and shouted down the stairs. ‘Don’t go, Gottfried. We need to talk.’ But the sound of his footsteps continued downwards until the building’s front door was crashed shut in turn, and she felt the vibrations in the banister she was gripping.
A door latch clicked to the side. Müller turned. Frau Ostermann’s head peeked out. ‘Is everything alright, Frau Müller?’
Müller pulled her gown tightly together, threw the woman a weak smile and sighed. ‘Yes, yes, Frau Ostermann. Nothing to worry about.’ The woman pursed her lips and clicked her door shut again.
Müller retreated to the sanctuary of the flat and walked to the lounge window, trying to see if she could spot Gottfried up the street. He’d already disappeared from sight. Instead, on the opposite side of the road, she noticed a white Barkas van. Letters on the side spelling Bäckerei Schäfer, a small private bakery near Alexanderplatz. Müller swallowed as saliva pumped into her mouth. A shower, the one she’d been about to have, then out to buy some fresh Brötchen rolls. Maybe the van would be selling some? That would fill her stomach, and cleanse the row with Gottfried from her head.
Thirty minutes later and she was actually out on Schönhauser Allee, but the bread van didn’t appear to be selling anything. She set off at a fast walk, hoping the couple of kilometres to the office would energise her, overtaking families ambling along in the winter air. A girl of about ten suddenly bumped into her, dodging her brother’s snowball. Müller smiled, but inside she felt a sharp pang of loss and guilt. Children with their parents, playing happy families, just as the Tilsners had been doing in that pose at the campsite. Something she and Gottfried would never be able to do.
4
Nine months earlier (May 1974).
Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost. The island of Rügen, East Germany.
Someone near me is crying. Awful sobs that make me want to join with them. Mutti! She has to leave. They’re taking her away. I’m trying to pull her back, but I seem to have no strength in my arms, as though I’m just a small child again. I look down at my hands and realise they are a little girl’s hands. Still I try to cling on, but her fingers slip through mine. Why are these men pulling her away? She lives with me and Oma, here on the campsite, in our flat above the reception. This is where she belongs, running on the beach, with our matching red hair blowing about in the wind. Don’t go! Don’t go! I need her. I plead with them. She reaches out for me, but something is holding me down, stopping me from helping. With all my strength, I break free and run out onto the stairs after them. But they’ve disappeared. And something’s wrong. These are the stairs at the Jugendwerkhof , at Prora. Where has our little white campsite house gone? I turn around in panic to get back into the flat, but the same giant men are there and are trying to take me away too. I want to run, but something’s holding me down. Covering me. It’s heavy and I can’t breathe and –
I wake. Sweating. Heart thumping in my chest. I throw the heavy blanket aside, and take deep, deep breaths. The nightmare recedes, but the crying is still there, those same awful sobs. I turn and I realise it’s Beate, in the bunk next to mine. I gather my nightdress about me, recoiling from the smell of my unwashed body, and climb from my bed into hers, drawing the blankets around us. I stroke her jet-black hair, sweat-drenched like mine. I try to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake the other girls in the dormitory, but with these triple bunk beds and their creaking metal frames, I know that’s unlikely.
‘Shh. Shh. Beate, it’s OK. It’s OK,’ I whisper as I wrap my arms around her slight body, my own larger frame dwarfing hers. ‘Please stop crying. Every night you are crying. You’ve been like this ever since the field trip. What’s wrong?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ she whispers between her sobs,
A door latch clicked to the side. Müller turned. Frau Ostermann’s head peeked out. ‘Is everything alright, Frau Müller?’
Müller pulled her gown tightly together, threw the woman a weak smile and sighed. ‘Yes, yes, Frau Ostermann. Nothing to worry about.’ The woman pursed her lips and clicked her door shut again.
Müller retreated to the sanctuary of the flat and walked to the lounge window, trying to see if she could spot Gottfried up the street. He’d already disappeared from sight. Instead, on the opposite side of the road, she noticed a white Barkas van. Letters on the side spelling Bäckerei Schäfer, a small private bakery near Alexanderplatz. Müller swallowed as saliva pumped into her mouth. A shower, the one she’d been about to have, then out to buy some fresh Brötchen rolls. Maybe the van would be selling some? That would fill her stomach, and cleanse the row with Gottfried from her head.
Thirty minutes later and she was actually out on Schönhauser Allee, but the bread van didn’t appear to be selling anything. She set off at a fast walk, hoping the couple of kilometres to the office would energise her, overtaking families ambling along in the winter air. A girl of about ten suddenly bumped into her, dodging her brother’s snowball. Müller smiled, but inside she felt a sharp pang of loss and guilt. Children with their parents, playing happy families, just as the Tilsners had been doing in that pose at the campsite. Something she and Gottfried would never be able to do.
4
Nine months earlier (May 1974).
Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost. The island of Rügen, East Germany.
Someone near me is crying. Awful sobs that make me want to join with them. Mutti! She has to leave. They’re taking her away. I’m trying to pull her back, but I seem to have no strength in my arms, as though I’m just a small child again. I look down at my hands and realise they are a little girl’s hands. Still I try to cling on, but her fingers slip through mine. Why are these men pulling her away? She lives with me and Oma, here on the campsite, in our flat above the reception. This is where she belongs, running on the beach, with our matching red hair blowing about in the wind. Don’t go! Don’t go! I need her. I plead with them. She reaches out for me, but something is holding me down, stopping me from helping. With all my strength, I break free and run out onto the stairs after them. But they’ve disappeared. And something’s wrong. These are the stairs at the Jugendwerkhof , at Prora. Where has our little white campsite house gone? I turn around in panic to get back into the flat, but the same giant men are there and are trying to take me away too. I want to run, but something’s holding me down. Covering me. It’s heavy and I can’t breathe and –
I wake. Sweating. Heart thumping in my chest. I throw the heavy blanket aside, and take deep, deep breaths. The nightmare recedes, but the crying is still there, those same awful sobs. I turn and I realise it’s Beate, in the bunk next to mine. I gather my nightdress about me, recoiling from the smell of my unwashed body, and climb from my bed into hers, drawing the blankets around us. I stroke her jet-black hair, sweat-drenched like mine. I try to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake the other girls in the dormitory, but with these triple bunk beds and their creaking metal frames, I know that’s unlikely.
‘Shh. Shh. Beate, it’s OK. It’s OK,’ I whisper as I wrap my arms around her slight body, my own larger frame dwarfing hers. ‘Please stop crying. Every night you are crying. You’ve been like this ever since the field trip. What’s wrong?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ she whispers between her sobs,
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