Lotte was quiet for a moment.
‘Or,’ the bus driver said, ‘you can take the U1 – or is it U2? The timetable’s posted up on the wall inside. I’m not sure if there’s a direct bus that’ll take you right there – you might need to go through Fürth, before changing to get to Zirndorf . . .’ He left the sentence hanging.
‘Please,’ she said, stepping forward, her voice high and tight. ‘I have money. Please, can you take me?’
RUNE
The smell of paint hit him with force and longing when he returned to the art institute. He walked past studios with pottery wheels, another with racks and racks of printing blocks. He could smell art, in its purest form; it made him crave paper.
The lesson inside Studio 4 was coming to an end; he heard the scrape of chairs and the rumble of talk. As the students filed past him, he waited.
Professor Obert was far younger than Rune had imagined; she wore a faded Mickey Mouse T-shirt and a long plait messily arranged over one shoulder. She was also rather short, so that when Rune introduced himself she had to look up to him, which made him feel self-conscious. He wished there were seats; he’d have preferred to sit.
Professor Obert had kind but exploring eyes. She reminded him of My-lo.
My-lo had started chatting to him when he first joined the graff scene, rattling her cans of spray paint and talking as she worked. Dots were My-lo’s signature. She made huge geometric shapes, straight lines, sharp edges, bold colours, but she made them with dots. It was extraordinary. Rune had watched My-lo meticulously put up piece after piece.
Just before he stopped seeing his friends, stopped painting, stopped clubbing – before he had been forced into the shape Papa had constructed for his future – My-lo had been working on a stunning mosaic near the newly refurbished Reichstag. The dome in her piece reflected not the glorious and symbolic glass of the Reichstag, but the abandoned and wasted Teufelsberg; held together by the forgotten people lost during the Cold War, it was both political and memorial. He suddenly felt the urge to see if she had completed it. What it looked like now. Where she was now, what she was painting.
He missed his old life.
After a few minutes with Professor Obert, Rune knew his dream was over.
‘Rune,’ she said, looking up from his letter, which he’d thrust at her by way of explanation, ‘your portfolio was the best we saw – one of the best we have ever seen, in fact. How long have you been working on it?’ she asked.
‘A while.’
‘Here, we’ve kept it safely for you. I’ll show you,’ and he followed her. She unlocked a cupboard and pulled out his portfolio. He tried to find some courage; he had to ask, he had to try.
‘Can you reconsider?’ he said. ‘I mean, why was my application declined if the portfolio was good?’
Professor Obert sighed. ‘Our school relies heavily on government funding. And it was made clear to us when your application came in that your studies here would . . .’ – and she lowered her voice sadly – ‘. . . affect our upcoming bid on funding. You have a rather influential name – a father who knows many people on the education board.’
Hearing this made him feel absent; his body felt as though it were disintegrating. He didn’t know what to say. Papa had known. Papa had stopped it.
Professor Obert continued, ‘As I understand it, your father is keen for you to follow him, both in your choice of career and politically too?’
Choice seemed like a laughable word – what choice did he have? What choice had he ever had?
‘Have you tried other universities?’ Professor Obert continued. ‘I’m sure they’d love you, or maybe you could get him to change his mind. Have you shown him your work?’
Rune shook his head; a small snort escaped in protest at the thought. Professor Obert was kind, but she had no idea what she was saying. He had been so careful, and yet—
‘I know a professor in Kunstgut if you wanted to try there? I could forward my recommendation, but at the BAI my hands are tied, I’m afraid.’
He took his portfolio and held it under his arm; the large plastic pocket was sharp through his clothes. He hadn’t tried other universities. Lotte had friends here, a school here, he couldn’t wait until she finished – she was only fifteen. The police force was waiting for him.
It was over.
He thanked her for her time, and she looked sorry to see him leave, but he did, and fast.
He emerged onto the street with nowhere to go.
He gazed at his feet as they walked him through familiar streets smelling of old coins and stale beer. Familiar buildings, large and tall, held him upright. Familiar faces; a woman pushing a pram full of pumpkins in an assortment of sizes; a man staring hungrily at a lump of brown grease-dripping meat turning slowly in the window display of a rotisserie; jaywalkers and the corresponding horns of the surrounding traffic; hairspray and make-up; everyone dressed up. The street one large fancy-dress party.
Everything too loud, too bright.
In animation.
Rune was lost in the familiar, and at the same time thrown into a shatteringly present past.
THEN
FRIDAY 6TH JANUARY 1989
EPIPHANIE – EPIPHANY
At the checkpoint, guards swarmed around the car. Mama turned and told him and Lotte to stay quiet. They did, both of them watchful in their silence. The officers, wearing dark green uniforms, had guns in their belts. Many of the officers touched their guns from time to time looking all too ready to use them. It made him feel afraid. Not of the guns, but of the officers who continued to pat them, expectantly.
Mama was asked to leave the car.
‘Stay here. Don’t move,’ she said and smiled, but her smile was scared. She took all the papers from the small bag and left the rucksack in the car.
An officer held the back of Mama’s arm as she was walked through a door. The door closed and Mama was gone.
‘What’s happening?’ Lotte asked, her thumb popping out and her eyes wide.
The taxi driver was nonplussed; he smoked cigarette after cigarette, until Rune felt sick from all the smoke. He didn’t dare open the window. He knew bullets could travel through glass, but the glass between him and the officers with their guns made him feel just a little safer.
‘How long will Mama be?’ he asked.
The driver tapped the clock on the dashboard.
‘She’ll be back within the hour. Two, tops,’ he said.
Rune watched the door until his eyes burned. Every inch of his body was alive with fear. What if she didn’t come out? Lotte shuffled over to him and rested her head on his shoulder, looking out of the window too. Waiting for Mama.
Two hours and twenty-two minutes later, even the driver was getting impatient.
After three hours and fifteen minutes, Mama finally emerged.
She looked old. She looked scared, but mostly she looked relieved. She got into the car and the driver started the engine. Mama wound her window down and Rune felt able to do the same.
The driver passed the barrier and they were moving on. Together. She turned and smiled and breathed out a breath that made him cry.
They were across the border, they weren’t going back home, and they emerged into East Berlin on a day that was blue-black with cold.