The alcohol makes her happy at first, slightly giggly and glad to be alive. Karin has never drunk champagne, and although Otto admits it isn’t the best, it’s still streets ahead of the cheap, fizzy Rotkäppchen wine East Germans seem to swallow heartily. But as they head towards her tiny flat after an evening out, the bubbles fall suddenly flat, causing clouds to mass above Karin. Dark clouds.
Inside, Otto examines a card from Walter and Christel and their generous present of a sewing machine, albeit one that’s second-hand and a little rusty. Walter’s other gift – begging a last favour to deliver a message to Jutta – is not so visible.
‘They think a lot of you, don’t they?’ Otto says. ‘I bet they’re nice people.’
‘They are,’ Karin says, and it’s then she can’t help the choke in her throat – with the day, the void of Jutta’s card, which she knows would have been sent if at all possible – but also the Simms’ unending generosity, and the fact that now she has someone to celebrate with. Otto Kruger. The man who had careered across the hospital corridor and whose loyal, heartfelt character is proving a big attraction. It’s taken only two or three dates, of coffee, dinner and then cinema, for her to realise he’s something special. And she thinks – hopes – he feels it too.
Still, there’s a great hole in her heart, and the tears push forth for what she’s missing today: Mama, Gerda, Hugo and Oskar. And, most of all, Jutta. Otto knows she has a sister, but for some strange reason she can’t admit to him that Jutta is her twin. The other half, the reflection of her. It’s something Karin feels compelled to contain, from Walter and Christel too. Jutta’s mirror image she keeps safe. For her eyes only.
Otto hears her sadness, sees the twist of her mouth. ‘Hey, come here,’ he comforts, pulling her into his torso, where her head only just reaches his chin. ‘I’m sure you’ll see them soon.’
He can’t be sure, of course, and neither does he make excuses for the regime, but she’s glad of the words, that he’s trying. And she has plenty to be grateful for: her role at the Charité, a job Walter managed to secure after her convalescence; her own flat, albeit damp and tiny, plus the friendship of the Simms. And now Otto. The frustration is ever present, of writing endlessly to the apartment at Schöneberg and hoping that just one of her letters will reach them, then the crushing sight of an empty post hole every day. The fear of being plucked from the street and the crime of being a West Berliner have become things she might just learn to live with. And against Otto’s solid chest, she has never felt safer.
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out something small and wrapped and offers it to her. ‘This seems all the more appropriate now I’ve seen your other present.’
When Karin unwraps it, the tears spring again. It’s a simple, hand-stitched pin cushion in the shape of a ladybird, bright and beautiful, and she imagines he could have picked it out only with her in mind.
‘Oh it’s perfect,’ she breathes, palming at her wet cheeks.
‘Cheer up,’ he says, stroking her hair, his fingers reaching down to wipe away her sadness. ‘Not every day is your birthday, is it?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Karin breathes into the rough wool of his jumper. Thank goodness.