Erika Holzer - Freedom Bridge

“I can understand the resentment,” she said, “but fear?”

“In East Germany, clothes like yours are the trademark of the privileged—Party people, their friends, their mistresses. It’s no different in the Soviet Union.”

Adrienne sighed. “I don’t know about you, but I’m in no mood for cocktails and finger food. See you at dinner?”

He grinned. “You can’t avoid me. We’re at the same table.”

Adrienne stepped into the elevator. When she got to the suite, the door slid open at her touch. Good. Galya had remembered to leave it unlocked.

She stepped inside—and stopped short in the foyer.

A black dress lay like an abandoned dust-rag on the bedroom floor. Her own clothes were spread out on the bed… all except a cream-colored gown. Galya was a vision of loveliness, the gown spilling in an unbroken line from its high virginal neckline to the floor. As she swept about the room, she was graceful elegance in motion—head held high, shoulders straight, arms slightly apart.

It’s as if Galya doesn’t quite know whether to hold in the wonder of what she’s feeling, or let it take wing .

The beginnings of a smile pulled irresistibly at the comers of Galya’s mouth. Her eyes had the luminous look of unshed tears. Gliding to a halt in front of a long mirror, she said to an imaginary figure, “Tell me, kind sir, is green gown which is best you like? This one, I think, is the most wonderful. The color is—how you say in America? This one is most sympathetic to me .”

“It really is,” Adrienne said softly, coming into the sitting room, stopping just short of the bedroom door.

Galya whirled around, fumbling frantically with the clasp at the back of her neck.

“Please don’t be embarrassed,” Adrienne said. “With your coloring and your blonde hair, the gown suits you perfectly. Would you allow me to give it to you?”

“You are too much generous,” Galya said in a voice dipped in starch. “Are all American ladies so generous as you? But I have no need for such a generosity. Quite soon I am having money to buy beautiful gown same like this one.”

Galya meant to close the bedroom door quietly.

She ended up slamming it. Her expression changed as rapidly as she changed her clothes—from embarrassment and envy to something darker.

At 8:00 the next morning, the Brenners, Galya, Kiril, and Luka Rogov met for breakfast in the hotel dining room.

“If this is supposed to be a day off, why did we have to get up so early?” Brenner complained.

“Not to worry,” Kiril reassured him. “Chancellor Malik chose well for your outing. I’ve read up on Waren—a charming town on Lake Muritzsee.” He took some notes from his pocket. “There are references to the town by an ancient geographer named Claudius as early as 150 A.D. In the centuries that followed, the town was devastated by fires and suffered greatly during the Thirty Years’ War from 1618 to 1648. But in the eighteenth century, canal and railway building created economic growth, and in 1925 electricity came to Waren, followed four years later by a Roman Catholic church.”

His tone changed. “In 1931 the Nazis were the largest party in the November elections. The following year they took over some political and administrative positions.”

He saw that Adrienne Brenner, who’d been politely attentive, was now paying close attention. Since her husband didn’t seem the least bit interested, and Galya, eyes closed, had tuned out, Kiril focused only on Adrienne. “During the fascist era,” he continued, “the Nazis followed a familiar pattern. Waren’s Jews were persecuted, then expelled, and ultimately murdered. The Jewish population in the middle 1800s was roughly 150 men, women, and children. By mid-1938—even before deportations had begun in earnest—there were nine. By the end of that year, the Jewish cemetery had been desecrated and destroyed. In 1942, even the nine were gone.”

Adrienne restrained a shudder. She could picture only too well what Dr. Andreyev was describing.

“I take it that Chancellor Malik would be offended if I begged off this jaunt to Lake Muritzsee,” Kurt Brenner interjected.

“Apparently so,” Kiril said. “But the lake is especially beautiful this time of year, the weather is warm enough for boating and swimming, and the ancient town buzzes with activity. Lake Muritz is the second-largest lake in the GDR—the only one that fits entirely within its own borders.”

“Let’s get on with it then,” Brenner said, thinking that the sooner they left, the sooner they’d get back. “We’ll meet out front at the limo after we collect our stuff.”

“Let’s meet in the lobby,” Kiril suggested. “In about twenty minutes?”

Twenty minutes later, the Brenners stepped out of the elevator carrying large American beach bags. Galya had a Soviet version that Aleksei had provided, but smaller and less full. Kiril swung over his shoulder a mesh shopping bag he’d picked up at some flea market in Moscow. Luka Rogov wore his military uniform and carried nothing.

Except a 7.62 Nagant revolver .

“Follow me,” Kiril said, and led them to one of the elevators.

“We can’t get to the beach in an elevator,” Brenner said caustically.

“You’ll see,” Kiril grinned as he pushed the button for the top floor.

The elevator had more than adequate space for five adults, yet Dr. Brenner seemed agitated—but why? Kiril wondered. Brenner had begun to perspire the moment the doors closed.

“Where the hell are we going, Dr. Andreyev?”

“To the roof,” he told Brenner. “We’ll be flying to the lake in a helicopter,” he announced with a touch of pride just as they reached the top floor.

The elevator doors opened. Chivalry aside, Kiril thought drily, Dr. Brenner was the first one out.

“Look,” Brenner said with a show of calm as they climbed the stairs to the roof, “I can’t do this. I’m still jet-lagged. There’s no way I can sit for hours in a chopper.”

“Not hours. Waren and Lake Muritzsee are roughly 60 miles from Berlin.”

“Which means the limousine could have us there in what, an hour?”

“Actually, I suggested that. But Chancellor Malik was very keen that Herr Doctor Professor Brenner see the town and the entire panorama of Lake Muritzsee from the air.”

Brenner got the message.

A Soviet helicopter was parked on the roof. The main body stood about ten feet high, its length roughly twelve feet. The bottom half of the body was painted orange, the top blue.

Adrienne stifled a laugh. The paint job made her think of a swollen sausage.

Above the body of the vehicle sat the flight deck, also orange. Orange paint ran from behind the front of the body toward the aircraft’s rear and continued for another twenty feet where the three-blade tail rotor rested. The four-blade main rotor was attached to the roof of the flight deck, with four large front and side windows.

Brenner took one look at the helicopter’s size and almost recoiled in fright. Approaching two men in flight suits who stood next to the aircraft, he walked up to the pilots and asked in German, “Is this your airplane?” The pilots looked at each other, confused. The one with the most gold braid on his shoulder—the captain?—cracked a smile.

“No. It is the property of the People of the German Democratic Republic.”

Terrific .

Brenner suppressed the urge to ask if the People’s property was safe.

As Kiril approached, the East German Air Force officer said, “Captain Rolf Gruner at your service, and you must be Dr. Kiril Andreyev.”

“I am.” They shook hands.

The captain introduced his co-pilot, a lieutenant.