Life’s a Scream

I stood in the wings feeling nervous. It’s not every day you’re called upon to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for a major theatrical company. Of course, the rest of the cast didn’t exactly see it that way but I was appropriately impressed with my belief. I knew the nervousness would pass. All the top actors admitted to nerves before a performance. It was expected and only proved what a magnificent job I was going to do playing the mute Kattrin.

I could see Otto sitting in his little cradle in the flies. He had been a great support. The American magazines made a big thing about leading players not associating with the crew but, until that moment, I had been more crew than player and it was hard to play the grande dame with your fellow workers when you’re sweeping the stage or slopping out cups of Muckefuck to the cast. But, I reminded myself, that was yesterday. My time had come and Otto would have to face the sad fact of life that our cosy little relationship was over.

I looked around the grim, jerry-built set and felt my destiny. It didn’t matter that the back of the theatre was almost wholly constructed from timber scavenged from the bombed-out buildings of East Berlin; nor that the Communist administration, in spite of their vaunted championing of the people’s theatre, refused to give assistance to the struggling company. All that mattered was that I had made it. Finally, I was going to stand in front of the footlights and show what I was made of.

As I prepared to make my entrance I was aware that someone had come through from front of house and was talking to Otto. I knew it was about me. Otto was nodding and staring at me as if trying to make up his mind about something. I dismissed him from my thoughts and was attempting to focus on what was happening on stage when he touched my arm and drew me back a little. I was annoyed. It was this sort of thing which set me apart from the other, more seasoned, members of the cast. I would have to have words with him about over-familiarity. Before I could say anything he put his mouth close to my ear. ‘The Vopos are out front,’ he said hoarsely. ‘They want to speak to you.’

Thoughts of resounding stage success were instantly replaced by alarm. My recent brush with authority had been enough to shut me up for a week or two but since my status had been enhanced I’d again found difficulty keeping my thoughts to myself.

Overwhelmed by feelings of panic, and images of the Volkspolizei closing in on me, I gathered up the voluminous skirts that I wore for my part as Kattrin and bolted through the stage door. I had no clear plan. I just knew that another trip to the Volkspolizei HQ was not going to be as easily resolved as the last.

Outside the theatre, the absence of street lighting and the terrible state of the roads and pavements were a mixed blessing. Though I didn’t fall immediately into the hands of the Vopos, I was soon lost. Tears formed in my eyes but I managed to choke back the self-pitying sobs which were trying to force their way through my chattering teeth. I began to run again but a broken paving stone soon sent me sprawling. I knew I should rest and take control of myself but there was so much adrenalin burning in my veins that I pushed myself to my feet and rushed on.

From the darkness lights blazed out, completely blinding me. I didn’t have to be told that they came from a police car. Hiding in the dark and trapping individuals in their headlights was one of the Polizeis’ little party pieces. Depending on how frustrated they felt, they would then either search their victim and let him go, arrest him or beat him up. There was also a fourth alternative for solo girls but that was the least of my worries: I was a State criminal and would finish up in the Gulag archipelago if I were caught.

As the car rolled forward my eye was drawn to a straggly hedge on my left. A voice barked out, ‘Stay where you are!’ and I heard the terrifying whine of a dog being temporarily restrained. The thought of those wicked canine teeth and great slavering tongue snapped my synapses into overload and my knee-jerk reaction was to dive out of the revealing light into the sheltering bushes.

As I hit the undergrowth I knew I had made an ill-informed decision, for beneath the branches there didn’t appear to be any ground. Rolling downhill at an increasing velocity I began to wonder if I wouldn’t have been better off in a nice warm cell. But I didn’t have the luxury of choice. My hurtling body burst from the shrubs, slid painfully down a rocky incline and splashed into the icy waters of the River Spree.

For a moment the huge Kattrin skirts acted like a life-jacket and kept me afloat, as I found my voice and screamed, but then the saturated clothes began to drag me down. My boots, full of water, felt like anchors. The thought crossed my mind that I should get rid of the sodden gear but the idiotic concern that I would have to explain to Helene how I had ditched some of her precious costumes just to save my paltry life crossed my mind and I hesitated.

By this time the police were hanging over the bank, shining their torches and shouting stupid instructions, as if I didn’t know I was in the water and in trouble. Every time I managed to struggle to the surface it became clear that the torchlight was falling further away. I was in the grip of the notorious River Spree current and being swept to my death.

It was at about this time that I decided I was going to die. I wish I could say that I faced the possibility with dignity and calm acceptance. Unfortunately I can’t. All I could do was scream, cry and splash frantically around.

The policemen’s torches were soon nothing more than pinpricks in the black night. Other dots of light on both sides of me confirmed that I had drifted out into the middle of the river. I was freezing, and panic and fear had exhausted me to a point where I could hardly be bothered to kick my legs in an effort to keep my head above water. I thought about my mother. Would she be devastated and blame herself for letting me leave the security of home? The cold water made my head feel as if a steel band were being viciously tightened around it and my temples were about to cave in. I was vaguely surprised that my legs and arms were still feebly functioning – they seemed to have no connection with my brain.

