Kirstin seldom attended church services, but she did that Sunday. She sat in the pew beside her husband, listening as the pastor referenced the Bible, the State, the people, the border wall – which he referred to as the Anti-Fascist Protection Barrier – and how all interconnected. Her mind wandered as she listened, drifting to her upcoming meeting with Tony. He seemed like a good man. And he was attractive, bearing a faint resemblance to Elvis Presley. She tried to guess his last name, where he came from, if he was married, but couldn’t, not from their limited conversations before the border closed. He said he was a writer. Did he write fiction or non-fiction, mysteries or thrillers? As she anticipated their meeting, she grew anxious. The Stasi planted agents in West Berlin; Tony could be
