He decided to give her until nine o’clock.
Then what? Go alone?
He no longer felt hungry. The tension in his guts was such that he knew he could not eat. He was thirsty, though. He would almost have given his guitar for hot coffee with cream in it.
At eight forty-five, a slim girl with long fair hair came walking along the street towards the van, and Walli’s heart beat faster; but as she came closer, he saw that she had dark eyebrows and a small mouth and an overbite. It was not Karolin.
At nine, Karolin still had not appeared.
Go or stay?
If you ever sing that song again, you’re fired.
Walli started the engine.
He moved forward slowly and turned the first corner.
He would need to be travelling fast to bust through the timber barrier. On the other hand, if he approached at top speed the guards would be forewarned. He needed to begin at normal speed, slow down a little to lull them, then stamp on the gas.
Unfortunately, not much happened when you stamped on the gas in this vehicle. The Framo had a 900cc three-cylinder two-stroke engine. Walli thought maybe he should have kept the drums on board, so that their weight would give the van more impetus when it hit.
He turned a second corner, and the checkpoint stood ahead of him. About three hundred yards away, the road was blocked by a barrier that lifted to give access to a compound with a guard house. The compound was about fifty yards long. Another wooden barrier blocked the exit. Beyond that, the road was bare for thirty yards then turned into a regular West Berlin street.
West Berlin, he thought; then West Germany; then America.
There was a truck waiting at the near barrier. Walli hurriedly stopped the van. If he got into a queue he was in trouble, for he would have little opportunity to build up speed.
As the truck passed through the barrier, a second vehicle pulled up. Walli waited. But he saw a guard staring his way, and realized his presence had been noted. In an attempt to cover up, he got out of the van, went around to the back, and opened the rear door. From there he could see through the windscreen. As soon as the second vehicle passed into the compound, he returned to the driving seat.
He put the van in gear and hesitated. It was not too late to turn around. He could take the van back to Joe’s garage, leave it there, and walk home; his only problem would be to explain to his parents why he had been out all night.
Life or death.
If he waited now, another truck might come along and block his way; and then a guard might stroll along the street and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, loitering within sight of a checkpoint; and his opportunity would be lost.
If you ever sing that song again . . .
He let out the clutch and moved forward.
He reached thirty miles an hour, then slowed down a little. The guard standing by the barrier was watching him. He touched the brake. The guard looked away.
Walli floored the accelerator pedal.
The guard heard the change in the engine note and turned around, wearing a slight frown of puzzlement. As the van picked up speed, he waved at Walli with a slowing-down gesture. Pointlessly, Walli pressed harder on the pedal. The Framo gained pace lumberingly, like an elephant. Walli saw the guard’s expression change in slow motion, from curiosity to disapproval to alarm. Then the man panicked. Even though he was not in the way of the van, he took three steps backwards and flattened himself against a wall.
Walli let out a yell that was half war cry, half sheer terror.
The van hit the barrier with a crash of deforming metal. The impact threw Walli forward on to the steering wheel, which struck his ribs painfully. He had not anticipated that. Suddenly it was hard to catch his breath. But the timber bar fractured with a crack like a gunshot, and the van moved on, its pace only a little reduced by the impact.
Walli changed into first gear and accelerated. The two vehicles ahead of him had both pulled over for inspection, leaving a clear path to the exit. The other people in the compound, three guards and two drivers, turned to see what the noise was. The Framo picked up speed.
Walli experienced a rush of confidence. He was going to make it! Then a guard with more than average presence of mind knelt down and aimed his sub-machine gun.
He was just to one side of Walli’s route to the exit. In a flash Walli realized he would pass the guard at point-blank range. He was sure to be shot and killed.
Without thinking, he swung the wheel and drove straight at the guard.
The guard fired a burst. The windscreen shattered, but to Walli’s astonishment he was not hit. Then he was almost on top of the man. He was suddenly struck by the horror of driving a vehicle over a living human body, and he swung the wheel again to avoid the guard. But he was too late, and the front of the van hit the man with a sickening thump, knocking him down. Walli cried: ‘No!’ The vehicle lurched as its front offside wheel rolled over the guard. ‘Oh, Christ!’ Walli wailed. He had never wanted to hurt anyone.
The van slowed as Walli yielded to despair. He wanted to jump out and see if the guard was alive, and if so help him. Then gunfire broke out again, and he realized they were going to kill him now if they could. Behind him, he heard bullets hit the metal of the van.
He pressed the pedal down and swung the wheel again, trying to get back on track. He had lost momentum. He managed to steer towards the exit barrier. He did not know whether he was going fast enough to break it. Resisting the impulse to change gear, he let the engine shriek in first.
He felt a sudden pain, as if someone had stuck a knife in his leg. He shouted out in shock and agony. His foot came up off the pedal, and the van immediately slowed. He had to force himself to press down again, despite how it hurt. He screamed in pain. He felt hot blood run down his calf into his shoe.
