Chapter 3

Excerpts fromCol’s
Diary

Wednesday 12th September 1962

I still have no books to read – but yesterday morning a man I’d not seen before brought me in several copies of Neues Deutschland from East Germany and the West German newspaper Die Zeit. I wondered what they are expecting from this juxtaposition of east versus west, but I found it really didn’t matter as I was starved of reading material and had done enough introspection to last ... well, a while. I practically inhaled the copies of both newspapers – even the financial stories in Die Zeit were grist to my mill of boredom even though I know nothing about ‘the markets’ in a capitalist system – and didn’t understand some of the words.

One point of interest was the Die Zeit reported that both the US and USSR had conducted atmospheric nuclear tests this week (in Nevada and Novaya Zemlya respectively) – but there was no mention of this in Neues Deutschland. The Die Zeit article was highly critical of both superpowers due to the nuclear fallout. There was mention of something called Strontium-90 which is supposed to be particularly dangerous for children with growing bones as it preferentially replaces Calcium. I don’t understand the science but this is apparently very bad for children.

When I finished the article, I realised that I was reading an ally criticising the US. This would be like Neues Deutschland criticising the USSR, which would never happen. People might think critical thoughts, but they would never be voiced let alone published in a newspaper.

The newspapers kept me absorbed all yesterday and for an hour this morning – but I’ve now read every word in all of them, some of them twice or more as I tried to understand ‘finance’ articles. I’m now thrown back on my own resources. I haven’t seen Mutti for nearly a week and I wonder how she is faring. How are we going in our bid to join the west? My interrogation has been quite difficult (thank you, Jennifer); I suppose they are pushing Mutti even harder – I hope she is alright.

There’s someone at the door...

I’ve just had another session with Jennifer. She started off by asking for my diary, which she read through in silence as I watched. I’ve tried to be honest but it’s difficult, knowing that ‘they’ are going to read it – that there is a formless dark peering over my shoulder all the time, judging Mutti and me against standards I neither know nor understand.

Anyhow, here’s how I remember this session...

Jennifer snapped my diary shut and placed it carefully beside her on the table beside what I assume was my file. “So ... no more games?” There were shards of sarcasm in her voice.

I stared back, remembering her ambivalence at the end of our previous session. “And no more cruelty to children?” Should I have tried to soften that with a smile?

Jennifer leaned back, inhaling sharply. She surveyed me for several seconds, questions surfacing in her eyes. “Col, I find it very hard to remember you are just a child. You are unlike any child I have ever met.”

My eyes dropped to my hands for a moment before I looked back up at her. “I’m the child of a senior Stasi officer – probably the only specimen of its type in the west.”

Jennifer’s eyebrows rose and then she nodded. “But why does that make you so different?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know – perhaps it has something to do with being isolated in the midst of a community ... that’s a very strange place to ... exist.”

Jennifer’s silence dragged on. We’d talked about this last time ... what didn’t she understand?

Her lips were pursed and she gave me a guarded look. “You make it very difficult to see who you are, you know?”

I shrugged. “I’m just me...”

Jennifer smiled wryly. “A twelve-year-old with the vocabulary of a very well-educated adult but lacking any adult perspective.”

I was both hurt and encouraged by this. “I’m trying to be honest with myself and with you...” my voice faded to nothing along the twisted path between our faces.

After a moment, Jennifer picked up my file and flicked through a few pages. “Let’s talk some more about your mother.” She closed the file, placing it on the table beside her. “Your mother worked – doing what?”

“She’s a translator – she speaks English, Polish and Russian fluently. Oh, and German of course.”

Jennifer nodded. “Who does she translate for?”

I gave her an odd look; she had to know that. “The government, the Party.”

Jennifer nodded. “What sort of translation work is involved?”

I frowned at her. “I don’t know – whatever the government wants her to translate, I suppose. The Warsaw pact encompasses many languages, you know.”