Caffeinated Reviewer | The Berlin Apartment by Bryn Turnbull

4

13 AUGUST, 1961

Uli stared out his apartment window, his pulse beating wildly in his ears. Seven stories below, a tangle of concertina wire ran the length of Bernauer Strasse, bisecting East Berlin from West: onlookers on both sides of the wire watched, muttering, as green-uniformed Grenztruppen, separated from the East German citizenry by a line of Volkspolizei, jackhammered the cobbles to fix stakes into the ground and carted in more spools of barbed wire, rolling it out with gloved hands.

Was it war? He studied the faces of the border guards, searching for an indication of panic, of fear, but they looked measured and resolute. Was it a planned operation, then? A provocation?

He needed to find Lise. He pulled on a shirt and trousers and descended into the fray.

Outside, the sound of jackhammers was a relentless snarl that drowned out the fury of Berliners on both sides of the wire, shouting their ire. In the East, a mishmash of soldiers—police officers and border guards and members of the People’s National Army—stood with their backs to the west, shoulder to shoulder, as guards hammered stakes in place.

“Uli!”

He wrenched his attention away from the barbed wire to see Jurgen’s stocky, sandy-haired figure. “Have you spoken to Lise?”

Uli shook his head: across the street, a scrum of people had formed around a nearby telephone box. “I only just came outside. I’m still trying to piece together… What’s going on?”

“Ulbricht’s sealed the border.”

“Sealed it?”

“Yeah.” Jurgen bit his lip, and Uli knew that he was thinking of his family, his brother and sister-in-law and niece, living in Bernau. “People kept saying he was going to do something, but I never thought…” He trailed off. “You’ve not seen Lise?”

“Not since Friday.” Uli searched for a higher vantage point— a bench, the bonnet of a car—and gestured for Jurgen to follow him toward a rusting Mercedes, parked on the opposite side of the road. “Have you spoken to your brother?”

“I tried telephoning Karl, but they’ve cut the wires. I heard they’ve sealed off the U-Bahn and S-Bahn as well… I don’t think anyone can make contact.”

Uli jumped onto the bonnet of the Mercedes. What purpose did it serve to cut the telephone lines? He gave Jurgen his hand and tugged him up on top of the car: from here, they could see past the guards and jackhammers to the bewildered East Berliners beyond.

“Lise was out of town, wasn’t she?” Jurgen muttered. In the empty streets beyond Bernauer Strasse, Soviet tanks rolled in and out of view in the direction of Brandenburg Gate: Where was the answering military presence from the West? He turned, hoping to see British or American troops: on a far-off corner, a pair of French soldiers watched the growing crowd but made no attempt to move closer. Surely, they had to intervene?

Uli turned back to the barbed wire and his heart lurched: there, coming down Brunnenstrasse, was Lise. He shouted her name and waved to catch her attention: she turned and lifted her arm in response.

Uli leaped down from the car and made his way toward the wire. He muscled past men and women with Jurgen in his wake, rising onto his toes to keep Lise in his sights.

A shout rang up behind him—“Fascists!”—and the crowd surged forward. He stumbled, and a West Berlin police officer caught him before he hit the ground.

“Watch yourself.”

Uli straightened. “My fiancée. She’s in the East,” he began, hearing in his voice the panic he was trying, and falling, to quell. On the opposite side of the wire, Lise was pushing forward too, her pale head visible as she tried to reason with a Grenztruppe. “I need to speak with her, if you could just let me through, she’s right there—”

The officer’s expression was pitying and fearful in equal measure. “I have my orders. No one is to approach the barrier,” he said. Across the wire, a second Grenztruppe turned his head, listening to their conversation over his shoulder. “They’re operating within East Berlin, we have no jurisdiction to intervene—”

“They’re tearing the city apart!” Uli shouted, his rational mind reeling against the sheer absurdity of what was in front of him. He took another step, searching for a break in the wire. “If I could just talk to her—”

The officer’s grip on Uli’s arms was mercilessly hard. “If you want to start the next world war, keep going,” he hissed, before shoving Uli back. “There’s nothing I can do, mate. Take it up with Walter Ulbricht.”

He stumbled into Jurgen, trembling with a rage he’d never felt: an impotence, a helplessness that he’d not experienced since he was a boy.

“Easy…this might only be temporary,” Jurgen said, his hand steady on Uli’s shoulder. “We ought to go to Brandenburg Gate. We might learn more about what this is—there will be reporters, politicians—”

On the other side of the wire, he watched as Lise’s own attempts to reason with a border guard failed: she stepped back, looking distraught. “If Ulbricht really is sealing the border, we need to act now. We need to find a way to get to Lise—bring her across—”

“I know.”

Uli broke off midsentence, wrenching his eyes away from Lise. Jurgen stared at him, resolute, and his steadiness gave ground to Uli’s panic, helped him think beyond his own fear, his own anger.

“We need to act now, but whatever we do, it can’t be here,” Jurgen continued. He was right: they couldn’t push through, not here, where there were so many people, so many sets of eyes. “We find a break in the wire—a gap…” “They can’t be everywhere all at once,” Uli said. “Further along,” Jurgen whispered back, and Uli’s heart quickened. Across the wire, Lise stared at him, and he jerked his head, knowing that Lise would understand—she nodded, and melted back into the crowd.

“C’mon,” he muttered, and he and Jurgen took off down the street.

Excerpt from The Berlin Apartment by Bryn Turnbull. Copyright © 2024 by Bryn Turnbull. Published by MIRA.