John Cheney - City of Spies

Anna reached the front of the line and approached a booth where an East German border guard stood. She handed him her West German passport, sliding it under the glass window that separated them.

The border guard scrutinized the papers, then looked at Anna. “Else Schaeffer?”

“Yes,” she replied, softly clearing her throat.

The guard looked at the passport photo again. The border guards had been trained to recognize over thirty different facial identification features. They were exceptionally good at recognizing discrepancies from passport photos and disguises.

“How long have you had this address in Hanover?”

“Six years.”

“And what is the purpose of your visit?”

“To see an aunt. She lives in Prenzlauer Berg.”

“Address?”

“Schönhauser Allee, Number 153.” Anna waited patiently, looking down at the passport, then up at the guard.

When he lifted his eyes to match hers, he stopped short. Her eyes were icy blue like a frozen ocean. To the guard they seemed alluring and intoxicating all at once. Yet Anna looked at him with a guileless expression, and the border guard immediately felt a pang of guilt. He looked down and stamped the passport. He didn’t dare look at her again.

“Twenty-four hour pass. Return to this checkpoint for exit.” He slid the passport over to Anna. Still averting his eyes, the border guard cleared his throat and waved to the next person in line. “Next.”

Anna was out of the checkpoint in moments. She headed for the S-Bahn platform on the eastern side of the train station. A huge steel wall divided the station from platform to roof. On one side, western trains arrived and returned. On the other, eastern trains arrived and departed. The station was the convergence of two worlds, but the giant steel wall between the platforms and the maze of customs checkpoints below preserved the purity of the division. Such was the world of Cold War East and West Berlin. Anna had arrived through the S-Bahn station below, which was accessible to Westerners but closed to GDR citizens. If border guards ever questioned this route, given her West German address, she explained that she had visited friends in West Berlin before proceeding on to the East. Her train would have first arrived at Zoo Station on the other side of town, allowing her to use the U-Bahn and S-Bahn systems throughout the city’s Western sector. In reality, Anna lived in the West Berlin district of Kreuzberg, so the S-Bahn provided a more direct route to the checkpoint.

Anna took the S-Bahn to Alexanderplatz, the heart of East Berlin. There, she transferred to a tram. She had spotted the tail the Stasi put on her as soon as she had cleared customs—a scowling middle-aged woman and a balding middle-aged man. The two kept their distance from each other, but they moved simultaneously, in coordinated movements—a clear give-away. It was usual for the Stasi to follow and observe foreign visitors in the GDR; most of the time, it was essentially a silent harassment of tourists, but occasionally, they would spot the odd spy here or there. Anna was wise to their movements. The two followed her onto the tram, standing in the back, two cars down.

Anna rode the tram three stops down the line. There, they encountered another tram, waiting to head the opposite direction. Anna watched the two tailing her, and just before the doors of her tram closed, she hopped off. Quickly, Anna ran over to the next tram. She could see the man and woman cursing as their tram headed off in the the opposite direction. One of them seemed to be talking into a radio. Anna doubled back two stations, then took the S-Bahn to Warschauer Strasse. She watched carefully as she zig-zagged through the neighborhood streets near the station, making sure she was not followed. Then she turned and headed down a new street, passing a sidewalk café. There, outside at a small table, she saw a man she recognized. He was reading a newspaper and did not seem to take notice of her. Anna walked on, heading to Lehmbruckstrasse.

It was a row of old pre-war apartment houses, run down from disrepair. Some were haphazardly painted in pastel green tones, but it didn’t do much to lift the street’s depressed image. She stopped at the last building at the end of the street. Beyond was a main thoroughfare and the Spree river, the boundary between East and West. A high fence kept the river off limits. Anna entered the building through the front door. She waited by the mailboxes, looking up at the stairway above her. There was silence. She breathed softly, trying to be quiet as she waited. Looking out the dirt-streaked window by the front door, she saw a car pass, then nothing.

After a few minutes, she heard a quiet noise from the back door. It opened slowly, and she caught a glimpse of the trash cans in the back courtyard, but no sign of anyone. Then, from the shadows beneath the stairs, she heard footsteps come toward her. Slowly, a figure emerged. It was a man, dressed in a brown coat. The man she had seen at the café. As he stepped into the dim light of the foyer, she saw him clearly. It was Hans. She moved toward him swiftly, embraced him, and they kissed.

Anna exhaled quietly as she slept, her natural Czech beauty radiating through cheeks and her skin. She pressed her forehead against Hans as her exquisite lips curled slightly at the corners in a smile of contentment. He could feel her warmth next to him.

Hans and Anna had met three years ago on the island of Rügen, when Hans was on leave from the Border Troops. There was an immediate magnetism between the two. It was clear Hans and Anna connected in a deep emotional and spiritual level, a rare kind of intertwining that one might call fate, if he or she were to believe in such a thing.

While they bonded on a common chord, Hans and Anna also offered one another what they deeply needed. For Anna, Hans made her feel free. He treated her as a partner of equal standing; never as an object to be conquered or subdued, and never tried to fragment her physical beauty from her personality or intellect. His patience, his unusually keen sense of observation, and his desire to know her deeply were a unique combination of traits she had never seen in another man. To Hans, Anna was the only woman he had ever found so intoxicating and still inspired his best traits to flourish. She offered a vital escape from the pressures of the emotional and intellectual turmoil of his work, and the promise of something greater in his life. Their passion for one another was equally matched and closely guarded. Yet for Anna and Hans, the only truth in their lives was their stolen moments together.

Hans listened to Anna breathe softly as she slept. Meanwhile, he sat up in bed, lost in thought. Presently, Anna stirred. He looked at her and gently smiled. Anna stretched and gave a small catlike yawn.

“Are you hungry?” she asked sleepily.

He shook his head. Then, after a moment, he reached for a piece of paper and a pencil. He took a picture frame off the wall behind him and used it as a writing base. Hans scribbled a note: “Any news?”

Anna was sure he had heard about the American military liaison’s death, but decided not to breach the subject. She shook her head.

He scribbled more on the paper, “New assignment. Overlooking border defenses. Will give details as come. Have already examined underground S-Bahn and most Stadtmitte sections of the Wall.”

Anna took the pencil and wrote, “Any plans or documentation?”

Hans hesitated. She waited for him, watching a flicker of doubt run across his face. Only she could read him so well. Hans stood, walked over to his coat, and pulled out a carton of cigarettes.

“I didn’t think you—” she started to say, but Hans shook his head, silencing her.