Forget-Me-Not Behind the Wall
- 4 days ago
- 7 min read
Victorian Floriography
Forget-me-not
Myosotis
Meaning:
True love, respect, fidelity, and devotion
Denver, Colorado
Present-day
Margaret Abernathy found the journal six months after Robert died. She’d been cleaning out his study—finally ready to face the task—when the leather-bound book tumbled from between two volumes of poetry on his bookshelf. It wasn’t the journal itself that surprised her; Robert had always been a writer. It was what fell from between its pages: a small bundle of pressed forget-me-nots, tied with a faded blue ribbon.
“Oh, Robert,” she whispered, fingering the delicate dried flowers. In thirty-two years of marriage, she’d never seen them before.
Margaret taught eighth-grade English at Meadowbrook Middle School, where she was known for her ability to coax stories from reluctant students. “Everyone has a story,” she would tell them. “Sometimes they just need help finding the words.” Yet somehow, she’d missed a chapter in her own husband’s story.
She settled into his worn leather chair and opened the journal. Robert’s familiar handwriting flowed across the pages, but the dates made her pause. 1965-1967. Before they’d met. Robert rarely spoke of those years.
*June 12, 1965 – Arrived in Dresden today. The exchange program seems promising, though the tension between East and West is palpable even in academic circles. My German is adequate but clumsy. I fear I’ll spend more time translating than researching.*
Margaret read on, following Robert’s experiences as a young American scholar in East Germany during the Cold War. His voice on the page was different—younger, more passionate, less guarded than the professor of literature she’d married.
Then a name appeared that she’d never heard before.
*September 4, 1965 – Elise played Bach today in the university hall. Her fingers moved across the keys like she was born speaking this language of sound. When she plays, the world behind the Wall seems to disappear. She caught me watching and smiled. I fumbled for words in German, and she answered in perfect English. “Music needs no translation,” she said.*
Margaret’s breath caught. She flipped forward, watching as Robert’s entries increasingly centered around this woman, Elise Brenner, a music student at the university.
*December 18, 1965 – Snow blankets the city, transforming the war-scarred buildings. Elise showed me the hidden Dresden today—places tourists never see. We stood on the bank of the Elbe as the sun set, and she told me about her family’s struggle since the war. Her father disappeared in ’53 during the uprisings. She was only ten. How can she still find beauty in a world that’s taken so much from her?*
*February 3, 1966 – I gave Elise forget-me-nots today. They’re her favorite. She tucked one behind her ear and played Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major. Said it always reminds her of moonlight on water. I wanted to tell her I love her, but the words stuck in my throat. Some truths are too dangerous here.*
Margaret set the journal down, her heart pounding. She’d never known Robert to be secretive. He’d always been open, if somewhat reserved. But this—this was a part of him he’d hidden away completely.
***
The next day, she called in sick to school, something she rarely did. Instead, she drove to the university where Robert had taught for twenty-five years. Professor Jenkins in the History Department had been Robert’s closest colleague.
“Elise Brenner?” Jenkins frowned, adjusting his glasses. “Robert never mentioned her to me. But then, he rarely discussed his time in East Germany.”
“Do you know why he left so suddenly?” Margaret asked.
Jenkins looked uncomfortable. “I assumed it was because of the political situation. 1967 was a tense time. Many Western scholars were leaving.”
Back home, Margaret returned to the journal. The entries grew more passionate, then more anxious.
*May 19, 1966 – Elise and I walked through the Grosser Garten today. She spoke of a future together, perhaps in America after she graduates. I couldn’t bear to tell her how unlikely the authorities would be to let her leave. Instead, I kissed her and promised we’d find a way.*
*August 10, 1966 – Elise’s professor warned her today about associating with Americans. She laughed it off, but I saw fear behind her eyes. We’re being watched. I know it.*
*November 2, 1966 – We meet in secret now. Elise says her neighbor reported her to party officials for “Western sympathies.” Her recital privileges have been revoked. She wept in my arms, not for herself but for the music they’ve taken from her. This is my fault.*
The entries became sporadic, the handwriting more erratic. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the front room as Margaret read. She was still amazed at her husband keeping this from her but not angry.
*January 17, 1967 – Elise didn’t come to our meeting place. Three days now. No one at the university will tell me anything. I went to her apartment. A different family lives there now. It’s as if she never existed.*
*February 20, 1967 – Professor Müller slipped me a note today. It simply said: “She is at St. Georg Hospital.” I went immediately. They wouldn’t let me see her. A nurse took pity and told me Elise had been in an “accident.” Her hands were damaged. God, her hands.*
Margaret wiped tears from her cheeks. The final entries were brief, desperate.
