Berlin butterfly decepti.., p.1
Berlin Butterfly: Deception (Berlin Butterfly Series Book 2), page 1
BERLIN BUTTERFLY
DECEPTION
BY LEAH MOYES
Copyright © 2018 Leah Moyes
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal. First Printing
ISBN 9781731500663
Edited by Irene Hunt
Cover Design by Allie Hunt
Published by:
SpuCruiser Media
Leahmoyesauthor@gmail.com
Facebook @BerlinButterfly
Twitter @authormoyes
DEDICATION
To my children (and borrowed children)
Taylor for your adventurous spirit and example of strength. Ryan for your boundless heart and honorable service. Harlie for your selfless love and grace. Jace for your influence and willingness to serve. Alex for your testimony and perseverance. Chad for your kindness and wit and Bubba for your eternal smile and positive influence. I could never be prouder or feel more blessed. I love you.
Acknowledgements
There are far too many people to name every single person that played a role in the completion and publication of this second book of the Berlin Butterfly Series, but I am deeply grateful to the many calls, comments, and reviews that have contributed to the success of the series. Thank you.
To my editor Irene Hunt. I don’t have enough room on this page to tell you how I feel. You are amazing! Of course, the words “show don’t tell” will forever be engrained in my head, and I have nightmares over filter words in my sleep, but seriously, I could not have chosen a better person for the daunting task of shaping and shining this diamond. You truly are talented and have a rare gift. Thank you.
To Allie Hunt for your creativity and vision in making Ella’s world come to life on the cover. I am very fortunate to have you as part of my team.
To my husband who continually supports my writing addiction and never hesitates to compliment me and my work to anyone, anytime, anywhere! I love you.
To my second set of eyes, Taylor Moyes. Your belief in me and your love for the story fueled me daily. I could not have done this without you.
To Jennie Durkee, once again your strength and support have helped me become a better person and writer, thank you.
To Melanie Lazcko, as anticipated your German home and culture has helped authenticate the words in the book, Danke!
To those in Berlin Germany who helped make Berlin Butterfly a “factional” experience: Stefan and Marx from the Babylon Theater, the owners and managers of Zur Letzen Instanz Restaurant, and the Berlin Wall Museum for your constant dedication to the memory of the victims from the wall. Please visit their website at https://www.berliner-mauer-gedenkstaette.de/de/
To my advance team who all play different roles in this process. Aside from their constant words of encouragement, they critique, review, read, suggest and reread my work. Thank you Dawne Anderson, Wendy Hargrave, Melisa Harker, Brenda Mayberry, Brian Moyes, Susan Provost, Lani Taunima, Lina Taunima, Nikala Teague and Jody Turpin. I am forever grateful to you for your time, patience, and special friendships!
To the Teotihuacan team at Arizona State University under the direction of Dr. Michael E. Smith and Dr. Angela Huston, thank you for your faith in me as an intern in your department and your constant support and belief in me.
Finally, to the band Skillet. Your talent in music and lyrics was far reaching in my world of writing. Inspired by your words, scenes involving Ella, Stefan, and Anton emerged. Specific songs represented the thoughts and feelings of my fictional characters, bringing them to life in ways that my pen could not reach. Even though you may not know your influence on this story, it has been immeasurable. Thank you.
Prologue
Berlin, 1966. Separation of the two countries of East and West Germany endures as the Cold War enters its nineteenth year. Tensions continue to rise in the Soviet sector with Communist control, shrewd espionage, and clear deficiencies of rights, freedoms, and choice for the people of the Deutche Democratic Republic. Friends, family, and neighbors no longer trust each other as Stasi detainments and unaccountable disappearances threaten daily life. The wall itself has become nearly impenetrable with double partitions enclosing a death strip filled with razor wire, spike mats, tank traps, motion detectors, and soldiers ordered to shoot on sight. Despite the risk, East Berliners continually test ways to escape to the West.
Twenty-year-old Ella Kühn, in five short years since the rise of the Berlin Wall, has experienced more than her fair share of incomprehensible pain and heartache. The separation of her brother Josef and only friend Anton to the West, burying her father, the disappearance and death of friends, fear, torture, and loss—culminating in the forced departure of her love into military service. Stefan’s ten-year sentence with the Nationale Volksarmee came after his protective efforts to keep Ella from the clutches of a colonel with malicious intent turned fatal.
With Ella’s own failed attempts at freedom, the survivor’s guilt she bears is a foremost burden on her mind as the victim toll continues to escalate around her. Only Stefan’s love, his promise to return, and the belief that someday she will be reunited with her family keep her alive.
one
WHY PETER?
March 1966
The crisp, scented leaves of Buschwindröschen, intertwined with the fragrant yellow buds of the Scharbockskraut bush, scarcely masked the rotten smell of foul feces from the nearby duck pond. While my legs met some relief stretched into a thicket of long grass, the ground beneath my chest remained firm and cold. The dense hedges overhead provided decent coverage against a shroud of darkness as I scooted painstakingly forward on my elbows. My slow and tedious combat crawl had progressed very few inches within the hour.
