Erika Holzer - Freedom Bridge

“And dangerous. Don’t try it. Too many tourists have ended up in a communist prison—or worse—for something as innocent as a sunset that happened to have a piece of some bridge in the background.”

“ Bridges are off limits?”

“Bridges and a lot of other things in East Germany.”

“How well-connected is Ernst Roeder?”

“Very. His brother-in-law is a colonel in East German intelligence.”

“Now there’s a double-edged sword,” Adrienne observed.

“Indeed.” Houston glanced at his watch. “Let’s get down to business. What do you want to know?”

She dipped into her shoulder-bag and pulled out a notepad.

For the next hour and a half over lunch, Paul Houston gave Adrienne Brenner a detailed intelligence briefing about the Communist regime in East Germany.

The sign on the table said: SPECIAL SECTION FOR PERMISSIONS TO VISIT ABROAD, and under it, CENTRAL COMMITTEE, U.S.S.R. Alongside was a pile of filled-out forms, each one containing cautiously written answers to carefully drafted questions. Two men bent over one of the forms.

“I don’t like it,” muttered one of the men as he followed the line of questions with a sharpened pencil and stopped at the question labeled “Family Status.” The man had a pointy chin in perfect symmetry with the tip of his pencil.

His rotund colleague didn’t bother to look down. “The application seems to be in perfect order,” he said, examining his stubby fingers.

“Have you forgotten what happened to Simonov last month?” the first man shot back, not in the least reassured. “A severe reprimand for giving an exit permit to a man with a short tail. This applicant has no tail at all!”

“He has no need of one. You know who his brother is.”

“I still don’t like it. Whenever something goes wrong, we’re always asked the same question. How many hostages were you counting on?”

“What a lot of fuss over nothing, Lev. He’s only going to East Berlin.”

“Just the same, I want to ask him a few questions.”

“Fine by me.”

When his name was called, Kiril noticed that the people standing closest to him inched away, a few casting him a resentful glance—as if he should have known better than to join the group and possibly cast suspicion on them all. As if his six-foot one-inch frame were a personal threat.

He approached the table with the calm expression of a man who has nothing to fear… as if the two men really were innocuous bureaucrats instead of plainclothes officers in the KGB.

“Your residence registration certificate,” said the thinner of the two.

Kiril handed over the certificate.

“Your internal passport. Your military card,” he snapped.

“Both those documents were turned over to the proper authorities three months ago.”

His interrogator began leafing through some papers attached to the back of Kiril’s questionnaire.

“How many forms have you completed in the last three months? How many personal appearances have you made? How many photographs did you submit?”

“Many forms. Dozens of appearances. Photographs?” Kiril closed his eyes. “About twenty,” he said, opening them.

“Why, in your more recent photographs, are you wearing dark sunglasses?” the pencil-pusher asked.

“I explained that in my answer to Question Eleven. Several days ago I developed a minor infection. My eye is still very sensitive to light.” He removed his glasses so that both men could see for themselves.

Dismissing Kiril with a contemptuous wave of one hand, pointy-face ordered the entire group to approach the table.

“Do you all understand the loyalty pledges and the secrecy agreement you have signed?”

There was a general murmuring and a nodding of heads.

“Very well. You will not receive these ”—one hand came down hard on a pile of green leather booklets—“until you have read and memorized these .” The KGB officer’s other hand touched a pile of red booklets with gold lettering. “Only then will you be ready to take the loyalty and secrecy oath.”

Kiril reached for a red booklet. “RULES OF BEHAVIOR FOR SOVIET CITIZENS ABROAD” it said on the cover, and under that in smaller letters: For internal distribution only . As he thumbed through the booklet, he couldn’t help thinking the rules were written in a style suitable for children. Do not drink. Do not visit places of doubtful entertainment. Do not talk with foreigners outside the presence of a reliable witness. Do not use the normal mail facilities of the host country. Do not fail to report suspicious behavior on the part of associates and traveling companions. Above all, do not forget that every Soviet citizen is a potential target of provocation by mercenary anti-Communist elements, all of them eager to recruit the unwary into their ranks.

Twenty minutes later, Kiril left the building. The sound of iron doors slamming shut behind him gave him an almost giddy sense of finality.

The feel of the green leather booklet in his pocket gave him a sense of lightheadedness. He walked through a courtyard and into the street as if his feet never touched the pavement.

Free , he thought wonderingly.

Free, at least, to leave the building, he thought with a jolt of fear. It isn’t the West, but it’s a giant step in that direction. At least I’m free to leave the Soviet Union!

He passed ponderous granite structures with six-story- high portraits hanging over ornate facades—comic-strip versions of his country’s “illustrious heroes,” past and present. He saw string after string of red flags waving hypnotically in the breeze. But high above the sprawling flatness of Moscow, a few tall buildings rose in self-conscious defiance. Kiril felt a moment’s kinship with them.

There was no queue at his trolley stop, but as usual, people packed themselves into each car with the zealousness of combat soldiers embarking on a mission. As soon as the trolley car doors closed behind him, he was struck by the contrasting stillness inside.

He stared out the window. Row after row of prefabricated apartment houses rolled past—pale yellow cinderblocks, each a shabby functional echo of its neighbor. Half an hour later, he worked his way to the front of the car, exited at the next stop, and headed for one of the cinderblocks—his home for the last ten years.

As he climbed the stairs in the drab hallway, he was assaulted by a pervasive dinginess. The thought of never again having to walk up these stairs and down this hallway gave him an odd sense of detachment. He passed through the communal kitchen and unlocked the door to his room. It was simply furnished for simple needs. A narrow bed. A few shelves and wall hooks for clothes. A small scarred table and a couple of chairs. Apart from some medical books piled at one end of the table that provided the only spot of color, there was nothing to suggest the character or personality of its occupant. It was a suitable room for a transient-in-spirit, he thought, closing the door. He switched on an overhead light. A plastic suitcase lay open on the bed next to his raincoat. Some bottles and an eye dropper were on the table. A towel with brown stains hung over the back of a chair.

A clock on one of the shelves reminded him that Galya was due any time now.

Removing his dark glasses, he examined his left eye in a mirror. The redness was almost gone. He had passed inspection this morning. But he might not be so lucky if he didn’t remember to keep after it once every hour, when possible, until people stopped asking questions.

After packing only what he’d need, he opened a small bottle, and stuck the eyedropper in. With the odor of lemon pulling at his nostrils, he put a few drops of lemon juice in his left eye and held his breath against the sting.