*March 3, 1967 – I’ve been ordered to leave the country within 48 hours. No explanation given. I can’t go without seeing her.*
*March 4, 1967 – I found her. They’re sending her to a “rehabilitation center” near the Polish border. Her spirit is unbroken, but her hands… She can no longer play. She pressed her forget-me-nots into my journal and made me promise to leave. “Take your research, take your freedom, take these memories,” she said. “It’s all we can have now.”*
The journal ended there. Margaret sat in silence as night fell, the pressed flowers on the desk before her. After all these years, she finally understood the melancholy that sometimes overtook Robert when certain pieces of classical music played.
Why he never wanted to visit Germany, despite his scholarly interest. Why, sometimes, she’d catch him staring at nothing, his fingers moving slightly as if tracing piano keys.
***
Two weeks later, Margaret found herself in the Political Archive of the Federal Foreign Office in Berlin. She’d taken a leave of absence from school, booked a flight, and come searching for ghosts.
“Elise Brenner,” the archivist said, scanning her database. “Yes, we have records. She was surveilled as a political dissident beginning in 1966. After hospitalization in 1967, she was sent to Hohenschönhausen for rehabilitation.”
“The Stasi prison,” Margaret said quietly, having done her research.
“Yes. She was released in 1972. After that—” The archivist frowned at her screen. “After that, the records are unclear.”
But Margaret was persistent. Robert had taught her that stories matter, that they must be preserved. She followed paper trails through four cities, interviewed former university staff, and finally, in a small town near Leipzig, found an elderly violin teacher who had known Elise.
“She couldn’t play anymore,” the woman told Margaret. “But she could teach. She taught children here until the Wall fell. Then she moved to Munich, I believe.”
In Munich, Margaret finally found her—Elise Brenner, age 78, living in a modest apartment filled with books and records. Her hands were visibly scarred, but her eyes were sharp and alert.
“You’re Robert’s wife,” she said simply when Margaret introduced herself. No surprise, no anger, just quiet acknowledgment. “I thought you might come.”
“He kept your flowers,” Margaret said. “All these years.”
Elise nodded, gesturing for Margaret to sit. “And I kept his letters. The ones that made it through. Not many did.”
They talked until dawn—two women who had loved the same man in different ways, in different worlds. Elise showed Margaret photographs, programs from concerts she’d performed before her “accident,” letters Robert had sent during their brief time together.
“He never forgot you,” Margaret said, not with jealousy but with understanding as she handed Elise a copy of the journal to keep, her letters to Robert, and the fragile bundle of forget-me-nots.
“Nor I him,” Elise replied, tearful at the gifts from Margaret. “We both made our lives. I don’t regret that he found happiness with you. But…thank you for these. I was sad to read he had passed. I saw it in the university paper,” she admitted.
The two parted as good of friends as they could be in the circumstances and said they’d keep in touch.
When Margaret returned home, she placed Robert’s journal on his desk. Then she opened her laptop and began to write. Not just Robert and Elise’s story, but her own as well—how love doesn’t diminish when shared across time and distance, how understanding someone’s past can deepen rather than threaten the love you shared with them.
She dedicated it to her students, to Robert, to Elise, and to all those whose stories get caught in the crossfire of history—remembered or forgotten, but always worth telling.
Teacake Tidbits
1. Construction of the Berlin Wall (1961):
The Berlin Wall was erected by the German Democratic Republic (East Germany) on August 13, 1961, to stop the mass exodus of East Germans fleeing to the West through Berlin. Before the wall went up, about 3.5 million East Germans had escaped, which deeply embarrassed the East German regime and weakened its economy.
2. Stasi Surveillance State:
East Germany developed one of the most pervasive surveillance networks in the world through the Stasi (Ministry for State Security). In the 1960s, the Stasi expanded its monitoring of citizens, especially targeting those with Western connections, such as students, intellectuals, and artists, leading to widespread fear and control.
3. Restricted Travel and Cultural Isolation:
During the 1960s, East Germans were rarely permitted to travel to the West. Exit visas were difficult to obtain, and any contact with Westerners—like American exchange students—was viewed as suspicious. Cultural exchanges were limited, and Western media was censored, although some East Berliners could still pick up Western broadcasts.
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