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Published by mrsrochlitz, 2021-09-12 16:05:18

A Night Divided

Jennifer A. Nielson

through the tunnel. He couldn’t use his injured leg at all, and whenever we
moved too fast or it bumped against a rock, he grunted with pain and clutched
my shoulder so tight that we both nearly collapsed. Still, we kept going
forward. I had the strength to support him, but not the height, and he had to
lean over too far. Papa would’ve done better. Where was he? What about
Müller? What were they waiting for?

After several meters, more gunfire echoed in the tunnel. With a strange
cracking sound, the bridge between our two tunnels collapsed. That’s what
Papa was doing, then. Shots still rang, but they wouldn’t pass through the
dirt. The Grenzers were trapped behind us. But a lot of tunnel remained
ahead.

In the dim light, I could see where Papa had put in supports to hold up the
dirt roof, but they weren’t as strong as Fritz’s bricks, and dirt rained down on
us, some of it in large chunks that signaled a bigger collapse was coming.
Suddenly, several meters ahead, shovels pounded in the ground. Their crunch
and plunking sounds were all too familiar to me now. Maybe we’d left
officers behind in the tunnel, but more of them were in the Death Strip
directly above us. The layers of dirt to the surface weren’t nearly thick
enough to hold them out for long.

I wondered where the outer wall was, when we would pass beneath it.
Wherever it was, I knew we hadn’t crossed it yet. Not with the length of
tunnel still remaining.

“Agh!” Fritz’s leg bumped into some protruding rock and his hand
pinched my shoulder so tight that I wanted to cry out too.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.
“I’m slowing you down.” Fritz leaned heavier on me and swayed as if he
was dizzy. “Leave me here.”
“That’s the dumbest idea you’ve ever had,” I told him. “Stay with me,
Fritz. We’re going to make it.”
Then Papa and Officer Müller ran up behind us. Papa picked up Fritz in
his arms, drawing strength I never imagined he had to run with a body nearly
as large as his own. And Müller grabbed my hand to pull me along with him.
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I yanked it free and dug my feet into the ground. Maybe he was on our side,
but just barely. My family had taken all the risks to get us this far, while he
had stayed in the safe zone just in case things turned bad. I didn’t want his
help now and certainly didn’t need it.

But Müller didn’t seem to care. He grabbed my arm again and this time
his grip had no forgiveness. I would run at his side or get dragged behind
him.

Papa and Fritz weren’t far ahead of us, but they rounded a short bend out
of our sight and I held my breath. Müller probably didn’t think of himself as
a Grenzer anymore, but I still did.

Then right above our heads, one of the holes being dug crashed through
from the surface. Dirt cascaded over us, and a large rock fell at my feet,
momentarily forcing Müller and me back. I looked up, expecting to see
starlight, but saw only shadows of several Grenzers standing over the hole.
There were foul curses and orders being shouted to widen the hole, but
Müller steered me around the rock so we could keep running. Then a hand
reached down into the tunnel with a gun at the end of it. It aimed directly at
me, so that even in this dim light I thought I could see directly down the
barrel. I froze, as if every part of me had just turned to ice.

All that remained was for someone to order him to fire.

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All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin. I take pride in
saying, “Ich bin ein Berliner!”
— John F. Kennedy, US President, 1963

Müller gave me a hard shove, forcing me toward the bend, then turned back

and reached for the gun, evidently hoping to grab it before any damage was
done. I rounded the bend in time to hear the echo of gunshots inside the
tunnel and a body’s collapse onto the ground.

I wanted to keep running; I couldn’t be more than a minute away from
safety. But I also couldn’t ignore that Müller had just saved my life, putting
himself between the gun and me. I had to help him.

I crept back to the bend. The hand with the gun was gone, but shovels
were digging back into the dirt, widening the hole. Müller was on the ground
directly below them. There was enough moonlight now that I could see the
blood on his chest.

Only a few nights ago, I had grabbed a heavy door and dragged it beneath
the eyes of the watchtower. This wasn’t much different. The same eyes were

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above me now, and I had escaped their guns once before.
I pried my arms beneath Müller’s shoulders and locked my hands

together across his chest. I felt his blood there, warm and sticky, and it took
all my courage to stay with him. Then I heaved a deep breath and dragged
him, so slowly that I wasn’t sure if I was moving at all. Dirt rained down over
us as the gap widened. It wouldn’t be much longer before it was wide enough
for an entire body to fit through, or before they weakened the roof and
collapsed the tunnel. I wasn’t sure which would be worse.

