into our chairs. “How was the DDR?”

She had caused us such heartache that I thought I might play with her a bit. “I enjoyed it.” I saw Mrs. Wiśniewski stiffen. “The people we were with were like us and friendly.”

Mrs. Wiśniewski frowned. “Friendly?”

“Yes. Young people from the FDJ escorted us around Berlin, Dresden and Leipzig, showing us the sights and talking to us about their country. They are like us.”

I saw Mrs. Wiśniewski was blinking. This was not what she was expecting. She gathered herself. “But Willi, I told you to read between the lines and behind their words. Didn’t you do that?”

Time to let her know what I surmised.

“Oh, yes. I did indeed do that.” I told them about Fräulein Hartmann’s late arrival and Major Koch’s irritation; about the incident in the Augustusplatz when I had attempted to visit Bach’s church.

Mrs. Wiśniewski nodded. This agreed with her expectations.

“They kept you under a close watch, then?” Mutti Frida asked.

“Yes. But I only noticed it when I tried to visit Thomaskirche. I think Fräulein Hartmann was most concerned about how her bosses would view her if I explored unsupervised.” I looked across at Mrs. Wiśniewski. “We travelled everywhere as a group – except when we were at the FDJ camp, helping to bring it out of winter hibernation where we worked in pairs, one of us with one FDJ member.”

“How long did you spend at the camp?” Lili asked.

“We were there for two nights. During the day we were working hard, opening the camp for the summer, but in the evening, we sat around a fire outside in the forest, talking and singing songs.” I smiled at the memory.

Mrs. Wiśniewski was still on her hobby horse. “And they told you how wonderful their society was, I suppose.”

“That’s not the impression I came away with.”

Mrs. Wiśniewski blinked and shifted in her chair, but I did not give her a chance to interject.

“Outside of Berlin, all the FDJ people I talked with were viewing their society critically. They knew something about the west and did not want a society like ours, but they wanted their society to change, to become more open and modern.”

Mutti Frida and Col were both leaning in, fascinated by what I was telling them.

“You think the young people are going to change things?” Col asked.

“Perhaps ... I don’t know. Berlin’s control is firm, as I saw with the FDJ there. Outside Berlin, they want to change – and it is wider than the DDR. In Leipzig I met some Polish young people, well one young man, and he felt the same way.”

An awful thought occurred to me. “Please, you must not talk about this. If word got back to the DDR, I’m sure the Stasi could track down the people we met and cause them problems. It would be the same in Poland, I expect.”

Mrs. Wiśniewski nodded. “The Polish government has the Urząd Bezpieczeństwa, the Security Service. They are like the Stasi and KGB.” She stood up, smiling. “All that was interesting, Willi. Thank you. Now, let us eat.”

We had a pleasant meal, chatting about school and our plans for the summer. It seemed the Wiśniewski family was going to spend two weeks in the south of France in July. Col and I had no plans, it seemed, except a shared glance held the promise of those not-plans including each other.

Once we were back in Col’s house drinking hot chocolate, Mutti Frida quizzed me. “You saw a difference between the youth in Berlin and out in Dresden and Leipzig?”

“Well, the FDJ in Berlin were, I think, part of the central organisation; I don’t know, but they came across like leaders. They had little leeway to say anything except the party line. There were adults around all the time in Berlin.”

“But outside Berlin, it was different?”

“It was not something you could point to – there was not this strict adherence to whatever the party line might be. They were prepared to question and think for themselves about the answers.” I stopped for a moment, trying to put my feelings into words. “I think the Berlin FDJ would be like that too, if they felt safe.”

“And the young Poles you met were questioning things, too?”

I shrugged. “I only talked with one – a trainee electrical technician from Gdansk – but he felt the society in Poland needed to change in the same way.” As I thought about this, everything fell into place, the jigsaw pieces assembling themselves in my head.

“None of them wanted revolution, to throw over the current socialist order, but they all want to make it softer, more open ... more able to grow.” The jigsaw pieces were adopting a clearer pattern. “The society they want is socialist– they dislike what they know of the West with its privileged class exploiting everyone else.”

“That’s not the way England is.” Col interjected.

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70 year old Will wakes in 1962 crouched beside a railway track about to suicide...

Through my Eyes. Again.

Robert Hart

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Robert Hart

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