The Cold, Empty Room

The following is an excerpt from Gyeosunim, the sequel to my novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary. As I mentioned in a previous post, the sequel will move through different periods in time: 1988, 1998 to 1999, and 2019.

This excerpt is liable to change or may be removed from the final manuscript.


The loneliness seemed endless but was finally broken by the loud rattle at the door and a man entering the holding cell. An armed guard was with him but stayed outside as the door closed and locked again.

The man was in his fifties. Tall and thin, but fit. He had a full head of hair, though cropped short and showing the early signs of greying. He wore a uniform that looked neither like the police or military. It displayed no badge, no name, no medals. Nothing gave away his rank, if any. In his hands, he held a dossier. It wasn’t thick with papers, not that I would expect many files, if any, of me. I was a nobody: my passport said I was Canadian and nothing about me said that I was anything other than a tourist.

The man stood behind his chair for many minutes. He opened the file folder and had it tilted toward him, so that I couldn’t see what he was looking at. I could make out that some of the contents were 8-by-10 sheets of photographic paper, and he was closely examining each one. Every once and awhile, his eyes would lift from the dossier and meet mine. He would hold his emotionless stare for several seconds before returning his gaze to the photos in front of him.

“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” Charles had said to me this morning. “Do not look agitated. Remain calm.”

It was easy for Charles to say. He wasn’t the one who was trapped in this holding cell. He didn’t have this icy man standing before him. I broke the silence. “Why am I here?”

Nothing. Not a word, nor a gesture.

“What have I done?”

Nothing.

“Why did those men come after me?”

The man turned another photograph over in the dossier, his focus on it like it was the only thing worth attention in this room.

“I’m a Canadian citizen. I’ve done nothing wrong.” I had buried my Scottish brogue, letting my Canadian accent push through.

The man did not look up from the papers.

I fell silent again, my eyes locked on his face. I focused on my breathing, making sure it was slow and steady. I would say nothing more, make no other moves beyond inhaling and exhaling.

Through the door, I could hear boots marching in unison. There were at least two pairs of feet, but it was impossible to count any more. The sound grew as the soldiers approached the door but then the sound diminished as they continued past and faded away. Somewhere, a heavy door opened and closed with a sudden, terminal boom.

Silence, once again, broken only by the shifting of paper.

“Is this your first time in Berlin, Mr. Townsend?” the icy man finally said, the words leaving his mouth so suddenly, without an obvious intake of air, that he startled me. I kept my calm expression, focused on my breathing. It was my turn to stay silent.

Townsend was the name on the passport: Gregory Michael Townsend, born in Niagara Falls, Ontario.

“You see, our records show that you entered East Berlin today, through Friedrichstrasse Station, for the first time ever.” He revealed one of the glossy, black-and-white photos. There was no mistaking my face, wearing the clothes that were currently on me. “But the problem is, there is a person by the name of Alexander James Carson, born in England, who crossed into our fair city, on foot, through Checkpoint Charlie, a mere two days ago.” He produced the photo that showed me, dressed differently, passing through the customs inspection post. My hair was tousled and I had four days of facial growth, the circular-framed glasses that were plain glass trying to alter the shape of my face. A padded t-shirt, under the buttoned shirt, added about 10 kilos to my stomach. It wasn’t the best disguise but it offered a shadow of doubt.

Two days ago, I entered East Berlin with a British passport. I walked through Checkpoint Charlie and followed Friedrichstrasse up to Unter den Linden, then turned left and followed the boulevard as close as I could get to the Brandenberg Gate. I shot some photos and then made my way back, stopping along Unter den Linden at an ice cream stand for a flavourless, vanilla cone, and then back through Checkpoint Charlie.

