“Guten morgen,” a voice chirps from my answering machine. “This message is for Frau Ulrike Stein.”
At the mention of my mother’s name, I snap to attention.
“My name is Anna. I’m a volunteer from the Ministry for State Security Museum. We work with people who were affected by the Stasi.”
It’s been over 30 years since East Germany’s secret police toyed with my family’s lives like lab rats in a sick human experiment. Despite the decades and the fall of the Berlin Wall, the mention of the Stasi sends my pulse into rapid fire fight-or-flight palpitations.
“I work with the Nuremberg puzzle women,” the voice continues in its perfunctory tone. “The puzzle women piece together the top-secret files that the Stasi shredded before we stormed Leipzig.”
The voice says “we,” as if the woman on the other end were part of the people’s revolution, but the accent gives her away. The voice is from the other side – the west side of the wall – where ich turns to a sharper icke. I snort in involuntary contempt.
“My job is to inform families about files that have been pieced together. Let’s see...” Papers shuffle. The voice hums to indicate a moment of reorganization.
“In your case, Frau Stein, I have a request here to follow up on the file for Alexander Weber—”
The voice halts suddenly. Hesitantly, it resumes, “According to the notes, you were interested in determining the cause of death...”
The ensuing silence is louder than the voice that echoed through my apartment seconds before.
“It says here that Accused Number 1024 died October 24, 1989,” continues the voice. “Cause of death: severe head trauma...”
I knew very little about my father, except that he died in prison just days before the wall came down when I was 3 years old. My mother said the Stasi arrested him on suspicions of subversion. He had been innocent, my mother insisted. She had been the dissident, the one who had a criminal record for dispersing questionable flyers back when she was a teenager. He had done nothing but fall in love with her.
My mother always suspected that my father had died at the hands of torture. But when a Stasi officer called that autumn afternoon to instruct her to collect the belongings of deceased Number 1024, the officer had cited heart complications as the cause of death. My mother suspected otherwise when they wouldn’t let her see his body. Even at his funeral, Stasi officers patrolled the grounds, apparently to ensure that the casket stayed closed.
“Why would they not let me say a proper goodbye unless they were hiding something?” she used to lament through the thick cigarette smoke that finally claimed her life late last year. She had seemed so relieved when the doctors gave her three months to live.
My memories whirl back to the present moment when the answering machine speaks up again. I didn’t realize the voice was still on the line.
“Oh my god...” the voice whispers, distractedly. The voice must be going through the file. I wonder if there are photographs. When the voice speaks again, it cracks.
“Frau Stein, my name is Anna Weber. I’m Alexander’s mother—”
A body-shuddering sob cuts short the confession. “I lost him the day the wall went up,” she explains through staccato silences, that silent crying perfected by women who have endured a life of heartbreak. “Dear God, my baby...”
“Wait!” I yell, lunging for the phone. “I’m Alexander’s daughter! My name is Anna!” I exclaim into the receiver.
There is only dead air.
At the mention of my mother’s name, I snap to attention.
“My name is Anna. I’m a volunteer from the Ministry for State Security Museum. We work with people who were affected by the Stasi.”
It’s been over 30 years since East Germany’s secret police toyed with my family’s lives like lab rats in a sick human experiment. Despite the decades and the fall of the Berlin Wall, the mention of the Stasi sends my pulse into rapid fire fight-or-flight palpitations.
“I work with the Nuremberg puzzle women,” the voice continues in its perfunctory tone. “The puzzle women piece together the top-secret files that the Stasi shredded before we stormed Leipzig.”
The voice says “we,” as if the woman on the other end were part of the people’s revolution, but the accent gives her away. The voice is from the other side – the west side of the wall – where ich turns to a sharper icke. I snort in involuntary contempt.
“My job is to inform families about files that have been pieced together. Let’s see...” Papers shuffle. The voice hums to indicate a moment of reorganization.
“In your case, Frau Stein, I have a request here to follow up on the file for Alexander Weber—”
The voice halts suddenly. Hesitantly, it resumes, “According to the notes, you were interested in determining the cause of death...”
The ensuing silence is louder than the voice that echoed through my apartment seconds before.
“It says here that Accused Number 1024 died October 24, 1989,” continues the voice. “Cause of death: severe head trauma...”
I knew very little about my father, except that he died in prison just days before the wall came down when I was 3 years old. My mother said the Stasi arrested him on suspicions of subversion. He had been innocent, my mother insisted. She had been the dissident, the one who had a criminal record for dispersing questionable flyers back when she was a teenager. He had done nothing but fall in love with her.
My mother always suspected that my father had died at the hands of torture. But when a Stasi officer called that autumn afternoon to instruct her to collect the belongings of deceased Number 1024, the officer had cited heart complications as the cause of death. My mother suspected otherwise when they wouldn’t let her see his body. Even at his funeral, Stasi officers patrolled the grounds, apparently to ensure that the casket stayed closed.
“Why would they not let me say a proper goodbye unless they were hiding something?” she used to lament through the thick cigarette smoke that finally claimed her life late last year. She had seemed so relieved when the doctors gave her three months to live.
My memories whirl back to the present moment when the answering machine speaks up again. I didn’t realize the voice was still on the line.
“Oh my god...” the voice whispers, distractedly. The voice must be going through the file. I wonder if there are photographs. When the voice speaks again, it cracks.
“Frau Stein, my name is Anna Weber. I’m Alexander’s mother—”
A body-shuddering sob cuts short the confession. “I lost him the day the wall went up,” she explains through staccato silences, that silent crying perfected by women who have endured a life of heartbreak. “Dear God, my baby...”
“Wait!” I yell, lunging for the phone. “I’m Alexander’s daughter! My name is Anna!” I exclaim into the receiver.
There is only dead air.
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