The panic had gone now. I just felt terribly sad, although I don’t think I actually considered the premise that I was about to die. That didn’t seem to come into it. My brain just seemed to be divorced from my body and accepted the fact that one was going to be separated from the other. I can’t say that my life rushed before my eyes but it was as if I had a grand overview. It was all there but I was no longer a part of it. I felt myself drifting away and let it happen.

Suddenly I saw flashing light. The light was the tunnel into the next world that I had heard people talk about. I looked hopefully for my father who, I was sure, would be there to meet me. But the light kept going on, off, on, off . . . Vaguely, I thought, ‘Someone is attracting my attention. What for? I’m drowning.’ Only I wasn’t and hadn’t – so far.

I decided to live and fight. I started swimming with the very last energy I could pump up. I was not going to drown in a German river and kill my mother too. Hysteria was my friend and lent me the strength to kick for the flickering torchlight. When I reached the steep bank it was paved stone and I had no idea how to get out of the water.

I heard shouting, English voices. ‘My coat! Grab my coat . . .’ Now I could see a coat being shaken in my direction but I couldn’t reach it. Then I clutched it but it slipped away. I had to get out of the water. I had to reach the coat. It came down closer. Someone was lying on the ground now, shaking the coat at me. I mustered up my remaining energy and seized the fabric, which threatened to twist out of my grip. ‘Don’t let go or you’ll die’ beat like a mantra in my head.

Hands reached down and took hold of my arms, dragged me out of the river like a waterlogged kitten and dropped me on to a concrete path. I didn’t feel a thing. There were three men in GI uniforms – two MPs and a young lieutenant – bending over me. They kept asking me questions but I was so full of Spree water that I couldn’t hear a thing. They gave up and stowed me in the back of the car. The lieutenant found a blanket and enveloped me in it, wrapping his arms around me to try to stop me shivering and to transfer a little much needed heat. I loved him instantly. I mumbled something naff and promptly passed out.

I regained consciousness to the sound of an American voice, straight out of a movie, telling me, ‘It’s all over, everything’s okay. Just drink the whisky and everything will be perfect.’ I was too tired to reply, the tiredest I have ever been, and promptly fell asleep.

The car stopped outside one of the typical big, ugly Berlin apartment houses. I was manhandled up the grim, badly lit stairs by two of the men. One of them rang a bell and at once the door opened to reveal a grinning over-made-up lady. The better looking of the two troopers explained the situation and I was escorted to a room with a big bed in it. Other brightly made-up ladies removed the rest of my costume and dumped me in a hot bath. After that I fell into bed, where I regretfully recalled that I hadn’t said thank you to the kind Americans.

Back in the bedroom, I sat on the bed and wondered what would become of me now. I reasoned that I was in West Berlin so I could go and see my mother. However, the only clothes I had were the sodden stage wardrobe, minus one boot and a skirt. Before I could work myself up into a sweat the door opened and a woman in her early forties came in. She was neat and small, and not overly friendly. I explained my dilemma, but she wanted only to know if there was anyone she should contact to let them know where I was. I thought she was pretty cool. There was I, a mysterious stranger, yanked out of the river at death’s door and brought to her in a squad car by a trio of Yanks and all she wished to find out was if there was someone she could telephone. I told her about Matka and how she could be contacted through a neighbour. She nodded and suggested that if I wanted something to eat I should go to the kitchen. I was ravenous so I drew a blanket around my shoulders and followed her.

The apartment was largish but, like most flats of that period and in that time, gloomy and badly in need of repair. The woman led me through to the kitchen, put a knife, some black bread and cheese in front of me, and left. I was into my second sandwich when a young girl came in and introduced herself as Nelli. She told me she’d been there when the Americans had brought me in. I told her my story and she was suitably impressed. Other women came into the kitchen, so I had to tell the tale again. They all thought it was hilarious.

I was beginning to get the idea that my rescuers hadn’t dumped me in a seminary for young ladies. The women’s speech was too colourful, sprinkled with English swearwords that they could have picked up only by frequent and intimate contact with the forces of occupation. I was too prudish to ask them what they did for a living, but they soon told me anyway. I was in the greatest little whorehouse in the West – well, West Berlin, anyway.

I thought it was terribly exciting. The girls started recounting fantastic stories about the tricks they had pulled and I sat there, bug-eyed, screaming with laughter. It was the best therapy I could have had and within the hour I’d forgotten how terrified I had been the night before.