Today, Charles had been with me, though no one would know that to see us. I had jumped on the S-bahn train at the Charlottenburg station; Charles, at the Bahnhof Zoo. We had never made eye contact: he stood on the train, facing the left-hand side of the train car. I sat on a bench on the right-hand side of the train, three rows back. I watched directly ahead of me but could see him in my peripheral. My instructions were to count the stops, to make the first move to get off at Friedrichstrasse but not to get ahead of him. Charles would depart the train ahead of me. Though I had never crossed the border before, I was to act like I had done it several times before. Just follow Charles, do what he does, but don’t stay so close, don’t look like I was following him.

Once past the checkpoint, I was to walk out the front doors to the station and onto Friedrichstrasse, where I would hail a taxi and speak only three words to the driver: “Alexanderplatz, bitte.” World Clock, Alexanderplatz, please. I was instructed to not follow Charles, nor watch him walk out the back doors, onto Georgenstrasse, where he would hail his own cab with similar instructions to the same destination. Charles, however, spoke perfect German and would, no doubt, strike up a conversation with his driver.

The ride was short, passing the Berlin Cathedral along Unter den Linden, over the Spree River, and past the radio and television tower, Fernsehturm, where we made a turn around the Alexanderplatz U-bahn station and came to a stop a short distance from the World Clock but with it well in sight.
I paid my driver in tiny paper notes and got out of the taxi. That’s when I saw the first man, dressed like me. In identical shirt, pants, shoes, and jacket.

I looked at the photos that were held in front of me. I leaned forward and focused on the disguised version of myself. “You think that’s me?’ I said to my interrogator. I looked down at my flattened, natural stomach, and added, “Kind of fat, isn’t he?”

The man returned the photos to the dossier, and pulled out another. This one was even more recent, of me standing near the Weltzeituhr, snapping photographs. No doubt, my Minolta was now in his possession, his subordinates processing the film. “This is you,” he said, dryly. “Who are the others?”

“What others? I was alone.” I knew what was coming next but knew to keep to my story.

Another photo was held in front of me. It was of a man, in his thirties, dressed identically to me. The photo was held for only a few seconds before it was returned and another photo was shown to me. Another man, wearing the same clothes. Another photo, another man: same outfit. And another. And another.

A sixth man was shown, and I recognized him as the man I saw as I exited the taxi. I remained expressionless as all the others that were shown to me. I shifted my eyes to my interrogator, who was staring into my eyes, looking for something that would betray me. I wasn’t going to give him anything.

“How do you explain this?” he asked.

“I don’t have to,” I said. “I don’t know these men.”

“You just happened to arrive within a block of each other, at the same time, dressed the same?”

“What can I say? There was a sale at Marks and Spencer.”

This time, his eyes betrayed him. I could see the rage building up in him. He took a slow, deep breath to maintain control. He placed the photo in the folder and drew another one. A man, in his mid to late fifties, his hair a thin white and the pale skin on his face shrunken, as though he was ill. He was outside the Alexanderplatz Station, walking along Dirksenstrasse. Walking a few feet to the side of him but not looking like they were together was Charles. This man, once again, was dressed like me and the others. In the background of the photo, walking about 10 feet or more behind, was one of the other men I had been shown. With the camera’s short depth of field, this man was out of focus but there was no mistaking the outfit.

“Do you know either of these men?”

My eyes turned up from the photo and met his. “No.” I sat back in my chair and stared straight ahead, my gaze looking through my interrogator. I had already betrayed my training in speaking in the first place. Maybe that was a good thing. If I truly was a Canadian tourist who was picked up and held in a cell, would I remain quiet? I took a deep breath and let my lower lip tremble. I did it as an act, but deep down, I was afraid. “You can’t keep me like this. I’m a Canadian citizen. I have rights. I want a lawyer.”

The man closed the dossier and smiled, his eyes maintaining their icy coldness. He then turned on his heels and went to the door. Two quick knocks and the door was opened. Before he stepped through, he said, without looking back, “This is East Germany, Herr Axam. Here, you have no rights.”

The door echoed as it closed me in the cold, empty room.