In Walli’s opinion it was none of his father’s business whether he smoked or not.
‘Did you give it up?’
‘Yes,’ Walli lied.
‘Don’t you know that it smells?’
‘I suppose I do.’
‘I could smell it on you as soon as I walked into the drawing room.’
Now Walli felt a fool. He had been caught out in a childish lie. This did not make him feel any more friendly towards his father.
‘So I know you haven’t given it up.’
‘Why did you ask me the question, then?’ Walli hated the petulant note he heard in his own voice.
‘I was hoping you’d tell the truth.’
‘You were hoping to catch me out.’
‘Believe that if you wish. I suppose you’ve got a packet in your pocket now.’
‘Yes.’
‘Put it on my desk.’
Walli took the pack from his trouser pocket and angrily threw it on to the desk. His father picked up the pack and casually tossed it into a drawer. They were Lucky Strikes, not the inferior East German brand called f6, and it was almost a full packet, too.
‘You’ll stay in every evening for a month,’ his father said. ‘At least you won’t be visiting bars where people play the banjo and smoke all the time.’
Panic made Walli’s stomach cramp. He struggled to remain calm and reasonable. ‘It’s not a banjo, it’s a guitar. And I can’t possibly stay in for a month.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll do as I say.’
‘All right,’ Walli said desperately. ‘But not starting tonight.’
‘Starting now.’
‘But I have to go to the Minnes?nger club tonight.’
‘That’s just the kind of place I want you to keep away from.’
The old man was impossible! ‘I’ll stay in every night for a month from tomorrow, okay?’
‘Your quarantine will not be adjusted to suit your plans. That would defeat the purpose. It is intended to inconvenience you.’
In this mood Father could not be shaken from his resolution, but Walli was mad with frustration, and he tried anyway. ‘You don’t understand! Tonight I’m entering a contest at the Minnes?nger – it’s a unique opportunity.’
‘I’m not postponing your punishment to permit you to play the banjo!’
‘It’s a guitar, you stupid old fool! A guitar!’ Walli stormed out.
The three women in the next room had obviously heard everything, and they stared at him. Rebecca said: ‘Oh, Walli . . .’
He picked up his guitar and left the room.
Until he got downstairs he had no plan, just rage; but when he saw the front door he knew what to do. With his guitar in his hand he walked out of the house and slammed the door so hard the house shook.
An upstairs window was thrown up and he heard his father shout: ‘Come back, do you hear me? Come back this minute, or you’ll be in even worse trouble.’
Walli walked on.
At first he was just angry, but after a while he felt exhilarated. He had defied his father and even called him a stupid old fool! He headed west, walking with a jaunty step. But soon his euphoria faded and he began to wonder what the consequences would be. His father did not take disobedience lightly. He commanded his children and his employees, and he expected them to comply. But what would he do? For two or three years now Walli had been too big to be spanked. Today Father had tried to keep him in the house as if it were a jail, but that had failed. Sometimes Father threatened to take him out of school and make him work in the business, but Walli considered that an empty threat: his father would not be comfortable with a resentful adolescent roaming around his precious factory. All the same, Walli had a feeling that the old man would think of something.
The street he was on passed from East Berlin to West Berlin at a crossroads. Lounging on the corner, smoking, were three Vopos, East German cops. They had the right to challenge anyone crossing the invisible border. They could not possibly speak to everyone, because so many thousands of people went over every day, including many Grenzg?nger, East Berliners who worked in the West for higher wages paid in valuable deutschmarks. Walli’s father was a Grenzg?nger, though he worked for profits, not wages. Walli himself crossed over at least once a week, usually to go with his friends to West Berlin cinemas, which showed sexy, violent American films that were more exciting than the preachy fables in Communist movie houses.
In practice, the Vopos stopped anyone who caught their eye. Entire families crossing together, parents and children, were almost certain to be challenged on suspicion of trying to leave the East permanently, especially if they had luggage. The other types the Vopos liked to harass were adolescents, particularly those wearing Western fashions. Many East Berlin boys belonged to anti-establishment gangs: the Texas Gang, the Jeans Gang, the Elvis Presley Appreciation Society, and others. They hated the police and the police hated them.