Müller mumbled something to me about letting him go, but I ignored him
and kept dragging.

“I’m sorry,” I told him as we went. “I wouldn’t trust you and I’m sorry
about that. You saved my life.”

“Get my wife to freedom,” he mumbled. “My son.”
He was heavier than the door, but I knew I was strong enough. We
rounded the bend with his boots dragging along the tunnel floor, slowing me
down. Worse still was that Müller’s body was steadily becoming heavier.
Both his arms had fallen into the dirt and his head was slumped off to one
side. I couldn’t explain why, it just was.
“Gerta, set him down.”
I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder and looked up to face him. “I
can’t. He’s hurt.”
Papa pressed between me and Officer Müller, removing my arms and
gently laying him on the ground. “He’s not hurting anymore.”
Oh.
I backed against the dirt while my father felt for a pulse at the base of
Müller’s neck. He turned to me and shook his head.
“I was wrong about him.” That was all I could say, and it didn’t seem like
nearly enough.
Papa took my hand. “Let’s go, Gerta.”
I started to protest, but we heard orders aboveground for a man to be
lowered into our tunnel. Wordlessly, I let my father lead me away.
The officer who had dropped into the tunnel behind us ordered us to halt,
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but by that time, we were too far away for his gun to be fired at the right
angle. And then, suddenly, he stopped calling for us and I knew why. Just
ahead of us in the dirt, Papa had stuck the striped flag of West Germany as a
place marker. After three more steps, we passed beneath the Berlin Wall. We
might not be out of the tunnel, but we were in the west.

We were in the west.
I could scarcely believe it. I felt like I was moving in a dream, one I
hoped would never end.
Only a few meters ahead, I saw the end of the tunnel. I first mistook the
dim light for sunrise and then realized it was a nearby streetlight. A single
star in a sea of darkness.
I emerged from the tunnel in a small graveyard, blocked from the
watchtower’s view by the caretaker’s shop. And from a hole disguised as a
grave, I rose up to greet the coming morning. West German soldiers were
here with their weapons drawn, making it clear that the Grenzers had missed
their chance at us. They would not be allowed to step even a single toe into
this half of the city.
I filled my lungs with the fresh air, too exhausted to even sit down.
Papa squeezed my shoulder and then went over to talk to Frau Müller. I
couldn’t hear what they said but I did see her tears as she cradled her baby
close to her. Anna’s parents went over to help comfort her.
From there, my eyes drifted to the Berlin Wall, the side of it we had never
seen before in the east. It was covered in graffiti and signs protesting its very
existence. The sight of it startled me, that people would dare to express
themselves so boldly, so publicly. Beside me, Dominic leaned his elbow on
my shoulder. “There’s a lot more that you’ll have to get used to,” he said.
“I look forward to it,” I mumbled, then jabbed him in the side, the first
time in four years I’d been able to tease him back.
Mama hugged me and then we all walked over to Fritz, who was being
cared for by one of the West German officers. The smile on his face was so
wide that nobody would’ve suspected the injury to his leg.
“You did the impossible,” Mama said, cradling each of our faces with her
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hands one at a time. “I could only sit back and hope. But you three children
made it happen.”

I hugged Anna next. “I can’t believe you came,” I said to her.
“You made me think about Peter, about what he would want us to do.”
Then her smile fell. “But I’m sorry about one thing. I promised you that I
wouldn’t tell anyone about the tunnel until tomorrow. I didn’t even get
halfway home before I knew I’d be breaking that promise with my parents.”
I only hugged her even tighter. “You can break those kinds of promises to
me any time you want!”
My father was there to hug me last of all. I had never seen him weep
before, but now his tears flowed freely and he smiled through them. He held
me back so he could look at me better and brushed his hand over my hair and
across my shoulders. I knew how I must’ve looked: filthy, bone-tired, and
even bloodstained, but he only gazed at me like he might look upon an angel.
“My precious daughter,” he said. “So brave. So bold.”
“Officer Müller’s family —”
“They are part of our family now.” He looked at all of us, then back to
me. “How should we celebrate our freedom?”
I smiled back at him. “Maybe we could all sleep for a few hours,” I said.
“And then I thought we’d go to the market together, to get something to eat.”
He chuckled. “And what might you want from the market?”
“A banana.” I’d been planning to ask for one since the first day of
digging.
He hugged me again. “You shall have one today.”
Only a few short hours later, I felt sunlight on my face. The sun never
rises in the west, but that day it did. For me, and for my family, the long, dark
night was over.

