The People’s Park
OTTO AND DAGMAR left the arrivals hall together and went to the car park where Dagmar showed him to an IFA F9 motorcar, a powerful, well-built machine which, although somewhat rusted and in need of attention, certainly indicated that whatever it was Dagmar did for a living, she enjoyed privileges that the vast majority of GDR citizens did not.
As they got in she raised her finger momentarily to her lips, clearly fearful that her car was bugged. The men at MI6 had warned Otto that he should presume all conversations in East Berlin would be overheard.
Otto was actually glad of the chance of a moment to think. It was all so very surprising.
And so very wonderful.
Dagmar was alive and surely that meant her letter was genuine. She had reached out to him to help her finally effect that escape which had been denied to her and her family on the boat train platform in 1933 and throughout the long years since.
Was he to be allowed the chance to be her Moses after all?
Dagmar made small talk as the city passed by the windows. This was Berlin, Otto’s home town. And yet he scarcely recognized it. Almost all of the buildings he had known had been reduced to rubble by Allied bombing, and in this eastern sector much of the damage remained unrepaired. Those buildings that had been erected were dull and featureless concrete apartment blocks. Although it occurred to Otto that they were not so very much uglier than those currently being thrown up all over London.
They drove quickly. There was not a great deal of other traffic apart from numerous bicycles, and soon they came upon a very familiar sight.
‘I think you remember this park,’ Dagmar remarked, and of course he did, having been there only recently in his dreams. It was the Volkspark, the very place in which he and his brother had chased Dagmar for a kiss amongst the fairy-tale characters of the Marchenbrunnen.
‘It survived the war, you know,’ Dagmar said.
‘Yes, I heard that,’ Otto replied. ‘I was glad.’
Dagmar found a place to park her car. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go for a walk. I won’t run away this time, I promise.’ They entered the park together.
‘Can we talk now?’ Otto asked after a few steps.
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘we can talk.’
Where to begin? What to say? There was so much to ask. A lifetime of questions.
But none so urgent as the present one.
‘Why am I here?’ he asked.
Perhaps she wasn’t expecting it. It seemed to take her aback for a moment.
‘I wanted to see you, Ottsy,’ she replied.
Ottsy. How he loved to hear her use that name. It made him feel fifteen again.
‘You wanted to see me,’ he repeated eagerly, then, lowering his tone and looking away, ‘Are you trying to defect?’
She seemed almost surprised.
‘Defect? Goodness,’ she said. ‘You think that’s why I wrote to you?’
Now it was Otto’s turn to be surprised.
‘Well, of course. You mentioned what my mum used to say,’ Otto replied. ‘
‘I wrote that because I knew it would make you come. I knew it would make you know it was me.’
‘But,’ Otto said quietly, ‘isn’t that what you want? Aren’t you looking for a way out of Egypt?’
A smile played on her lips. But it was a sad smile.
‘Oh, always, Ottsy,’ she said. ‘Always that.’
Otto’s mind was spinning. There were so
‘Dagmar,’ he said, choosing his words carefully, ‘I’ve been told you are a Stasi officer. Is that true?’
The smile remained for a moment, before fading slowly.
‘Ah,’ she said after a moment. ‘I wondered if you would know about that. We try never to underestimate the British.’
‘So it’s true?’
‘Yes, Ottsy. It’s true.’
‘Christ,’ Otto said. ‘The
‘Ten million years, Ottsy? Oh, I think it’s been longer than that since I last saw you.’
They found a bench and sat down together. Otto produced his cigarettes. Dagmar accepted one eagerly.
‘Our first shared cigarette since Wannsee,’ she said, putting a hand on Otto’s knee. ‘Do you remember?’
Remember? Of course he remembered. He remembered nothing else so clearly in all his life as that day at Wannsee. He’d dreamt about it almost every night since.
Dreaming she’d chosen him.
But despite the temptation to dive at once into the past, the present remained more urgent.
‘The Stasi, Dagmar?’ he said.
‘People change, Otto,’ she said. ‘I never picked you to end up a civil servant in Her Majesty’s Foreign Office either.’ Otto nodded, he could see her point.
‘I ended up an army translator,’ he said, ‘towards the end of the war. I did a lot of German prisoner debriefings and a bit of work for the security boys. When I was demobbed they offered me a job translating at the FO and I took it. Nothing else to do really.’
He sparked up his Zippo lighter and lit her cigarette for her, which she drew on hungrily.
‘Lucky Strikes. Your father’s brand. I don’t suppose I’ve smelt one since the early thirties. Funny, I quite often find myself thinking of Wolfgang.’
‘Yeah,’ Otto said, ‘me too.’
‘He was such a laugh. A character. He can still make me smile, even now, even after he’s been dead for nearly twenty years.’ Dagmar paused before adding sadly, ‘I don’t know anyone like that any more.’
They smoked for a moment in silence. Once more Otto found himself struggling to comprehend the enormity of the situation. After so very long, he was with her, sitting beside her. Smoking with her, just like they had used to do, in her pink bedroom in Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf, in the house the Nazis burnt.
‘So?’ he found himself saying.
‘So what?’
‘So am I here to try and get you out? Because if that’s what you want, I’ll do anything to help. You know that. They’ll help you too. The British. They want to bring you to the UK.’
‘Ah yes. I imagine they do. If I’ll talk to them. If I promise to tell them all about the Stasi.’
‘Fuck them. You don’t have to tell them anything if you don’t want. Let them help me help you get out and then fuck them.’
‘Ottsy,’ Dagmar said with a sad smile, ‘I’m not
Otto was so confused now. ‘Then why am I here?’
‘Aren’t you pleased?’
‘You know I’m pleased.’
‘Are you sure?’
