‘The strange thing is that everyone knows the answer. We need to decentralize decisions, introduce limited markets, and legitimize the semi-illegal grey economy so that it can grow.’
‘Who stands in the way of this?’ She realized she was firing questions at him like a courtroom lawyer. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean to interrogate you.’
‘Not at all,’ he said with a smile. ‘I like people who speak in a direct way. It saves time.’
‘Men often resent being spoken to that way by a woman.’
‘Not me. You could say that I have a weakness for assertive women.’
‘Are you married to one?’
‘I was. I’m divorced now.’
Rebecca realized this was none of her business. ‘You were about to tell me who stands in the way of reform.’
‘About fifteen thousand bureaucrats who would lose their power and their jobs; fifty thousand top Communist Party officials who make almost all the decisions; and János Kádár, who has been our leader since 1956.’
Rebecca raised her eyebrows. Bíró was being remarkably frank. The thought crossed her mind that Bíró’s candid remarks may not have been totally spontaneous. Had this conversation perhaps been planned? She said: ‘Does Kádár have an alternative solution?’
‘Yes,’ said Bíró. ‘To maintain the standard of living of Hungarian workers, he is borrowing more and more money from Western banks, including German ones.’
‘And how will you pay the interest on those loans?’
‘What a good question,’ said Bíró.
They drew level with Rebecca’s hotel, across the street from the river. She stopped and leaned on the embankment wall. ‘Is Kádár a permanent fixture?’
‘Not necessarily. I’m close to a promising young man called Miklós Németh.’
Ah, Rebecca thought, so this is the point of the conversation: to tell the German government, quietly and informally, that Németh is the reformist rival to Kádár.
‘He’s in his thirties, and very bright,’ Bíró continued. ‘But we fear a Hungarian repeat of the Soviet situation: Brezhnev replaced by Andropov and then Chernenko. It’s like the queue for the toilet in a home for old men.’
Rebecca laughed. She liked Bíró.
He bent his head and kissed her.
She was only half surprised. She had sensed that he was attracted to her. What surprised her was how excited she felt to be kissed. She kissed him back eagerly.
Then she drew back. She put her hands on his chest and pushed him away a little. She studied him in the lamplight. No man of fifty looked like Adonis, but Frederik had a face that suggested intelligence and compassion and the ability to smile wryly at life’s ironies. He had grey hair cut short and blue eyes. He was wearing a dark-blue coat and a bright red scarf, conservatism with a touch of gaiety.
She said: ‘Why did you get divorced?’
‘I had an affair, and my wife left me. Feel free to condemn me.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve made mistakes.’
‘I regretted it, when it was too late.’
‘Children?’
‘Two, grown up. They have forgiven me. Marta has remarried, but I’m still single. What’s your story?’
‘I divorced my first husband when I discovered he worked for the Stasi. My second husband was injured escaping over the Berlin Wall. He was in a wheelchair, but we were happy together for twenty years. He died a year ago.’
‘My word, you’re about due for some good luck.’
‘Perhaps I am. Would you walk me to the hotel entrance, please?’
They crossed the road. On the corner of the block, where the street lights were less glaring, she kissed him again. She enjoyed it even more this time, and pressed her body against his.
‘Spend the night with me,’ he said.
She was sorely tempted. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s too soon. I hardly know you.’
‘But you’re going home tomorrow.’
‘I know.’
‘We may never meet again.’
‘I’m sure we will.’
‘We could go to my apartment. Or I’ll come to your room.’
‘No, though I’m flattered by your persistence. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, then.’
She turned away.
He said: ‘I travel often to Bonn. I’ll be there in ten days’ time.’
She turned back, smiling.
He said: ‘Will you have dinner with me?’
‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘Call me.’
‘Okay.’
She walked into the hotel lobby, smiling.
* * *
Lili was at home in Berlin-Mitte one afternoon when her niece, Alice, came, in a rainstorm, to borrow books. Alice had been refused admission to university, despite her outstanding grades, because of her mother’s underground career as a protest singer. However, Alice was determined to educate herself, so she was studying English in the evenings after she finished her shift at the factory. Carla had a small collection of English-language novels inherited from Grandmother Maud. Lili happened to be at home when Alice called, and they went upstairs to the drawing room and looked through the books together while the rain drummed on the windows. They were old editions, pre-war, Lili guessed. Alice picked out a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories. She would be the fourth generation to read them, Lili calculated.