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There was nothing logical about my decision to write this book. The timing

was too tight, I was already contracted for a different trilogy, and, as was
pointed out to me more than once, I wasn’t a historical writer.

But Gerta was insistent, constantly interrupting my thoughts the way I’m
sure she often pestered her family. Eventually, I gave in and wrote the first
few words, which led to a story that refused to let me go. Although I didn’t
know if I could do Gerta justice, I was determined to try.

This could not have been written without the support of my family. While
I holed up in a quiet room to complete this project, they assured me that clean
laundry was a bonus rather than a necessity, and that they were perfectly
good cooks (or better, as it turned out). They are a finer family than I deserve.
Most of all, I am grateful to my husband, Jeff, who is unfailingly good to me.
I cannot imagine a day without him.

Warmest thanks to those whose input and advice came at the most crucial
times: especially my agent of awesomeness, Ammi-Joan Paquette, and my
friends and fellow authors, Joanne Levy and Lisa McMann.

I am eternally grateful to the Scholastic family. It is their combined
expertise and brilliance that sends this book out into the world.

Speaking of brilliance, thanks also to my editor, Lisa Sandell. It is the
highest privilege to work with her, and with every book, I continue to learn
from her wisdom. (If anyone wants a laugh, ask her what else she was doing
the day this project went to acquisitions.)

Finally, my thanks to Dr. Cristina Cuevas-Wolf, Manager of the
Collections Department at the Wende Museum in Culver City, California.
With her help and expertise, I was able to see firsthand the objects and

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images of Cold War East Germany, of daily life behind the wall, and the
invasive reach of the Stasi into its citizens’ lives. I learned so much more
there than I could have anticipated. Any factual errors in these pages are
mine.

Above all, with this book, I send my respect and honor to the people of
Germany. Ich bin ein Berliner!

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Turn the page for a sneak peek at The Scourge by Jennifer A. Nielsen!
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Few things were worth the risk to my life, but the juicy vinefruit was one of

them. Even more so today because I was long past hungry. If I didn’t eat
something soon, my life was in danger anyway.

Not immediate danger. Mama had poor man’s bread at home and, indeed,
was expecting me back soon for supper. But I couldn’t stand the thought of
gnawing on those thick crusts for yet another meal. Especially not now, not
after spotting a vinefruit this close, in perfect ripeness.

Getting it would be simple.
Well, not simple in the traditional definition of the word. But simple,
meaning that I intended to get that fruit if it was the last thing I ever did.
It required a climb up a tall tree with thorns that tore at the only good
dress I still owned. I also had to avoid the sticky vines that loved to tangle my
arms and legs, leaving behind a terrible rash wherever they touched skin. So
far, so good. All I had left was to shinny across a thin branch, avoiding the
hecklebird that nested there. Hecklebirds were mean, with long narrow beaks
that pecked mercilessly at whoever disturbed their eggs. Well, I didn’t want
the eggs; they were disgusting anyway. I only wanted the vinefruit next to the

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nest.
So out onto the limb I went, patiently inching my way forward, listening

for the hecklebird’s ugly caw. I got about halfway out and then heard a crack.
The limb snapped in half, and I clawed for anything that could keep me

from falling. My hand found the vinefruit, which actually might’ve helped
save me if it had not been so perfectly ripe. Instead, it came with me as I fell.

I went down headfirst, crashing into another hecklebird nest, which sent a
particularly foul-smelling bird fluttering into the air in anger. It’d be back.
Then a vine caught my leg in a tangle, leaving me suspended in midair about
twelve feet above the ground.