Walli was wearing plain black pants, a white T-shirt, and a tan windbreaker. He looked cool, he thought, a little like James Dean, but not a gang member. However, the guitar might get him noticed. It was the ultimate symbol of what they called ‘American unculture’ – even worse than a Superman comic.
He crossed the road, careful not to look at the Vopos. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw one staring at him. But nothing was said, and he passed without stopping into the Free World.
He caught a tram along the south side of the park to the Ku’damm. The best thing about West Berlin, he thought, was that all the girls wore stockings.
He made his way to the Minnes?nger club, a cellar in a side street off the Ku’damm where they sold weak beer and frankfurter sausages. He was early, but the place was already filling up. Walli spoke to the club’s young owner, Danni Hausmann, and put his name down on the list of competitors. He bought a beer without being questioned about his age. There were lots of boys like himself carrying guitars, almost as many girls, and a few older people.
An hour later the contest began. Each act performed two songs. Some of the competitors were hopeless beginners strumming simple chords but, to Walli’s consternation, several guitarists were more accomplished than he. Most looked like the American artists whose material they copied. Three men dressed like the Kingston Trio sang ‘Tom Dooley’, and a girl with long black hair and a guitar sang ‘The House of the Rising Sun’ just like Joan Baez, and got loud applause and cheers.
An older couple in corduroys got up and sang a song about farming called ‘Im M?rzen der Bauer’ to the accompaniment of a piano-accordion. It was folk music, but not the kind this audience wanted. They got an ironic cheer, but they were out of date.
While Walli was waiting his turn, getting impatient, he was approached by a pretty girl. This happened to him a lot. He thought he had a peculiar face, with high cheekbones and almond eyes, as if he might be half Japanese; but many girls thought he was dishy. The girl introduced herself as Karolin. She looked a year or two older than Walli. She had long, straight fair hair parted in the middle, framing an oval face. At first he thought she was like all the other folkie girls, but she had a big wide smile that made his heart misfire. She said: ‘I was going to enter this contest with my brother playing guitar, but he’s let me down – I don’t suppose you’d care to team up with me?’
Walli’s first impulse was to refuse. He had a repertoire of songs and none were duets. But Karolin was enchanting, and he wanted a reason to continue to talk to her. ‘We’d have to rehearse,’ he said doubtfully.
‘We could step outside. What songs were you thinking of?’
‘I was going to do “All My Trials” then “This Land is Your Land”.’
‘How about “Noch Einen Tanz”?’
It was not part of Walli’s repertoire, but he knew the tune and it was easy to play. ‘I never thought of doing a comic song,’ he said.
‘The audience would love it. You could sing the man’s part, where he tells her to go home to her sick husband, then I’d sing “Just one more dance”, and we could do the last line together.’
‘Let’s try it.’
They went outside. It was early summer, and still light. They sat on a doorstep and tried out the song. They sounded good together, and Walli improvised a harmony on the last line.
Karolin had a pure contralto voice that he thought could sound thrilling, and he suggested that their second number could be a sad song, for contrast. She rejected ‘All My Trials’ as too depressing, but she liked ‘Nobody’s Fault But Mine’, a slow spiritual. When they ran through it, the hairs stood up on the back of Walli’s neck.
An American soldier entering the club smiled at them and said in English: ‘My God, it’s the Bobbsey Twins.’
Karolin laughed and said to Walli: ‘I guess we do look alike – fair hair and green eyes. Who are the Bobbsey Twins?’
Walli had not noticed the colour of her eyes, and he was flattered that she was aware of his. ‘I’ve never heard of them,’ he said.
‘All the same, it sounds like a good name for a duo. Like the Everly Brothers.’
‘Do we need a name?’
‘We do if we win.’
‘Okay. Let’s go back in. It must be almost our turn.’
‘One more thing,’ she said. ‘When we do “Noch Einen Tanz”, we should look at one another now and again, and smile.’
‘Okay.’
‘Almost as if we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, you know? It will look good on stage.’
‘Sure.’ It would not be difficult to smile at Karolin as if she were his girlfriend.