Erika Holzer - Freedom Bridge

He felt his scalp gingerly—still raw from the chemicals and repeated rinsing. But a mirror check drew a tight smile. His hair was just a touch darker than his natural color brown. Galya was the only one who might notice—unlikely in the dim light of a lamp. He turned off the overhead.

On his way home he had stopped off at the hospital and retrieved his cigarette lighter. Dropping it into his jacket pocket, he sat down to wait.

At the familiar tap-tap on the door, he called out, “It’s unlocked.”

Galya came in. “I won’t stay long,” she said, eyeing his small open suitcase. “You must have so much to do. Not much to pack, is there?” she observed with a tinge of bitterness. “I know there’s more to life than stylish clothes and beautiful jewelry,” she said bleakly, “but even so…”

He tuned out, not wanting to be a complicit enabler when it came to Galya’s obsessive need for pretty things. Not when she should be lashing out at the apparatchiks who blocked, not just a fun trip to Canada, but freedom to do whatever she wanted with her life.

“—hurts the most when I go to the cinema,” she was saying. “At first I’m captivated by the glamorous heroine—her clothes, her jewelry, even her high-heeled shoes! The next thing I notice is how casual she is about her wardrobe. And then I glance at the only semi-decent item I own—a black dress that’s four years old and stylish as a muddy overshoe…”

“Never mind,” he said gently, touching her cheek. Knowing how vulnerable she was because she had never fully grasped that the luxuries she wanted were symbolic of a much wider principle… her right to be free. “Don’t give up, Galya,” he told her. “One day you’ll have some of the things you want.”

Kiril sounds so solemn…

She leaned forward to kiss him. “Call me soon as you get back?”

“You know I will,” he said, hating the lie on his tongue.

“Know what I think?” she teased. “I think you’ve contracted a bad case of first-trip-out-of-the-country-itis. I’m told it has a very sobering effect on its victims.”

“An apt diagnosis, Nurse Barkova. Shall we drink to it?”

“Can’t. I’m late for an appointment.”

She gave him a quick hug and was out the door.

Galya hurried inside the Metro station and headed for a row of wooden telephone booths along one wall, stopping outside a vacant one to dip into her full change-purse for a two-kopeck coin. Ignoring the envious glance of the woman behind her, Galya snapped the purse shut. This was one shortage, at least, that no longer affected her. Not for the last two years, anyway.

She shut herself in the narrow booth and waited for her call to be put through, conscious of two competing rhythms—the tapping of her fingertips against the telephone base and the ticking of her wristwatch.

She touched the tiny face of the watch, the elegant gold band. Beautiful. She shouldn’t have worn it. If Kiril had noticed… But he hadn’t. By the time he got back from his trip, she’d have a good story to explain it.

“Yes?” The voice on the other end of the line was typically impatient.

“It’s Galina Barkova.”

“Ah, yes. What have you to report?”

“Nothing really.”

“Comrade Barkova.” The voice was patronizing now. “I don’t expect you to uncover some dire plot to overthrow the Kremlin. Your assignment is to observe much subtler things. An unguarded remark here. An antisocial view there. An overall state of mind. Incidentally, how is Kiril’s state of mind these days? Are his spirits unnaturally low since the death of Stepan Brodsky? Has his behavior altered significantly in any way?”

“Not really.”

“What about his upcoming sojourn to East Berlin in a few days? Is he looking forward to it?”

“I think so, yes. He didn’t really say . He just…”

“He just what ?” Alexei snapped, going into alert.

She felt trapped by the tight embrace of the phone booth. By the ticking of the watch as it counted off the seconds.

“When I got up to leave, Kiril seemed so—I don’t know, solemn.”

As if he never expected to see me again.

“Oh, that.” Aleksei chuckled. “You are an attractive young woman, Galina Barkova—my most charming agent by far. To be parted from you for even half a week could upset any red-blooded man. Shall we see that Kiril is not upset for long?”

“I don’t understand.”

“How would you like to go to East Berlin with our Dr. Andreyev?”

“But I have no papers, no money, no exit permit,” Galya stammered. “I don’t even have proper clothes.”

“Details, my dear. I’ll see to them.”

“What shall I tell Kiril?”

“I’ll take care of it. Maybe I’ll set something up so Kiril can assist Dr. Brenner in some medical capacity. That way he’d need a nurse he’s used to working with—namely, you.”

She bit her lip. “What will I really have to do, Colonel?” she said cautiously.

“No more than what you’ve been doing for the past two years. Keep an eye on him. Others will be watching as well, but there are things a woman can sense more easily than a man. And I promise you, Galina, do a conscientious job, and you’ll be amply rewarded. I’ve been thinking about a private flat. It could prove useful to me if you had a place of your own.”

She closed her eyes, thinking of her roommates… someone’s eyes always looking, someone’s ears always listening. She said shakily, “You’re sure nothing bad will happen to Kiril?”

“It’s touching, your concern for his welfare. But don’t lose sight of the fact that his welfare is precisely what you’ll be protecting. Remember what I told you at the start of our little joint venture? Some men have to be protected from other men. But men like my brother must be protected from themselves.”

Plush white carpeting swallowed footsteps. Billowing silk drapes fluttered noiselessly in the air-conditioned space. Chairs of glove-soft leather encircled the room. The soothing notes of piano music distracted the room’s occupants from the repetitive sounds—part whine, part growl—of taxiing jets somewhere beyond the drapery.

“This is so much nicer than the regular waiting areas!” enthused Dr. Max Brenner.

“It’s Pan Am’s first-class VIP lounge,” Kurt Brenner told his father, amused.

“For very important persons like my son,” Max countered with unabashed pride.

“Just following in your footsteps.”

“Ah, but you sped past my footsteps long ago.”

Max Brenner looked around. “All these people—they’re here to see you off?”

“Most of them. Matter of fact, I ought to be circulating.”

“Go right ahead, it’s your party. And Kurt, don’t be upset about your mother. You should know by now that her refusal to attend your two symposiums isn’t personal. She won’t set foot in Germany—period.”

“At least you had the good grace to see me off,” Brenner snapped, his good humor evaporating. “When are you joining her in Zurich?”

Max glanced at his watch. “I have a connection from New York to Switzerland in about three hours. Plenty of time to get ready for a wedding,” he said brightly. “The granddaughter of some very old and dear friends. I’d wish you luck in your symposiums, East and West, son, except that I’d be doing you a disservice. It wasn’t ‘Lady Luck’ that brought you to the pinnacle of your profession. You earned it with hard work and perseverance.”

“How can I be impatient with my greatest fan?” Brenner said, cracking a smile. “Thanks, Dad.”