I caught a yelp in my throat, reminding myself I was not the type of girl
who panicked over ordinary near-death experiences. I was, however, a girl
whose heart was racing far too quickly. I needed to breathe, to think. But
mostly, I needed to not fall any farther.

Granted, this had not turned out as well as I’d hoped. But my best friend,
Weevil, had said he’d meet me here today. If necessary, he could help. It
wouldn’t be his first time saving me from my own stupidity. This wasn’t
even the worst mess he’d have caught me in.

Blood rushed into my head, and everything around me turned upside
down. My skirts threatened to tumble over my head as well until I bunched
them between my knees. At least I still had the vinefruit. I had originally
intended to bring it home whole to my parents, but it had crushed in my hand
and would never last. Thick red juice ran in lines up my arm. Better that I eat
the vinefruit alone than let it go to waste.

That’s what I told myself to pretend I wasn’t being selfish. I knew my
parents were every bit as hungry as I was. But I’d have to drop the vinefruit
before unwrapping my leg from the vine, and that’d ruin it.

The longer the vine stayed on my skin, the worse the rash would be, but I
didn’t care. My hunger now was worse than a little itching later. Despite the
awkward angle, I ate the fruit, trying not to let the red juice stain my mouth
the way it had stained my arm.

I finished the fruit, letting the pit fall somewhere into the underbrush,
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when I heard the crunch of leaves beneath me. I swung my body around,
expecting my friend. Then I immediately went still.

“It figures we have to come get the grubs,” one man said. “There’re men
younger than us who should be doing this work.”

These were wardens. Their cocked woolen hats gave them away. I prayed
they wouldn’t look up and see me. The wardens and my people weren’t
exactly friends.

“Grubs” was a reference to those of us who lived up in the river country
of Keldan. The term wasn’t much worse than our description of the townsfolk
below as “pinchworms,” but they started the name-calling first, so we felt
justified. Besides, pinchworms were known to eat grubs, so the nickname
was accurate.

“Governor Felling is punishing us for what happened last week,” his
companion said. “Punishing you and made me come along for protection.”

Protection? My people were peaceful. Well, we had been peaceful so far.
If the wardens were here, then that might change. It all depended on what
they wanted.

Governor Nerysa Felling wasn’t a popular leader. Compared to our
neighboring country, Dulan, most of Keldan was poor, and everything the
governor tried only increased the burdens already weighing heavily upon the
people. Whispers of overthrowing her power grew louder, and increasing
numbers of challengers stepped forward each year. Everyone knew Dulan
looked at our borders with hungry eyes. It was only a matter of time before
they attacked.

Governor Felling was even more disliked by the River People, whom she
loved to blame for the troubles in Keldan. Each year, she pushed us back,
farther from the towns and higher into the hills, where food was more scarce.
About a year and a half ago, she forcibly recruited several men, many of
them River People, for an exploration north to find new resources. Weevil’s
father was taken amongst them. But the Scuttle Sea is famed for its terrible
storms, something Governor Felling certainly should have known. The ship
was lost. There were no survivors.
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There was only one reason Governor Felling still remained in power and
perhaps only one reason why Dulan had not yet brought us a war.

The Scourge.
The disease first appeared three hundred years ago. It swept through our
country and cut our population by a third. Fear of its spread shattered our
economy, isolated us from neighboring countries, and created outcasts of my
people, who were accused of originating the disease. The scars it caused
within Keldan were still apparent today.
After four long years, the terrible sickness went away, and the people of
Keldan were free to breathe again in peace. The worst tragedy in our history
was over.
Or so we thought.
Last year, the Scourge returned.
This time, it started in the prisons on Attic Island, cleaning them out
entirely before it moved into the general population. It was a disease without
mercy. Highly contagious, but with no clear sign of how it was transmitted.
Symptoms were nearly impossible to detect until it was too late, and there
was no treatment. The Scourge always ended in death. Always.
The one good thing Governor Felling had done was hire physicians who
determined that if the disease was caught in its earliest stages, even before
symptoms appeared, then it was less contagious. They used the old records to
develop an early test to identify and isolate Scourge victims, which seemed to
keep the disease from spreading as quickly. But for those who did test
positive, Attic Island was transformed into a Scourge Colony, where victims
were sent to live out the rest of their short lives. It was the governor’s way of
hoping to contain the disease. Fear of the disease spreading over its own
borders had also kept Dulan at bay. For as long as the sickness reigned,
Dulan would not cross Attic Island’s waters.
The disease wasn’t Governor Felling’s fault, obviously. Inheriting that
problem was just her bad luck. But she was the River People’s bad luck.
Proof of that was in the wardens’ presence below me.
I craned my head enough to see the two men. The first warden, the
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stockier one, had requested a break to remove a rock from his boot and was
taking his time about it. “Governor Felling ordered us to take five grubs for
testing.” The shaking of his voice betrayed his worry about being here. “If
she only sent two of us to get them, how does she think that’ll go?”

