I’m sorry to hear about the crime in your neighborhood. Take care of yourself! I can’t imagine crime in East Berlin—although I guess it’s not East Berlin anymore, is it? Wow—I just can’t wait to see it all. And I will bring you Nina Simone records! And have you heard of Billie Holiday? You would love her, too. I will bring her records, too. They are much cheaper here than in Berlin, I think. Do you have a CD player? I think not, so I will bring records.
I’ll call you as it comes closer to January. Take care, Tante Eva.
Deine,
Maggie
Chapter 7
Maggie was right. There was a time when she didn’t even get Liezel’s letters. Yes, it was true, there were many things wrong with the GDR. But there were good things, too, and the whole world seemed to be overlooking them for the bad.
There was no crime. No one was hungry. It was true that the food had not been as high quality as in the West, but everyone, everyone, had food. Everyone. This meant so much to Eva. And to Hugo—Hugo who knew what it meant to suffer, who knew what hunger meant.
And everyone had an education. No one was denied that. Everyone had a place to live. Of course there was corruption—people high up in the Party had nicer homes and cars. The elite, of which Hugo was a part, had quite good lives. But no one suffered! No one suffered as in the West. Of course there had been corruption in the West, too, and still was, but now it was all coming east. Slavery, child labor, poverty, illness—these were all things from the West. Crime! The skinheads. In the GDR, they’d have been thrown in jail. Fascism was illegal. Always on the same corner. Always looking for trouble. In the GDR, they’d be working. Everyone had a job. That was another thing—no unemployment. None. Jobs for everyone. That was why there was no crime—because everyone had to contribute to society. Everyone was given the opportunity to contribute to society in a positive way. In many ways, there was endless opportunity. All this talk about no opportunity was just silliness. They didn’t have the luxury goods of the West, but who needs those? Who truly needs that stuff?
When Maggie had been visiting in 1986, Eva had taken her out to dinner at the Fernsehturm, the revolving restaurant at the top of the tower in downtown East Berlin. It had been dark, around eight o’clock. Maggie wore a nice skirt and blouse, and Eva, of course, was in one of the few dresses she had, with her hair poofed and sprayed. She didn’t go to the Fernsehturm often. It rose out of the dark streets, an outrageously tall, white abomination of a building. Its nickname was the Asparagus. Eva had been there only a few times, and not for years. It was a special occasion. As they walked down the street, Maggie looked left and right. She looked up and down the street and at the buildings. There were no shops. No lights. Eva knew that this was on her mind. Eva knew how different West Berlin was—not to mention Vienna, Paris, and New York. But what made East Berlin particularly stark—and she knew this as well—was that one could see over the Wall to the West if one were high enough, which they were about to be, to see the blinking and shining of its wasteful lights. It was the contrast that was so harsh. Eva had long ago made peace with that. She’d made peace with all that when she’d moved to Berlin with Hugo. With Hugo, she never questioned anything. He made her believe. He made her know what was right, what was good and just. Although he hadn’t been with her in a very long time, that belief never left her, that the East was better—that they could live a more moral life there, and that that was what truly mattered.
In the restaurant, one could really see for miles. Eva was proud of this and wanted Maggie to be impressed. But Maggie mostly seemed bewildered. There were many long tables, and they were seated at the end of one of them, across from each other. The restaurant smelled of heavily spiced meat, rich and warm, a bit gamy. Soon people were seated right next to them, complete strangers, elbow to elbow at the same table. In the West, this was not how restaurants were. It was the knowledge of that that made Eva’s face burn. Maggie was polite, but Eva knew she found the experience strange and not to her liking.
Well, it was all gone. All those things peculiar to the East: the waiting in lines, the darkness, the eating at communal tables. Gone, gone, gone. What would Hugo think of all this now? The end of the GDR? She was glad he wasn’t around for it. Death often has a purpose, she thought. It’s not only cruel.
Chapter 8
Hansi was there. Suddenly, out of the blue, without any warning. She was coming down from her apartment to run some errands and there he was. Not yet noon, a cold day, the middle of December. She was dressed very warmly—her thick wool coat, a hat and scarf, gloves and boots. But she had carefully put on her makeup, as she did every morning. Hans! Her Hansi! Standing to the right of the doorway, where it was darkest. A fur hat and his fur-lined leather coat.
They embraced. He kissed her, held her face in his hands and kissed her, his