Alice said: ‘We’ve applied for permission to go to West Germany.’ She was all youthful eagerness.
‘We?’ Lili asked.
‘Helmut and I.’
Helmut Kappel was her boyfriend. He was a year older, twenty-two, and studying at university.
‘Any special reason?’
‘I’ve said we want to visit my father in Hamburg. Helmut’s grandparents are in Frankfurt. But Plum Nellie are doing a world tour, and we really want to see my father on stage. Maybe we can time our visit to coincide with his German gig, if he does one.’
‘I’m sure he will.’
‘Do you think they’ll let us go?’
‘You may be lucky.’ Lili did not want to discourage youthful optimism, but she was doubtful. She herself had always been refused permission. Very few people were allowed to go. The authorities would suspect that people as young as Alice and Helmut did not intend to come back.
Lili suspected it herself. Alice had often talked wistfully of living in West Germany. Like most young people, she wanted to read uncensored books and newspapers, see new films and plays, and listen to music regardless of whether it was approved by the seventy-two-year-old Erich Honecker. If she managed to get out of East Germany, why would she come back?
Alice said: ‘You know, most of the things that got this family into bad odour with the authorities actually happened before I was born. They shouldn’t be punishing me.’
But her mother, Karolin, was still singing those songs, Lili thought.
The doorbell sounded, and a minute later they heard agitated voices in the hall. They went downstairs to investigate, and found Karolin standing there in a wet raincoat. Inexplicably, she was carrying a suitcase. She had been let in by Carla, who stood beside her in the hall, wearing an apron over her formal work clothes.
Karolin’s face was red and puffy with crying.
Alice said: ‘Mother . . . ?’
Lili said: ‘Has something happened?’
Karolin said: ‘Alice, your stepfather has left me.’
Lili was flabbergasted. Odo Vossler? It was surprising to her that mild Odo had the guts to leave his wife.
Alice put her arms around her mother, saying nothing.
Carla said: ‘When did this happen?’
Karolin wiped her nose with a handkerchief. ‘He told me three hours ago. He wants a divorce.’
Lili thought: Poor Alice, left by two fathers.
Carla said indignantly: ‘But pastors are not supposed to get divorced.’
‘He’s leaving the clergy, too.’
‘Good grief.’
Lili realized that an earthquake had struck the family.
Carla became practical. ‘You’d better sit down. We’ll go in the kitchen. Alice, take your mother’s coat and hang it up to dry. Lili, make coffee.’
Lili put water on to boil and took a cake out of the cupboard. Carla said: ‘Karolin, whatever has come over Odo?’
She looked down. ‘He is . . .’ She obviously found this difficult to say. Averting her eyes, she said quietly: ‘Odo tells me he has realized that he is homosexual.’
Alice gave a little scream.
Carla said: ‘What a terrible shock!’
Lili had a sudden flash of memory. Five years ago, when they had all met up in Hungary, and Walli had met Odo for the first time, she had seen a startled reaction pass over Walli’s face, brief but vivid. Had Walli intuited the truth about Odo in that moment?
Lili herself had always suspected that Odo’s love for Karolin was not a grand passion but more of a Christian mission. If a man should ever propose to Lili, she did not want him to do it out of the kindness of his heart. He should desire her so much he could hardly keep his hands off her: that was a good reason for a proposal of marriage.
Karolin looked up. Now that the awful truth was out, she was able to meet Carla’s eye. ‘It’s not a shock, really,’ she said quietly. ‘I sort of knew.’
‘How?’
‘When we were first married, there was a young man called Paul, very good-looking. He was invited for supper a couple of times a week, and Bible study in the vestry, and on Saturday afternoons they would go for long invigorating walks in Treptower Park. Perhaps they never did anything – Odo is not a deceiving man. But, when he made love to me, somehow I felt sure he was thinking about Paul.’
‘What happened? How did it end?’
Lili cut the cake into slices while she listened. She put the slices on a plate. No one ate any.
Karolin said: ‘I never knew the full story. Paul stopped coming to the house and to church. Odo never explained why. Perhaps they both pulled back from physical love.’