When my mother walked in, the room fell silent and, feeling guilty by association, I hastily borrowed some clothes and followed her out into the decrepit street, without daring to look back. Matka wasn’t exactly talkative as we made our way across the city. When we got home she insisted that I take off my borrowed finery and go to bed. It sounded good to me. For one thing weariness had hit me again and for another it put off the hour of reckoning with Matka.

The next morning she brought me a cup of tea. She was in a better mood now. She gave me a hug, held my hand and sat beside me on the bed. I knew what was coming – I could see typewriter ribbon in her eyes – but I wasn’t worried. I had thought up what I believed to be a cunning scheme.

At the Berliner Ensemble, I’d overheard some of the actors talking about the Burgtheater in Vienna. I hadn’t paid much attention because I’d assumed that I would be staying with the Ensemble for the foreseeable future. Now that that had all come to an abrupt end and the office door was in front of me, it was time to clutch at clouds. So far, I hadn’t impressed Matka with my life-style, so I knew I had to be a bit devious and decided to tell a slight fib. Well, a whacking great lie. I told my mother that in East Berlin I had been approached by a representative of the Burgtheater to go to Vienna for an audition. He had practically guaranteed me a job, I assured her. I don’t suppose she believed me for a minute but I think she was getting bored at home so she let me persuade her that Vienna was the answer to all my problems – and said she would come with me to the audition. That really hit me between the eyes. I’d hoped merely to distract her from the secretary idea until something better came up. Before I knew where I was, I’d been swept up in my own web of deceit.

We didn’t have much money to spare so we decided that we would take to the road and hitch-hike wherever possible, and hoard what money we had for whenever the going got too tough. It meant travelling light. We packed a few bits and pieces, put our pennies together and made our way to the entrance to the Avus, the motorway leading to Helmstedt, the American-Russian control point. At first I received plenty of offers of lifts but the drivers suddenly had to be elsewhere when I produced my mother. We even tried the standing-behind-a-tree ploy. I’d get a car to stop and then she’d come out. It didn’t work. Before we could get in the driver would drop the clutch and the car would speed off.

Finally, a milk truck stopped for us. At lunch-time we drew into a busy truckers’ caff, loud and cheerful, with beer and cigarette ash like a wet sponge carpet on the floor. Suddenly there was a lot of shouting and laughter. Matka asked a driver what was going on and he told us a bloke at the bar had bet a hundred marks that he’d swallow a live mouse. Our driver was up for that and tried to get my mother to chip in but she hated betting. I think she thought life was enough of a gamble without taking on side bets.

Everyone craned forward to see what was happening. A young, good-looking man was holding a grey mouse by its tail, displaying it for everyone to see. I forced myself to watch. Someone banged on a tin plate and the show began. The man held the wiggling mouse high above his head and slowly lowered it into his mouth. Everybody was shouting and laughing. The poor mouse seemed to know what was coming and made a last desperate effort to get away. Too late. The man put it in his mouth and then walked around the yelling audience with the still wriggling tail hanging out. I felt ill. Seeing the effect he was having on me the young man turned to give me the finale. The tail disappeared as the mouse slid down into his stomach. That did it for me. I puked all over his boots and ran outside.

Matka came after me and said that the driver of the milk truck wanted to get on but perhaps we should wait a while until I felt better. I croaked that I wanted to go home. I felt too sick to go anywhere. Mascha nodded solemnly and put her arm round me. ‘Right!’ she said with an air of finality. She didn’t have to remind me what I was going back to but I kept seeing the tail disappear in the man’s mouth and retched and retched again. So that was the end of the Burgtheater.

It was a long time before we found a ride back. There seemed to be no one on the road crazy enough to want to go to Berlin. Then it started to rain and the few cars that came along refused to stop for two sopping-wet passengers. Eventually a trucker took pity on us.

As we waited at the border at Marienborn to get the truck’s load checked, the driver started talking about the war. He’d been at Sobibor concentration camp. Matka told him a bit of our experiences and they talked all the way back to our home. The driver asked if he could visit when he next came to Berlin but we never heard from him again. I don’t think my mother minded. She wanted nothing to do with those years. Neither did he, I suppose. Talking about our past opened the floodgates of memory for Mama and I never heard her mention them again. She didn’t want to hear others talk about it, she didn’t want to be reminded. She locked it up in the recesses of her brain and threw away the key.

The next day I tried to hide from my mother by again staying in bed. Eventually, she brought me a cup of tea and sat down beside me. She asked me how I was and I said all right. I asked her how she was and she said she was fine. She didn’t push it. I guess she thought I had agreed to fall back on my diploma and type for the rest of my life. As daunting as the prospect was I was beginning to think it was the only option.

Mama drew in a deep breath – and the doorbell rang. We looked at each other, startled. Someone ringing the doorbell was a bit of a novelty. Matka got up and answered the door. The US lieutenant who had fished me out of the Spree stood on the doorstep with a bunch of flowers and a shiny cake tin with a picture of Father Christmas on it. He’d rescued me once more.