Hans Freid
shuffled closer to the checkpoint that barred him from leaving the Soviet
Sector of Berlin. He stood out among the workers streaming to day jobs in the
West. For one thing, he was the only one wearing a homburg hat. Only
professionals wore such hats, and academics like him rarely claimed to have
business with the Americans.
He had even more reason to sweat that warm morning. Inside the hat was a
hand grenade. If the border guard discovered a secret envelope tucked in his
belt, Freid was prepared to blow himself up.
When he finally reached the guard, he swallowed hard and pulled his
identity booklet from his suit coat pocket. The Russian was younger than him,
but he had a rifle over his shoulder. He probably couldn't read German, but
flipped through the pages anyway.
Suddenly the booklet snapped shut and the guard looked him in the eye.
Freid held his breath. The soldier tapped the booklet against his gloved hand.
Freid gulped. A man was nudging him from behind. At last Freid realized that the
soldier was handing the booklet back.
He let out his breath, took the booklet and stumbled into the West. He
would live that day. And he was free. But most importantly, he would be able to
carry out his mission.
He let the sullen crowd carry him onto the modern streets, where the air
smelled sweet. He felt lightheaded.
Half a block into the city and he grew disoriented. Was he just too
giddy? He had lived there as a child. That was before the war, fifteen years
ago. The buildings he remembered must have been destroyed by bombs and hauled
away.
"Bitte?" Please? He got
the attention of a stranger. "Where is the American Consulate?"
The burly man turned. He was a street sweeper for the Americans, an
enviable job for any German. The man pointed to a bend in the road where others
were headed. "It's on Clayallee."
Even the street names had changed.
Freid tipped his hat, and the grenade rolled forward. He flinched and
caught it with his free hand. His blood froze, but the thing didn't explode.
The sweeper gawked at him. This was awkward.
Freid attempted a smile. "Would you dispose of this for me?"
The fellow grabbed the grenade and studied it with an experienced eye.
Freid's hopes sank. He had escaped the Soviets, only to fall in the hands of
the Americans.
The man turned the grenade over to read its label. The lettering was in
Cyrillic. His eyes flashed up to Freid.
All he could do was stand there fingering his hat.
At last the guy grunted and tossed
the grenade into a trash bin. It landed with a dull thud.
"Russian-made," Freid
said. "Worthless."
He donned his hat and hurried away
before his fellow countryman thought better of it and turned him in.
It was ten a.m. when he found the
U.S. Mission in Berlin. How much longer would his luck hold out? He straightened
his tie and tried to tidy his wrinkled suit, then gave up and entered.
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