I made my way instead through the back streets south of the park and the Prenzlauer cemetery to Prenzlauer Allee.
From my position opposite Metzer Strasse, I could see Belforter Strasse, my street, with my apartment, my wife, my child, my hopes, my dreams. I crossed Prenzlauer Allee and made my way up towards Belforter Strasse. My heart was thumping in my chest, and it was taking monumental willpower not to throw away my stick and sprint to the door.
I turned into Belforter Strasse and stopped in front of the door of our apartment block. It had been over three months since I had managed to wangle a weekend’s leave. The apartment block had already suffered some minor damage at that time but was still sound. It didn’t seem to have incurred any further damage since then. After saying a silent prayer, I entered the lobby and made my way up to the first floor. My apartment was on the second. It was incredibly dark on the stairs and, through force of habit, I flicked the light switch. Nothing. I remembered what Gretel had said: no electricity and no gas. I started climbing to the next floor and found myself crunching over broken glass. It appeared to be scattered on three of the steps. After stepping over this, I reached the top of the stairs and turned right.
I now stood in front of the door to our apartment, my mind a maelstrom of conflicting emotions: fear, hope, joy, anxiety. Particularly anxiety. My stomach felt as though it had fallen to the first floor below.
I pushed the door. Unlocked. Tiptoeing over the threshold, I immediately banged my head on a set of loud wooden wind chimes. I remembered buying them on a holiday in the Black Forest. Silly place to hang them. At the same time, I was assailed by a particularly pungent odour of spoilt food. In the living room I found the source of the bad smell. A piece of rancid cheese and a slice of stale mouldy bread lay on a plate on the dining table, along with a cup, the coffee from which had long since evaporated leaving a hard, brown resin in the base. The table was covered in dust, and one of the dining chairs lay on its side. Someone had left in a hurry and hadn’t returned. I dropped my stick and moved quickly to the bedroom. The rear wall of the room had sustained damage; there was a gaping hole of about three-quarters of a metre wide and a metre in height. Shrapnel from a high explosive shell, I would guess. The damage extended to the partition wall of the adjoining apartment, where a gap had appeared. The bed had been made but was crumpled and untidy, and lying on the floor near the bed was an open suitcase, a few items tossed carelessly into it.
Gone! My precious child and my beautiful, loving wife, the only two things left in my miserable life to cherish.
My anxiety level had now gone through the roof. I tried to calm myself and think rationally. Maybe she had gone because of the shell damage, but then why not pack properly? It was unlike Gudrun to leave the place in a mess. Perhaps the shelling had frightened her, and she had simply grabbed Hellie and fled? I tried to think where she could have gone. Her sister in Charlottenburg? I hoped not, the bombing there had been worse than here in Prenzlauer Allee. Perhaps the Russians had taken her, or she had refused to yield, and they had killed her. My mind was running away with me now.
I sank onto the bed and buried my head in my hands. “Oh, Gudrun,” I moaned despairingly.
The Granite Guardsman
“Horst?” A timid, frightened voice, but unmistakable Gudrun’s.
I shot upright. Peeking at me from the gap in the partition wall was my dear, dear wife, with our son wrapped in a duvet and cradled in his mother’s arms. She deftly stepped through the gap and we fell into each other’s arms, Hellie between us, the pair of us unashamedly sobbing our hearts out. We sat down on the bed, holding hands like two star-crossed teenagers finding love for the first time.
“What’s happened here?” I asked.
She looked puzzled for a minute and then smiled knowingly. “Oh, you mean my anti-Russian system. Did you notice the broken glass on the staircase and the wind chimes? They are early warning one and early warning two. I sleep lightly now, so as soon as I hear the glass crunching, I grab Hellie and the duvet and dive through my bolt-hole into the next apartment. The chimes are a backup in case I don’t hear the glass. The mess on the dining room table is to give the impression that the occupants have gone. Likewise, the made-up bed and suitcase.”
“Well, the table had me convinced, but where do you and Hellie sleep?”
“On top of the bed with the spare duvet over us. I keep our clothes in a wardrobe in the next apartment. The only way in now is through my little escape hole. The shell has devastated next door, including the floor in front of what was the door. You’d have to be an acrobat to get in that way.”
“And the Russians haven’t bothered you?” I asked pointedly.
She smiled and squeezed my hand. “No. They’ve searched the building twice, and each time I made it safely into my hideaway. The first time I heard them start along the corridor towards next door, so I was ready to duck back in here, but they stopped, and I heard them retrace their steps. I suppose that after seeing the devastation they didn’t even bother trying to get in. I don’t think they’ll come here again, but I keep my anti-Russian system in place, just in case.”
Gudrun left me in the flat while