The van hit the second timber barrier. Again Walli was thrown forward; again the wheel bruised his ribs; again the wooden bar splintered and fell away; and again the van kept going.
The van crossed a patch of concrete. The gunfire ceased. Walli saw a street with shops, advertisements for Lucky Strike and Coca-Cola, shiny new cars, and, best of all, a small group of startled soldiers in American uniforms. He took his foot off the accelerator and tried to brake. Suddenly the pain was too much. His leg felt paralysed, and he was unable to press down on the brake pedal. In desperation he steered the van into a lamp post.
The soldiers rushed to the van and one threw open the door. ‘Well done, kid, you made it!’ he said.
I made it, Walli thought. I’m alive, and I’m free. But without Karolin.
‘Hell of a ride,’ the soldier said admiringly. He was not much older than Walli.
As Walli relaxed, the pain became overwhelming. ‘My leg hurts,’ he managed to say.
The soldier looked down. ‘Jeez, look at all that blood.’ He turned and spoke to someone behind him. ‘Hey, call an ambulance.’
Walli passed out.
*
Walli got his bullet wound stitched up and was discharged from hospital the next day with bruised ribs and a bandage around the calf of his left leg.
According to the newspapers, the border guard he had run over had died.
Limping, Walli went to the Franck television factory and told his story to the Danish accountant, Enok Andersen, who undertook to tell Werner and Carla that he was all right. Enok gave Walli some West German deutschmarks, and Walli got a room at the YMCA.
His ribs hurt every time he turned over in bed, and he slept badly.
Next day he retrieved his guitar from the van. The instrument had survived the crossing without damage, unlike Walli. However, the vehicle was a write-off.
Walli applied for a West German passport, granted automatically to escapers.
He was free. He had escaped from the suffocating Puritanism of Walter Ulbricht’s Communist regime. He could play and sing anything he chose.
And he was miserable.
He missed Karolin. He felt as if he had lost a hand. He kept thinking of things he would tell her or ask her tonight or tomorrow, then suddenly remembering that he could not speak to her; and the dreadful recollection hit him every time like a kick in the stomach. He would see a pretty girl on the street, and think about what he and Karolin might do next Saturday in the back of Joe’s van; then he would realize that there would be no more evenings in the back of the van, and he would feel stricken by grief. He walked past clubs where he might get a gig, then wondered if he could bear to perform without Karolin at his side.
He spoke on the phone to his sister Rebecca, who urged him to come and live in Hamburg with her and her husband; but he thanked her and declined. He could not bring himself to leave Berlin while Karolin was still in the East.
Missing her grievously, he took his guitar a week later to the Minnes?nger folk club, where he had met her two years ago. A sign outside said it was not open on Mondays, but the door stood ajar, so he went in anyway.
Sitting at the bar, adding up figures in a ledger, was the club’s young compere and owner, Danni Hausmann. ‘I remember you,’ said Danni. ‘The Bobbsey Twins. You were great. Why did you never come back?’
‘The Vopos smashed up my guitar,’ Walli explained.
‘But now you have another, I see.’
Walli nodded. ‘But I’ve lost Karolin.’
‘That was careless. She was a pretty girl.’
‘We both lived in the East. She’s still there, but I escaped.’
‘How?’
‘I drove a truck through the barrier.’
‘That was you? I read about it in the newspapers. Hey, man, cool! But why didn’t you bring the chick?’
‘She didn’t show up at the rendezvous.’
‘Too bad. Want a drink?’ Danni went behind the bar.
‘Thanks. I’d like to go back for her, but I’m wanted for murder there now.’
Danni pumped two glasses of draft beer. ‘The Communists made a huge fuss about that. They’re calling you a violent criminal.’
They had also demanded Walli’s extradition. The government of West Germany had refused, saying that the guard had shot at a German citizen who merely wanted to go from one Berlin street to the next, and responsibility for his death lay with the unelected East German regime that illegally imprisoned its population.
In his head Walli did not believe that he had done wrong, but in his heart he could not get used to the idea that he had killed a man.
He said to Danni: ‘If I crossed the border they would arrest me.’
‘Man, you’re fucked.’
‘And I still don’t know why Karolin didn’t come.’
‘And you can’t go back to ask her. Unless . . .’
Walli pricked up his ears. ‘Unless what?’
Danni hesitated. ‘Nothing.’
Walli put down his glass. He was not going to let a thing like that pass him by. ‘Come on, man – what?’
Danni said thoughtfully: ‘Of all the people in Berlin, I guess the one I could trust is a guy who killed an East German border guard.’
This was maddening. ‘What are you talking about?’
Danni made up his mind. ‘Oh, just something I heard.’
If it were just something he had heard, he would not be so secretive about it, Walli thought. ‘What did you hear?’