Erika Holzer - Freedom Bridge

Apologizing profusely, Kiril said, “Wrong room. Sadly, leech therapy is a barbaric contrast with the modern x-ray equipment I meant to show you next door. I was told this patient is a Russian soldier wedded to the old ways. Anti-coagulation therapy is still common in some rural areas of my country, even though today’s Soviet doctors can usually clear obstructed veins in a more scientific manner.”

Their tour of the medical clinic over, Kiril made good use of the time it took to walk to their waiting limousine. He mentioned East German physicians being members of the elite. Not that East Germany’s Ministry of Health was without its own problems. Did Dr. Brenner know that since 1958 many of these physicians had left the Deutsche Demokratische Republik—luckily before the Communist Party had launched a campaign to improve the quality of political and ideological dogma in the medical profession? Did Dr. Brenner know that East German doctors—and Soviet ones as well—experienced an acute medical crisis? That hospitals and medical clinics had been forced to limit their services to emergencies? That, until recently, East German doctors had been forced to rely on inferior medicines produced in Communist bloc countries like the Soviet Union?

Dr. Brenner did not know. He did not seem to care, either.

As soon as Brenner entered the limousine, he sat back and closed his eyes. He had never felt so out of control… and the questions kept coming.

Where the hell was Malik? He was, after all, Chancellor of the entire University. Why invite him here in the first place? Despite that charade on their way in from the airport, I couldn’t pry anything specific out of the bastard. And why the empty excuse for not joining me in my hotel suite for a drink?

Brenner tried to break out of his reverie, but it was as if he was doing a balancing act between two different time zones!

Which, in a way, he was.

Back in the limousine, Kiril left the back seat to Galya and the Brenners, again taking the jump seat.

As the car pulled away from the clinic, Galya leaned back against the limousine’s worn velvet upholstery. The faded Oriental rug under her feet had been beautiful once—a real luxury. She had been bored to distraction during the tour of the medical clinic, only half listening as Kiril went on and on. “I am tired,” she said to no one in particular. “I would so much like to return to the hotel and make ready for dinner.”

“Good idea,” Brenner chimed in. “I could use a drink. I have a feeling jet lag is just around the corner.”

“I know of a shortcut back to our hotel,” Kiril said, and gave the driver directions before resuming his seat.

“A shortcut?” Adrienne Brenner said skeptically. “How is that possible? You arrived only yesterday.”

Clever lady.

“I’m good with maps,” he said, which was true enough.

As their limousine left the Unter den Linden area, the change was swift and dramatic. Starkly modern apartment houses gave way to seedy Stalin-like housing projects and buildings so caked with grime it was difficult to guess at their original color. Empty lots were dusted with crumbling plaster, suggesting the bombed-out ruins of World War II. Half-collapsed structures with sections of sagging walls gave evidence of being occupied. Their limousine attracted furtive, resentful stares.

Kurt Brenner emerged from his fugue long enough to mumble something about the somber architecture.

“A great nation’s progress is not always self-evident, Dr. Brenner,” Kiril said evenly. “East Germany has the highest standard of living of any Soviet-bloc country.”

Adrienne Brenner stared at him.

Damning with slight praise again, Dr. Andreyev?

When she commented on the long line of shoppers waiting patiently at a street vendor’s vegetable cart, Kiril said tonelessly, “Waiting in line for basic necessities is a way of life—and not just here. We have queues in my country as well.”

It suddenly struck him that he felt at home here—almost as if he had never left Moscow. Different streets, yes. Totally different cities. Moscow was pale yellow—washed out. East Berlin was tarnished and gray, with a kind of grittiness in the air, as if the whole place could use a good scrubbing. But the ominous familiarity was in the silence. In the absence of bright lights.

It was the way people hurried, as if their biggest concern was to get off the streets and out of sight. It was what they wore—the same ill-fitting clothes he had looked on all his life. It was their demeanor—part lethargy, part despair.

He had to stop himself from looking at Adrienne Brenner as hungrily as Galya had looked at her clothes.

Except that he had no need to look at her anymore. Unconscious pride—it was in the set of her mouth, the lift of her head. Unstated confidence—it was in the way she moved.

Adrienne Brenner was living proof that somewhere beyond the limits of his existence was another world. Another universe. He felt the empty ache of longing, followed by a searing impatience that blurred his vision. His whole adult life had been a testament to patience. He had taught himself to suppress his anger. To scoff at his bitterness. To go slowly. To bide his time. It was this that had brought him to the edge of freedom. That had kept him alive.

Don’t abandon your oldest ally, your best weapon! Don’t fall victim to the sights and sounds of East Germany. Of the Soviet Union. Keep it intact—your vision of those poor pathetic creatures lined up for their vegetables. Of the patience stamped on their faces.

But even as he listened to his mind, he knew that his emotions were in revolt. After two decades of waiting in line for his freedom, his patience had burned itself out.

On their way back to the hotel, Kurt Brenner turned to his wife and reminded her about a pre-dinner cocktail party being held in their honor on the 38th floor. “We should both make an appearance,” he told her.

“I guess,” Adrienne Brenner said without enthusiasm. “But we’d better make it an early dinner. We have that field trip tomorrow, remember?”

“Field trip?” he responded with a touch of annoyance.

She shrugged. “Your host, Chancellor Malik, apparently thinks you could use a day off before the medical proceedings begin on Monday. We’re going for an outing to the ancient town of Waren on Lake Mueritzsee.”

As the four of them rode up in the hotel elevator, Galya said a silent prayer, pasted a smile on her face, and well before the elevator got to her floor said, “Dr. Brenner, in your rooms this champagne that I taste, I like very much. There is nearly a whole bottle left. Do you mind I have a little before I make ready for early dinner tonight?”

“Not at all.” He handed her his key. “You’re welcome to the whole bottle. Just be sure to leave the key on the bed and the door unlocked when you leave.”

Ignoring the question in Kiril’s eyes, Galya rushed to the Brenner suite as soon as the elevator let her off.

Her hand shook with anticipation—so much so that she had trouble unlocking the door.

Adrienne had been uncomfortably aware of her cape all day long to the point where she’d taken to carrying it. But still people stared, even in the “ better” part of town. She felt their eyes on her suit. Her jewelry. Her leather shoulder-bag. Sensing that it wasn’t envy, she put the question to Dr. Andreyev on the way to the cocktail party.

“It’s two things,” he explained. “Fear, and a touch of resentment. Western clothes stand out because of their rich fabrics and stylish lines. And there’s no mistaking the fit—so perfect it couldn’t possibly be some hand-me-down from an aunt or an older sister.”