My companion’s patience grew thin. I held my breath as a bright light flashed across the Wedge Bridge. Our bodies remained still as the powerful beam lingered on Sorgenfrei garden before finally moving on to the canal. The darkness gave us a few precious seconds. I glanced at Peter who returned the look. His smile arched candidly, similar to the day we met.
“Ella, come.” His hasty whisper came as he eagerly hopped to all four limbs and scampered closer to the wire. My throat constricted, unable to eject a response. He was moving too fast, too confident . . . my heart raced with fear when the shouting began. I could no longer see his silhouette in the shadow of the new moon.
Gunshots pierced the silence. Ducks squawked in panicked flight, flapping louder than the cries—cries from an unknown origin. They could have been my own. By the time I reached Peter, he hung lifeless. His back pressed weightily against the razor-sharp points of barbed wire. Thick, dark blood pooled beneath him. His mouth, that moments ago curved upward, now gaped open. Scrambling for composure, my trembling fingers tugged until the wire released him. His immortalized expression stared back at me while I cradled him in my lap.
“Nein, bitte nein!” Dissenting screams shook my core as another round of bullets penetrated the cold night air.
My eyes burst open as my hands frantically patted my body in search of wounds or blood. Wisps of heavy breathing expelled with every move; I could hear the thump of my heartbeat. A heartbeat . . . my heart is still beating.
I glanced around. Familiar objects greeted me—Stefan’s painting of Cochem hung on the wall, Mama G’s padded chair in the corner with the bookshelf above, the worn pages of my favorite book Immensee spotted next to a stack of undelivered letters.
Muffled sobs of relief came swiftly as I fell flat on my back. With my legs pulled tightly to my torso, I curled like a baby. The dream seemed so real . . . frighteningly real. Sweat, mixed with tears, dripped down my face. The emotions were conflicting—loss and pain, yet somehow that sorrow became fused with gratitude. I hadn’t been shot trying to escape East Berlin nor had I held a dying Peter in my arms.
The unforgiving surface felt icy beneath me. Winter lingered in the walls of this old apartment building despite March being the doorway to spring. The dust-covered radiator in the corner offered no relief. I shivered. My cheek momentarily rested against the wood slats before I realized I no longer lay comfortably in my bed, but below it. When did I fall?
A bluish light appeared through the small window above as the darkness started to dissipate. A man’s voice, coming from the antiquated radio on my night table, interrupted my confusion. I must have forgotten to turn it off before I fell asleep.
Nachrichten für heute!
As the newsperson spoke, a recollection of the previous night’s bulletin resurfaced. My heart sank. Tears welled up once again remembering the report’s details of yet another violent, incomprehensible murder at the wall.
19 Mar 1966 Berlin-Treptow
Two children shot dead by machine pistols used by People’s Police near the Planterwald S-Bahn border. Ten-year-old Jörg Hartman and thirteen-year-old Lothar Schleusner, both residents of Friedrichshain. Full denial by Communist Party Security Division and Defense Council Leader Erich Honecker—
Silencing the radio, my legs mustered the strength to stand despite the weakness in my knees. As I hovered over the kitchen sink, the imagined faces of those frightened children filled my mind. Snatching a handkerchief from the rack, I moistened it to cool my heated face then paced the room anxiously. The newspaper, spread open at the foot of my bed, drew my attention even though I had read it multiple times the day before.
“Der Stolz Deutschlands”
German military pride occupied the print. Page after page was lined with pictures of soldiers in uniform both home and abroad. I scanned them repeatedly. Endless stories of the Nationale Volksarmee and their country-wide accomplishments appeared, yet—despite my daily hunt—I had yet to find any news or photo of my beloved Stefan.
As I dressed for the day, I reflected on the nightmare. Why Peter? Why now? Our meeting nearly four years ago in the pub had been so brief. I barely knew him before he was killed at the wall; and as disturbing as those images were, the ones of me vividly at his side trying to escape were nearly as devastating. I promised Stefan I wouldn’t leave. Getting to Anton and Josef in the West had been something I had tried before—before committing myself and my heart to Stefan at the train station where his ten-year sentence began.
I grabbed a paper and pencil, my only solace during times like this—the tragic death of the two small children, the nightmare, and my excruciating loneliness.
My dearest love,20 Mar 1966
I paused. Sharing this sadness would only make his heart heavy—no, I must keep my correspondence positive, even though he may never see it.
I hope when you read this letter you keep it close to your heart, and if there is ever an ounce of doubt in your mind, read it again and again.
I LOVE YOU STEFAN! I will wait an eternity for you if I must.
I miss you. I miss seeing your face, your smile, the way you look at me, our first dance, the art room, our moments alone. I have tried to walk through Volkspark and the butterfly path without you, but it’s too difficult. Everything I see is a reminder of us and our past.