Carla said: ‘Being a pastor, Odo must have suffered a terrible conflict.’
‘I know. I’m so sorry for him, when I’m not feeling angry.’
‘Poor Odo.’
‘But Paul was only the first of half a dozen boys, all very similar, terribly good-looking and sincere Christians.’
‘And now?’
‘Now Odo has found real love. He is abjectly apologetic to me, but he has made up his mind to face what he truly is. He’s moving in with a man called Eugen Freud.’
‘What will he do?’
‘He wants to be a teacher in a theological college. He says it’s his real vocation.’
Lili poured boiling water on the ground coffee in the jug. Now that Odo and Karolin had split up, she wondered how Walli would feel. Of course he could not be reunited with Karolin and Alice because of the accursed Berlin Wall. But would he want to? He had not settled permanently with another woman. It seemed to Lili that Karolin really was the love of his life.
But all that was academic. The Communists had decreed that they could not be together.
Carla said: ‘If Odo has resigned as pastor, you’ll have to leave your house.’
‘Yes. I’m homeless.’
‘Don’t be silly. You’ll always have a home here.’
‘I knew you’d say that,’ said Karolin, and she burst into tears.
The doorbell rang.
‘I’ll go,’ said Lili.
There were two men on the doorstep. One wore a chauffeur’s uniform and held an umbrella over the other man, who was Hans Hoffmann.
‘May I come in?’ said Hans, but he walked into the hall without waiting for an answer. He was holding a package about a foot square.
His driver returned to the black Zil limousine parked at the kerb.
Lili spoke with distaste. ‘What do you want?’
‘To speak to your niece, Alice.’
‘How did you know she was here?’
Hans smiled and did not bother to answer. The Stasi knew everything.
Lili went into the kitchen. ‘It’s Hans Hoffmann. He wants Alice.’
Alice stood up, pale with fear.
Carla said: ‘Take him upstairs, Lili. Stay with them.’
Karolin half rose out of her chair. ‘I should go with her.’
Carla put a restraining hand on Karolin’s arm. ‘You’re in no state to deal with the Stasi.’
Karolin accepted this and sat back down again. Lili held the door for Alice, who came out of the kitchen into the hall. The two women went upstairs followed by Hans.
Lili almost offered Hans a cup of coffee, from automatic politeness, but she stopped herself. He could die of thirst first.
Hans picked up the Sherlock Holmes book Alice had left on the table. ‘English,’ he commented, as if that confirmed a suspicion. He sat down, tugging on the knees of his fine wool trousers to prevent creasing. He put the square packet on the floor beside his chair. He said: ‘So, young Alice, you wish to travel to West Germany. Why?’
He was a big shot now. Lili did not know what his exact title was, but he was more than just a secret policeman. He made speeches at national meetings and spoke to the press. However, he was not too important to persecute the Franck family.
‘My father lives in Hamburg,’ Alice said in answer to his question. ‘So does my Aunt Rebecca.’
‘Your father is a murderer.’
‘It happened before I was born. Are you punishing me for it? That isn’t what you mean by Communist justice, is it?’
Hans gave that smug I-thought-so nod again. ‘A smart mouth, just like your grandmother. This family will never learn.’
Lili said angrily: ‘We have learned that Communism means petty officials can take their revenge, without regard to justice or the law.’
‘Do you imagine that such talk is the way to persuade me to grant Alice permission to travel?’
‘You’ve made up your mind already,’ Lili said wearily. ‘You’re going to refuse. You wouldn’t have come here to say yes to her. You just want to gloat.’
Alice said: ‘Where in the writings of Karl Marx do we read that in the Communist state workers are not allowed to travel to other countries?’
‘Restrictions are made necessary by the conditions prevailing.’
‘No, they’re not. I want to see my father. You prevent me. Why? Just because you can! That has nothing to do with socialism and everything to do with tyranny.’
Hans’s mouth twisted. ‘You bourgeois people,’ he said in tones of disgust. ‘You can’t bear it when others have power over you.’
‘Bourgeois?’ said Lili. ‘I don’t have a uniformed chauffeur to hold an umbrella over me while I walk from the car to the house. Nor does Alice. There’s only one bourgeois in this room, Hans.’