Tom Gabbay - The Berlin Conspiracy

THE
BERLIN
CONSPIRACY

TOM GABBAY

To Julia
for everything

The following is an account of events that took place in June 1963. Ive kept these facts to myself all these years for obvious reasons, but Im too old now to worry about any of that.

Besides, the bastards will never find me.

I left Berlin on the morning after my mother was buried. A few hours before she died, my brother and I were roused from our beds and told we should say our final good-byes. The memory of that night is still vivid, even through the fog of all those years.

A band of warm light spilled into the room as we entered, illuminating her face. She didnt look real, already more an angel than our mother. After a moment, she spoke, softly, on shallow breath. Kommt, she whispered. Come. Dont be afraid. She was young, far too young to die, but even I could see that precious little life was left in the slender frame that faded into the shadows.

Outwardly, nothing had changed. The dressing table was neatly arranged with lipsticks, rouge, and powders; the music box still sat on the mantel, its waltzing couple frozen in silent midstep. Next to the bed stood a formal wedding photo in a silver frame and, on the wall, a fuzzy picture of a smiling man in uniformblack ribbon and medal of honor draped over the image of a husband and father who, like many others, never returned from The War to End All Wars. Everything was in its place, yet the room had changed in some way. The smell of medicine was gone; now there was death in the air.

I took Josefs hand and led him to our mothers side. He was only eight, five years younger than me, and probably didnt fully understand what was happening. Nobody had explained it to us, not in so many words.

She lay there, very still, for what seemed like an eternity and the thought crossed my mind that she mightve died in the time it took us to cross the room. Finally her eyes lifted and turned toward us. She studied our faces for a long time, as if trying to memorize them. Or maybe she was gathering strength, determined to use those last few breaths to carry the words that she wanted to leave behind.

Give me your hands, she whispered. I felt her weakness as she attempted to close her fingers around ours. You see She tried to smile. A family Do you understand?

I nodded, though I wasnt sure that I did.

Say it, she demanded.

A family, I responded obediently.

She slipped her hand away, leaving Josefs palm in mine. And now she breathed. Still a family Always a family.

I felt that she wanted to say more but was unable to summon the strength. I wanted to say something, too, but words wouldnt come. Not because I was too emotional. In fact, I can remember wondering why I wasnt more upset. I loved my mother dearly and I knew she loved us more than anything, but for some reason I felt removed from it all, watching the scene from someplace far away, like I am now.

Not many came to her funeral. Three, maybe four faceless men in dark suits and polished shoes standing a few steps behind us, heads bowed, hats in hand. I didnt know any of them. Josef and I stood in front of the open grave with Auntie between us. The lady who came once a week to clean the houseI dont remember her namewas the only one who sobbed quietly as the priest said his prayers and remarked that although it was sad our mother had left her sons orphans, God knew best and must have needed her in heaven more than we did on earth. I hadnt thought of myself as an orphan before that.

I think Josef and I each placed a flower on top of her coffin as it was lowered into the ground, but Im not sure. I remember that we stayed long after everyone else had gone, wanting to see that the headstone was properly placed. It read simply:

On the first night she lay in her grave, I lay on my bed thinking about a cold December day, shortly before my brother was born, when she and I went to a toy shop in central Berlin. I was completely mesmerized by a display of wooden soldiers in the window, two opposing armiescomplete with cavalry and artillery batterieslined up against each other in neat rows of red and blue. She tried to interest me in all sorts of other toys and gamesspinning tops, puppets, a bright red fire truckanything other than those soldiers. But I could see nothing else. Two weeks later, on Christmas Eve of 1918, I found a small box under the tree with my name on it. Inside were two soldiers, one red and one blue.

Two full battalions now faced each other across the floor of the attic room I shared with Josef. I studied the carefully arranged formations into the early hours of that morning, until I finally drifted into a restless dream, where I joined the painted soldiers in combat and felt the gut-wrenching fear of a position being overwhelmed by opposing forces. When I woke, something had changed. The soldiers no longer came to life.

A boys battles are fought on the field of his imagination. Theres no cause, no doctrine, nothing to gain, its just Blue vs. Red. Not so different from life, I guess, except that in life the colors can get muddied, making it hard to tell which side is which. I must have sensed that there were other battles waiting for me, bigger battles to be fought on a larger field. Or maybe its a smaller field. Anyway, I knew it was time to put my toys away. I found an old tin box and began to dismantle my childhood fantasies.

Josef woke and watched respectfully from his bed as I carefully placed each soldier in the box. Not until I had closed the tin did he feel he could speak.

Where will we live now? he wondered.

Youll stay with Auntie, I said without looking up.

Where will you be? he asked with growing concern.

America, I said. Im leaving today. As far as I can remember, it was the first time the idea had entered my head, but it seemed as good a plan as any, so I stuck with it.

Ill go with you, Josef quickly decided.

No, I said flatly. Youre too young.

So are you, he frowned.

Ill come back for you when youre older, I said, thinking that I might, in fact, return for him once Id established myself.

Did Auntie say you could? he asked, knowing full well that the idea could not have been authorized.

You cant tell anyone, Josef. Its a secret.

Mama says not to keep secrets.

It depends on the secret, I explained. Some secrets are like promises. If you tell the secret you break the promise. Then you become a traitor and a traitor is nothing more than a coward. But I understood my brother well enough to know that this lesson in ethics wouldnt keep his mouth shut. I held the box of soldiers out to him.

Would you like to have these? I asked enticingly.

Until you come back? he ventured, looking very skeptical.

For as long as you keep our secret, I said. He let that sink in for a moment, then smiled conspiratorially and took the tin into his possession. I suppose theres a moment in everyones life when they learn the value of a secret. That was Josefs moment.

So it was that on a sunny morning in late September of 1927, at the auspicious age of thirteen, I packed a bag and set out to begin my adventure with the world. Maybe I actually believed that one day Id return for my younger brother, fulfilling our mothers last wish that we remain a family. But life didnt work out that way.

In 1963, the world was divided into two camps, and Berlin was on the front line. They called it a Cold War, but one spark in that divided city and it wouldnt be cold for longthe whole damn planet would go up in flames. Of course, Id contributed more than my share to this nonsense doing contract work for the Company through the fabulous fifties, but after Cuba the shine had gone off and I dropped out of the insanity.