*
Rebecca had spent a lot of her father’s money on the apartment in Hamburg. The place was the ground floor of a grand old merchant’s house. All the rooms were big enough to allow Bernd to turn the wheelchair – even the bathroom. She had installed every known aid for a man paralysed from the waist down. Walls and ceilings were festooned with ropes and grab handles that enabled him to wash and dress himself and get in and out of bed. He could even cook in the kitchen, if he wanted to; though, like most men, he could not prepare anything more complicated than eggs.
She was determined – furiously determined – that she and Bernd were going to live as normal an existence as possible, despite his injury. They would enjoy their marriage and their work and their freedom. Life for them would be busy and varied and satisfying. Anything less would give the victory to the tyrants on the other side of the Wall.
Bernd’s condition had not changed since he left the hospital. The doctors said he might improve, and he should keep hoping. One day, they insisted, he might be able to father children. Rebecca should never stop trying.
She felt she had a lot to be happy about. She was teaching again, doing what she was good at, opening the minds of young people to the intellectual riches of the world they lived in. She was in love with Bernd, whose kindness and humour made every day a pleasure. They were free to read what they liked, think what they liked, and say what they liked, without having to worry about police spies.
Rebecca had a long-term aim, too. She yearned to be reunited with her family one day. Not her original family: the memory of her biological parents was poignant, but distant and vague. However, Carla had rescued her from the hell of war, and had made her feel safe and loved, even when they were all hungry and cold and scared. Over the years the house in Mitte had filled with people to love and be loved by Rebecca: baby Walli, then her new father Werner, then a baby girl, Lili. Even Grandmother Maud, that impossibly dignified old English lady, had loved and cared for Rebecca.
She would be reunited with them when all West Germans were reunited with all East Germans. Many people thought that day might never come. Perhaps they were right. But Carla and Werner had taught Rebecca that, if you wanted change, you had to take political action to get it. ‘In my family, apathy isn’t an option,’ Rebecca had said to Bernd. So they had joined the Free Democratic Party, which was liberal though not as socialist as Willy Brandt’s Social Democratic Party. Rebecca was branch secretary and Bernd was treasurer.
In West Germany you could join any party you liked except the Communist Party, which was banned. Rebecca disapproved of that prohibition. She hated Communism, but banning it was the kind of thing Communists did, not Democrats.
Rebecca and Bernd drove to work together every day. They came home after school, and Bernd laid the table while Rebecca prepared dinner. Some days, after they had eaten, Bernd’s masseur came. Because Bernd could not move his legs, they had to be massaged regularly to improve the circulation and prevent, or at least slow, the wasting of nerves and muscles. Rebecca cleared away while Bernd went into the bedroom with the masseur, Heinz.
This evening she sat down with a pile of exercise books and began marking. She had asked her pupils to write an imaginary advertisement about the attractions of Moscow as a holiday destination. They liked tongue-in-cheek assignments.
After an hour Heinz departed, and Rebecca went into the bedroom.
Bernd lay naked on the bed. His upper body was strongly muscular, because he constantly had to use his arms to move himself. His legs looked like those of an old man, thin and pale.
He usually felt good, physically and mentally, after massage. Rebecca leaned over him and kissed his lips, long and slow. ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘I’m so happy to be with you.’ She said it often, because it was true, and because he needed reassurance: she knew that sometimes he wondered how she could love a cripple.
She stood facing him and took off her clothes. He liked her to do this, he said, even though it never gave him a hard-on. She had learned that paralysed men rarely got psychogenic erections, the kind caused by sexy sights or thoughts. All the same, his eyes followed her with evident enjoyment as she unfastened her bra, slid her stockings off, and stepped out of her panties.
‘You look great,’ he said.
‘And I’m all yours.’
‘Lucky me.’
She lay beside him and they caressed each other languorously. Sex with Bernd, before and after his accident, had always been about soft kisses and murmured endearments, not just fucking. In that way he was different from her first husband. Hans had had a programme: kiss, undress, get hard, come. Bernd’s philosophy was anything you like, in any order.
After a while she straddled him then manoeuvred so that he could kiss her breasts and suck her nipples. He had adored her breasts right from the start, and now he enjoyed them with the same intensity and relish as before the accident; and that aroused her more than anything.
When she was ready, she said: ‘Do you want to try?’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘We should always try.’
She moved back, so that she was astride his withered legs, and bent over his penis. She manipulated it with her hand. It grew a little, and he got what was called a reflex erection. For a few moments it was hard enough to go inside her, then it quickly subsided. ‘Never mind,’ she said.
‘I don’t mind,’ he said, but she knew it was not true. He would have liked to have an orgasm. He wanted children, too.
She lay beside him, took his hand, and placed it on her vagina. He positioned his fingers in the way she had taught him, then she pressed his hand with her own and moved rhythmically. It was like masturbation, but using his hand. He stroked her hair fondly with his other hand. It worked, as it always did, and she had a delightful orgasm.
Lying beside him afterwards, she said: ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Not just for that.’
‘What, then?’
‘For coming with me. For escaping. I can never tell you enough how grateful I am.’
‘Good.’
The doorbell rang. They looked at one another in puzzlement: they expected no one. Bernd said: ‘Maybe Heinz left something behind.’
Rebecca was mildly annoyed. Her euphoria had been shattered. She put on a robe and went to the door, feeling grumpy.
There stood Walli. He looked thin and smelled ripe. He wore jeans, American baseball shoes, and a grubby shirt – no coat. He was carrying a guitar and nothing else.
‘Hello, Rebecca,’ he said.
Her grumpiness evaporated in a flash. She smiled broadly. ‘Walli!’ she said. ‘What a wonderful surprise! I’m so happy to see you!’
She stood back and he stepped into the hallway.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said.
‘I’ve come to live with you,’ he said.