I often think about that night. If you hadn’t come and risked your life and freedom to save me from the colonel, I would not be here. I owe everything to you and waiting for your release is a small sacrifice in comparison.
When that day comes and your requirement is complete and your sentence served, I will be the happiest woman in Berlin. We are meant to be together.
I hope you are healthy and safe. Not a day goes by, I don’t think of you. I see your face when I go to sleep, and it’s the first thought when I wake up. I will wait for you. I’ll be here when you come home.
All my love, Ella
I set it down on top of the pile of letters that had been written over the last thirty-three months, none of which I could send, not knowing where he was or where they could be delivered. On her visits home, Katharina made multiple requests to the liaison staff at the NVA main headquarters for an address but was told his specific regiment was mobile. Writing was the only way to express my feelings for him, and somehow seeing those words on paper strengthened my belief that he was mine. Someday, when we were together again, I would be able to give them all to him, and he might see how much he meant to me, even in his absence.
I warmed a cup of tea and went to the window, a daily routine: watching the sun rising above the concrete rubble that used to resemble a church, children excitedly bouncing hand in hand with a parent on their way to kinder school, Herr Köhler across the way sweeping the walk in front of his Brezel shop—meticulously clean, people would come from all over the city for his pretzels.
Wait. Max-Beer was filled with people, more than I had ever seen before. Suddenly, I realized what the dream had tried to force me to forget. My mug nearly crashed to the floor as I sprinted to the mirror. The small number in the corner that counted down Stefan’s return remained in the thousands, but in larger characters, written in bright red wax was today’s date—Sunday, 20 March—with the word PARADE boldly circled. It was the day I had been waiting for since the announcement was made. Nothing, not even a horrible nightmare, could keep me from getting to downtown Mitte this morning. Grabbing Mama’s sweater, I fled out the door.
Two
KARL MARX ALLEE
“Come on, Lena!” my cries amplified as she stepped off the bus, “I don’t want to be late!”
“There are thousands of soldiers, Ella. How are you going to be able to pick him out?”
“I don’t know. I just have to!” Grabbing her hand, we raced through the crowd to find a higher perch that faced the boulevard. After an anxious step onto a bench, I pulled Lena up next to me. The moment I caught sight of the neatly-formed ranks of soldiers, I had to remind myself to breathe. He was out there somewhere. The mere thought of Stefan being in the same vicinity caused my heart to flutter with anticipation.
Despite the time that had passed since we said goodbye at the train station nearly three years ago, he was my every thought. Reflection of his face, his voice, and his touch made me blush as though it were yesterday.
Scanning row by row, the soldiers marched in perfect alignment. Even though I knew it would be nearly impossible to see him, I still had to try. Many young women in similar circumstances joined me. It was if we were part of a strange, exclusive club—one I would rather not be a member of.
Celebrating the tenth anniversary of the creation of the National Volksarmee, the parade brought all the military units not detained back to Berlin. There hadn’t been a parade of this size marching down Karl Marx Allee since Hitler was in power—of course back then, the same boulevard was known as Stalinallee and served der Führer for a very different purpose. This overwhelming display brought every possible citizen living in the Soviet sector to the streets, and this was the happiest I had seen the people in years.
The legions marched briskly and in full precision. They were all nearly identical with their gray parade dress tunic, black or silver belt depending on rank, matching-color gumdrop helmet, black riding boots, and the ceremonial dagger or saber at their side. Their meticulous, stiff steps appeared as though they were wind-up toys focused in one direction and not distracted by the large assembly in the least.
As the end of the soldiers came in sight and the rows of tanks began, my face caved in disappointment. I knew it was an unrealistic wish, given the size of the ranks and the indistinguishable physiques. However, the moment the parade announcement had been made, it was all I could think about. A glimpse of his face, brief as it would be, could carry me for another three years.
My thoughts went to the platform of the Friedrichstraße station where I said goodbye to Stefan. It was at that moment I vowed to give my whole love and affection to him, promising to wait as long as necessary regardless of his duty, his family, or anything else that would stand in our way. He sacrificed everything to save me; owing Stefan my life and my future, I was his and I was sure of it . . . until a letter arrived last autumn and then doubt seized a small portion of my heart.
Dearest Ella,25 August 1965
This is a very hard letter for me to write. Two of my comrades were killed by undetected landmines in an area close to the southern border. I cannot tell you specifics since this letter can be compromised, but my heart is heavy.
Jonathan had a wife and two children and was only twenty-eight years old. Philip wasn’t married and was so young, only nineteen, and had been assigned to our company barely two months ago. I wasn’t far from these men and received some shrapnel in my upper torso and down my leg. I’m fine, but Ella, I should’ve been killed. It was by pure circumstance I was behind them. I got a piece of loose barbed wire wrapped around my boot as we were scouting, and I stopped to untangle it. Because of this momentary delay, my life was spared. I cannot stop thinking about why it wasn’t me. Why was I randomly chosen to survive?
