Page 33 of Beehive

Where could I hide a centuries-old carving of a Jewish rabbi in postwar Berlin?

The thought was as preposterous as my dilemma. There were no synagogues left. We’d gutted them all.

Then I remembered a flyer some child had tacked to the wooden windows of my shop advertising the reopening of Kulturhistorisches Museum Viktoria, one of the oldest and most prominent galleries in all of Germany. While parts of the museum’s complex were severely damaged during Allied bombings, much of the core structure remained untouched. Soviets, determined to show the world they cared about life beyond shared work and war, had rushed to repair what they could and throw open the doors to one of the German capital’s crown jewels.1

“Would you like to go on display?” I asked the rabbi, smiling at the silliness of me conversing with a statue while hiding from men with rifles.

The rabbi offered no reply.

Kulturhistorisches Museum Viktoria was halfway across the sector. Even the moon remained hidden from the Soviets’ gaze, a thick blanket of clouds barely moving in the pitch-black sky. There was no way I could traverse so many blocks without being noticed by one of the countless patrols. They’d pick me up for defying the curfew without even realizing what treasure I held.

In addition to the “peacekeepers,” as Stalin’s boys liked to be called, I knew another army, far more secret and sinister, sought my capture. How many of them had my physical description? Did they also know of the disguise I’d used over the past year? The false mustache, grayed brows and hair? Fake spectacles above my prosthetic nose and cheeks?

Would I be safer shedding my disguise and risking recognition as a former Nazi intelligencer?

I rarely struggled with decisions, but in that moment, fear seized my chest, and I struggled to answer a single question before a dozen more cropped up.

Voices from beyond the alley, Russian speakers with no worry for how loudly they spoke or how far their words carried, reached my ears. I shrank back, curling into a ball at the far end of the alley, hidden behind a trash bin whose inhabitants skittered at my presence.

A beam of light speared through the darkness, landing a few feet above where I’d ducked. It scanned, lighting one brick, then another, sweeping in lazy arcs until its handler lost interest in the game.

I peeked around the bin to catch four soldiers as they ambled by. One puffed on a cigarette before tossing it halfway down my alley. The angry glow of its butt faded a few heartbeats after it landed.

A jeep rolled by, slow and deliberate.

More evidence of a search in progress.

Or was this typical of the Soviet sector after dark?

I’d lived with their rule for nearly a dozen months, yet my mind could not recall what “normal” meant anymore. There was no such thing as “normal.”

Would there ever be again?

That was my last thought as the stress of the day and lateness of the hour drew me into a fitful, restless sleep.

I woke with a start, my head snapping up from where it had rested against the damp brick wall. My left leg had gone numb, pressed awkwardly beneath me during the hours I’d spent wedged between the wall and bin. Every muscle in my body ached.

I tried to stand, wobbled, and nearly toppled.

My nose wrinkled as I sniffed myself in disgust. Hopefully, the museum staff would care more about my donation than my appearance or aroma.

I sat up, glancing around the alley.

The smells of coal smoke, garbage, and faintly blooming linden trees drifted on the breeze. The air was already warming, the damp chill of the night dissipating into the kind of heat that made people long for shade. East Berlin was awake, shedding the last vestiges of winter, its streets stirring with the rhythms of the day.

I had so little time.

The sight of a checkpoint down the block made me freeze.

Two soldiers stood by a jeep, their conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter. They were young, their uniforms neatly pressed, their rifles slung over their shoulders. The sight of them struck me as obscene, a mockery of the wreckage they had helped inflict.

I adjusted my hat, pulling the brim low over my face, and forced myself to walk past them without breaking stride.

The streets became busier as I made my way toward Alexanderplatz. Late spring had awakened the city in a way that winter never could, and the people of Berlin, starved for light after a year of darkness, clung to the season with a desperation that was almost defiant.

A flower vendor stood on the corner, her table covered in blooms—daisies, marigolds, and pale pink roses. I hesitated for half a heartbeat, caught off guard by the incongruity of such beauty in a city still riddled with scars. The vendor’s smile faltered as she noticed me lingering.

I quickly moved on.

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