Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(114)
She passes the big white sign with its ominous black lettering: “You are leaving the American sector.” She will be off the path. Into the dark woods. The Allied guards are waiting. Jenny steps forward.
“What’s the purpose of your trip?” the guard asks.
“Just sightseeing before school starts,” Jenny answers. She can’t stop tapping her fingers against her thighs. It’s like trying to sneak into an R-rated movie but times a hundred.
“You’re going by yourself?”
Jenny forces a smile. “Mm-hmm.”
“You know to be careful. Don’t take pictures. Don’t say anything against the government of the GDR. You need to spend your money and keep your receipts as proof. And you have to return before ten o’clock tonight.” They stamp the time on her visa and motion her forward to the East German guards.
There’s a car ahead of her. The guards have made the two men get out and stand to the side while sniffer dogs strain at leashes, noses going to work. They sweep mirrors on poles beneath the car’s carriage, making sure nothing’s being smuggled in. On the way back, Jenny knows, they’ll do the same thing to make sure that nothing—and no one—is being smuggled out. She thinks of Lena all those years ago, hidden in the trunk, just a child. This trip must be terrifying for her, and Jenny is determined not to disappoint Lena.
At the East German guard booth, the guards put out their hands. “Halt! Papiere, bitte.”
Jenny hands over her all-important American passport and the required visa, which they could still refuse to honor for any reason.
“Zieh deinen Schal aus,” the guard commands. Jenny is so frightened, she cannot process the German. The guard points to her scarf. “Remove it.”
Jenny fumbles with the knot and pulls off the scarf. The guard narrows his eyes at her shaved head, which does not match her passport picture. “Ich habe Krebs.” I have cancer, she says, amazed at how smoothly the lie comes out. The tears in her eyes are authentic, at least. Pure fear.
The guard hands back her documents with a sympathetic “Es tut uns leid.” Sorry, and for a second, she feels guilty for lying to him. He waves her through, and she steps into East Berlin. She exchanges her twenty-five deutsche marks for Ostmarks, a good chunk of her babysitting money, and she won’t be able to change them back to West German currency on her return. Still, it’s worth it to have this experience, to play music with the others, to be in the present. Worth it for Lena.
She waits near the wimpled Friedrichstrasse S-Bahn station. Four military trucks are parked on the plaza. The domed TV tower of Alexanderplatz rises above them like an all-seeing, alien god. Jenny wants to act natural, but in this place, she’s forgotten what natural is. West Berlin is so vibrant and humming, splashed with neon, cafés, and department stores. There’s no neon here and the sense of watchfulness, of wariness, is in the very air. Lena has advised Jenny not to speak if possible. Even if she uses her German, her accent will still give her away as American. She doesn’t want to do anything to stand out or bring attention, which is the opposite of being American, from a place where everyone wants to be famous or at least make you think they are. She pretends to be interested in a kiosk with Communist propaganda. Lots of pictures of proud East Germans waving their flags, working diligently in factories. The woman at the booth stares at Jenny until she feels uncomfortable enough to part with five Ostmarks for a commemorative pamphlet marking the thirtieth anniversary of the GDR.
Finally, across the plaza, she sees Lena sitting and smoking a cigarette. Without her signature heavy eyeliner and spiky hair, she looks smaller, younger, like any teenager outside the mall. Lena makes eye contact and starts walking. Jenny follows just closely enough to keep her in sight. There are plenty of people out and about. They are just like people anywhere. They carry purses and briefcases. They corral their children. They sit across from fountains to watch the water bubbling up. Some stroll; some seem impatient to get wherever it is they’re going. Two women laugh over a shared joke.
Jenny follows Lena across traffic and onto a residential street that borders the wall. On this side, there are no colorful murals. No slogans about the inexhaustibility of the human spirit in the cause of justice. It’s just miles of the same uniform gray. The wall feels taller on this side somehow, as if it’s impossible even to imagine looking over its barbed edge toward freedom. After a few more twists and turns past Soviet-style apartment blocks, Jenny sees the church. It’s a throwback to an older time. Red brick and a tall steeple that managed to escape the bombings. Punks stream inside. When the doors open, a snarl of aggressive music escapes. Lena goes in. A minute later, Jenny tucks the pamphlet inside her back jeans pocket and follows.
The church looks like a church, but it feels like a club. Up front, the sacristy is a tangle of amps, wires, mic stands, guitars. It’s not as wild as a squat party or a Berlin club but it’s got its own kind of energy. Planlos has the stage. And though Jenny can’t understand everything they’re singing, she can feel the passion, the absolute driving necessity of their music. All of the pop she’s listened to seems silly compared to the band’s defiant urgency. This is not just music to listen to by the pool on a hot day. This is a cry. A shout. A scream. A call to arms. It could get them killed. The song pulses through the crowd like a current. She half expects punks to fall to their knees and speak in tongues, and now the church makes sense because the only thing close to this feeling is a religious epiphany.