Erika Holzer - Freedom Bridge

My dear Dr. Brenner:

The Ambassador of the German Democratic Republic was delighted to note recently in The New York Times that you have accepted an invitation from the highly regarded Medicine International organization to participate in its Artificial Heart Symposium several months from now.

His Excellency was disappointed to read that while the Symposium will explore recent developments and examine the technological advances that are just beyond the horizon in the fast-moving field of artificial hearts, there will be no hands-on demonstration.

It is in that connection that I write.

By the oddest coincidence, about a week before the Medicine International symposium in West Berlin, the Humboldt University Medical Center in East Berlin is sponsoring a conference on a related topic: “Does the future of cardiology belong to artificial hearts, or to human transplants?”

His Excellency, the Ambassador, cordially and with utmost sincerity, has asked me to invite you to deliver the keynote address and perhaps honor the faculty and invited guests by performing a simple open heart procedure—possibly something like a mitral valve replacement.

When the Ambassador mentioned his idea to the Chancellor of Humboldt University, the Chancellor enthusiastically embraced my issuing this invitation, and suggested that it include Mrs. Brenner, the noted journalist.

Again coincidentally, Chancellor Dmitri Malik recalls having met you during World War II and looks forward to seeing you once again. The Ambassador told me that he understood from Chancellor Malik how extremely disappointed he would be if you were unable to attend. Apparently he believes there is much to recapture about what he referred to as “the old days.”

The favor of a prompt and affirmative response would be greatly appreciated.

With sincerity and the utmost respect, I remain your faithful servant,

“Jesus Christ,” Brenner said softly to himself. “Jesus Christ.”

He focused on the seventh paragraph, realizing that the rest was window dressing. Dmitri Malik wanted him in East Berlin. If Brenner didn’t accept the invitation, Malik was threatening to expose the Glienicker Bridge incident.

And they wanted Adrienne.

Kurt Brenner experienced the old stir of excitement as Adrienne pushed through the revolving door and walked toward him in that easy rapid stride of hers. Sleek copper-colored hair. Green eyes with a catlike upward slant. Lovely.

Her tall, lithe figure attracted admiring glances. As usual, she was oblivious.

The cut and color of her pants suit—severely tailored black—stressed her slenderness, making her look vulnerable. He knew better.

“Late as always, but always worth waiting for,” he said, smiling.

“Sorry. My meeting took longer than I expected.” She slipped her shoulder bag to the floor and slid into the booth.

He reached for her hand. “When are you coming back to me? The apartment is like a mausoleum without you.”

“That depends.”

“I know,” he said. “But even though we agreed to settle things in Paris after the West Berlin conference, I have to talk to you now.”

“I’m not going to West Berlin. It’s just another back-slapping, good-ol’-boy excuse for physicians to massage their egos. I have too much to do here trying to get my hands around an Iron Curtain article I’m working on. Besides, I can’t get a visa out of the East Germans. I have a friend from the State Department working on it, but so far there’s been no movement.”

“You know,” he said irritably, “I realize your anti-communist views are a matter of principle. But what I don’t grasp is why you seem to take it personally.”

He steeled himself, expecting her to lash out. She surprised him by reaching for his martini and draining the glass.

“Order for me, will you? Whatever you’re having. Be right back.”

Adrienne opened a teak door with a discreet brass plaque: LADIES. She leaned her forehead against cool black marble. Kurt’s criticism had the ring of truth. Why do I take these things personally?

She ran the faucet and splashed cold water on her face. She was absently running a comb through her hair when the answer jumped out at her, as if liberated by her subconscious…

Because it feels self-evident that free people should care about those who aren’t. Because it shouldn’t take any imagination to picture a wife on one side of a closed border, her husband stuck on the other. Because a stranger’s body riddled with bullets could just as easily be your lover, your best friend, every mother’s son or daughter.

In fairness, Adrienne thought, could she blame Kurt for not grasping what she herself had just realized?

Which led to a more complex question: Was she really prepared to end her marriage, she asked herself as vivid memories flashed to the surface.

Six years ago, Adrienne Kalda had shared the balcony of an amphitheater with a bevy of young medical students fairly bubbling over with excitement. Excited herself by her recent promotion from drudge researcher to staff reporter, Adrienne was nervous at the prospect of her first assignment—an interview with the famous Dr. Kurt Brenner.

But peering down as Dr. Brenner entered the operating theater, she lost track of time as excitement turned into something else…

It was as if she were watching from a great distance what seemed like a dance performance with the most beautiful choreography she had ever seen. Every gesture was purposeful but unhurried. Relaxed but with no wasted motion. She was mesmerized by the sight of an exposed human heart. Of machines hissing. Strong light blazing. The faint odor of anesthesia. She saw nurses and assisting surgeons effortlessly maneuvered about the operating table by a master director. The elusive angle of an incision being probed by two equally deft hands. A perfectly positioned needle sewing up the patient’s chest cavity.

Her post-operative interview was pathetic: tentative questions awkwardly put.

Why couldn’t she keep the awe out of her voice?

Tamping it down by sheer will power, she asked about the famous Brenner temper. Were the rumors true about elbowing aside flustered assistants in the midst of an operation? About flinging an instrument at some nurse whose timing was a few seconds off?

Laughing good-naturedly, Dr. Brenner had owned up to such “outrageous” behavior—but only from time to time, he added. This so disarmed her that she forgot her next question.

To cover her embarrassment, Brenner said with a smile that took her breath away, “I have an idea. Since you’ve just been promoted, and since I recently opened a heart surgery clinic for underprivileged children, we both have something to celebrate. Why not do it together? Champagne, dinner, dancing—”

“Tonight?” she said stupidly. “You must be exhausted.”

“Quite the opposite. I’m exhilarated.”

Their courtship, like their first date, had been exhilaratingly brief.

Their marriage had made headlines. The famous heart surgeon and the neophyte journalist.

One of the things Adrienne appreciated most about her husband was how supportive he was of her fledging career. Another thing she cherished was his confidence in her ability to rise without milking his contacts. Nor did Kurt begrudge her the frequent and sometimes long separations when she traveled in relentless pursuit of a good story—especially when a trip ended with a brief holiday for both of them in some exotic locale.

Hers was a charmed life, one she never took for granted.

Until a few years later when she realized that the man she’d married had drastically changed.