The Wall Crossers

Wed 12 Jan - 10:05am - Jelena Rosser - Olivia's perspective

It is now 10:05. I am still at the airport entrance. I remember that night with Jelena Rosser. That was a very difficult moment in my life.

It was the Tuesday before the Christmas holidays. I am returning to my desk at work after eating lunch alone. Anja is out from work today with some family business for her father, and she will not return until late tonight.

On my desk is a memo of an incoming call, a note taken down by Prasa, and since Prasa is there at her desk close by, she tells me what the memo says before I read it. "A woman named Jelena Rosser called and said to meet her for dinner tonight at 6:30 at the Westhaus Café over in Charlottenburg."

"Was that it?"

"Ja, das ist alles."

I think to myself, Hmmm. Charlottenburg is in the British sector. Yes, Jelena lives over there in a plush neighborhood. Why does she want to meet with me? And of course, on a day when Anja is not available! I wonder if Margot is to be there too? I wonder if they intend to confront me in some way? I am sure Anja does not know about this. I look again at the memo—no phone number. I toss it into the Kanister.

"She did not leave a phone number for me."

"Nein."

I recall the last time I saw Jelena. It was at an informal party she had hosted, and because Anja and I were coming directly from work, we were underdressed. When Jelena walked up to me, she had glasses in her hands for us to take, which we did. She looked me in the eye, and I averted my eyes over to Anja after only three seconds!

After Jelena had walked away, Anja snickered and said, "I told you!"

"Yes," I replied, "I felt her eyes were searching for secrets and I was afraid she might discover something!" Her steel-gray-bluish eyes were certainly unusual, and it was easy to see they had much power behind them.

"Ha ha!", Anja appreciates my fear of Jelena! "She is a mellow kitty, my dear. She is just scary until you know her!"

"Then please help me know her soon, Anja!"

I also recalled that Jelena speaks almost perfect English.

Now, I have gotten off the bus from work and walking through the Andrews compound to my barracks, then up to my room. No one is around. I look at my watch: 5:45pm. I will change clothes and then go to the front gate and wave down a taxi. There is no time for me to figure out bus schedules to the Westhaus Café in Charlottenburg!

I put on the clothes I would wear to work if the Army allowed it: charcoal A-line dress with hem three inches above my knee as a protest supporting Women's' Lib, Army style, light pink button-up collared blouse with long sleeves under that (but not long enough—they ride up with my long arms!), a thin gold chain with an onyx Peace sign pendant, pale peach leggings rather than tights due to cold weather, black lace-up Oxfords with mini-heels and transparent footies, a POW-MIA bracelet dedicated to Sgt Schaefer, lost in Cambodia, fake Onyx earbobs, my leather shoulder strap bag with Revlon and compact and other things... no time for makeup now!

As I stride through the dimly lit barracks, my dress swishing about my knees, my shoes clacking, clutching my burgundy coat closer to shield against the chill, I can sense the thick tension in the air. The walls, steeped in history, seem to whisper secrets of past soldiers, but none of those echoes speak of a journey like mine. As I step into the foyer, a stark contrast to the secluded corridors, it's bustling with life - a throng of GIs congregating, their laughter and banter ricocheting off the high ceilings.

Their eyes, sharp and unyielding, find me instantly. It's a gaze I've come to know all too well, one that strips away my status as not just queer, but also soldier!... and sees only what they want to see. The air shifts, laden with unspoken judgments. Amidst their rugged camaraderie, one of them whistles sharply, a sound that slices through the clamor, aimed deliberately at me. It's a callous, mocking sound, one that I've learned signifies the beginning of something far more demeaning.