Five of us, to test for the Scourge? Since we were isolated from the
towns, so far the Scourge had not touched my people. We never mixed with
the pinchworms except on the rare occasions when we needed supplies, and
in those cases, we never went to towns where the Scourge had appeared.

So why was the governor sending wardens to test us for the Scourge?
“It may sound like a hefty punishment, but it’s deserved,” the second
warden said. “Grubs always cause the worst uprisings.”
What was he talking about? There was no uprising. The last trouble we’d
caused happened when those men were taken for the exploration, and even
that was minor. There’d been nothing close to an uprising since then.
A caw sounded off to my right. An angry, nasty caw that only could have
come from the hecklebird. The hateful thing was back, but why now?
No doubt it smelled the vinefruit juice that had dried on my arm. It knew
I’d disturbed its nest. It wanted revenge and would get it now, better than the
bird could’ve ever expected.
That bird would expose me to the wardens below.

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Jennifer A. Nielsen is the acclaimed author of the New York Times and USA

Today bestselling Ascendance Trilogy: The False Prince, The Runaway King,
and The Shadow Throne, as well as Mark of the Thief. Jennifer also wrote
Behind Enemy Lines, the sixth book in the Infinity Ring series, and the
Underworld Chronicles, a humorous middle-grade fantasy series. She collects
old books, loves good theater, and thinks that a quiet afternoon in the
mountains makes for a nearly perfect moment.

She lives in northern Utah with her husband, their three children, and a
perpetually muddy dog. You can visit her at www.jennielsen.com.

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This story is fictional, but it is based on real events and the heroism of a
remarkable people who lived behind a concrete wall that stood for twenty-

eight years.

Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer A. Nielsen

All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic
Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated
logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any
responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Nielsen, Jennifer A., author.
A night divided / Jennifer A. Nielsen. — First edition.

pages cm
Summary: When the Berlin Wall went up, Gerta, her mother, and her brother
Fritz are trapped on the eastern side where they were living, while her father,
and her other brother Dominic are in the West—four years later, now twelve,
Gerta sees her father on a viewing platform on the western side and realizes

he wants her to risk her life trying to tunnel to freedom.
ISBN 978-0-545-68242-8 (jacketed hardcover) 1. Families—Germany—
Berlin—Juvenile fiction. 2. Families—Germany (East)—Juvenile fiction. 3.

Berlin Wall, Berlin, Germany, 1961-1989—Juvenile fiction. 4. Berlin
(Germany)—History—1945-1990—Juvenile fiction. [1. Family life—

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Germany—Berlin—Fiction. 2. Family life—Germany (East)—Fiction. 3.
Berlin Wall, Berlin, Germany, 1961-1989—Fiction. 4. Berlin (Germany)—
History—1945-1990—Fiction. 5. Germany (East)—History—20th century—

Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.N5673Ni 2015

813.6—dc23
[Fic]

2014046788

First edition, September 2015

Cover art © 2015 by Tim O’Brien
Cover design by Christopher Stengel

Photographs ©: Ullstein - Sticha / The Image Works:
p. vi top; Popperfoto/Getty Images: p. vi bottom,
p. vii top; Peteri/Shutterstock: p. vii bottom.

Excerpt from The Scourge by Jennifer A. Nielsen. © 2016 Jennifer A.
Nielsen. The Scourge cover art © 2016 by Tim O’Brien. Cover design by

Christopher Stengel.

e-ISBN 978-0-545-68243-5

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted,
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any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means,
whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without
the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding
permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557

Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

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