Puzzle People (9781613280126) (13 page)

17

East Berlin
March 1962

Katarina slogged through the sewage as quickly as possible—which wasn’t very fast. The muck’s suction strongly resisted her every step, so she reverted to high-stepping strides while ducking low in the cramped sewer. The beam of her flashlight caught the movement of rats in the water ahead of her. But rats were the least of her worries, even as she felt one brush against her legs.

She expected gunfire any second. There had already been shooting deaths at the border, each one of them triggering an international crisis. Officially, the GDR claimed that their national police had to follow a series of verbal warnings, as well as warning shots, before shooting at an escaper’s legs. But unofficially, Katarina had heard rumors about shoot-to-kill orders.

“Hurry,” Wolfgang growled. He was right behind her, breathing down her back.

She hoped that the threat of a political firestorm would restrain the policemen. But when a gun went off seconds later, she had her answer. She heard the bullet fly by like a hornet. Was it a warning shot? Katarina didn’t think so. In such a narrow passageway, there was no such thing as a warning shot. Any bullet fired in such close quarters could be deadly.

For whatever reason, the one gunshot was all that she heard. Maybe the Vopo in charge decided to restrain his trigger-happy underling. Katarina could only hope.

“Halt!”

Now the Vopos were calling out to them. Was this the official warning, soon to be followed by a flurry of bullets? Katarina kept moving, pushing through the sludge. Her thighs burned, and she was breathing so hard that her chest ached, but the adrenaline and the fear of a bullet in the back kept her moving. There was no way she would heed the call and halt. To stop now would mean serious prison time. She would take her chances with the bullets.

Suddenly, she sensed that Wolfgang was no longer right behind her. She spun around and whipped her flashlight beam toward him. He was standing still and staring to the east. Was he mad?

“C’mon!” Katarina grabbed him by the arm and pulled him forward.

“Let go of me!” he snapped, yanking his arm back.

“What’re you doing?”

“They’re firing at us.”

“You can’t be thinking of giving yourself up.”

“Better than dying.”

“Three years in a Stasi prison is the same as dying. C’mon!”

In less than a minute, the Vopos would be upon them. Katarina latched on to his arm and pulled with all her might, and Wolfgang stumbled and nearly took a tumble into the sewage. Another gunshot. Katarina heard the bullet go by close to her ear, a whistling missile.

Shocked into motion, Wolfgang cursed, but he followed her. Their two flashlight beams bounced crazily off the narrow brick walls, and Katarina caught sight of more rats. The vermin were busy this evening. Suddenly, as they moved along the narrowest stretch, something landed on her back—two “somethings”—and she couldn’t help but shout. She twisted around and swatted one off her shoulder, but the other rat leaped for her face. She turned away and ducked, and she felt the rat pad across her hair, almost getting caught in the strands, before it jumped from her head. She heard it hit the sewage with a splash.

Soon, she and Wolfgang had more room to move, and when they reached the thirty-degree turn in the sewer line, she felt some measure of relief. They were entering the West. However, she knew that bullets knew no border. Once they were into the turn, the angle of the walls would provide some protection. But just before they made the turn, two more shots rang out. One bullet ricocheted off a wall, and she heard Wolfgang grunt as he was thrown forward into the foul liquid. His flashlight also went into the sewage—the beam doused—and Katarina feared the worst.

“Are you hit?”

Wolfgang’s response was a curse.

Was it a fatal shot? Even if the bullet hadn’t hit a vital organ, his wound was exposed to contaminants.

Katarina hauled him to his feet, and he came up groaning and hobbling and slipping and almost falling again. It looked as though he had swallowed some sewage, for he kept spitting and cursing and spitting and cursing. Most of the curses were directed at her rather than at the sewage. She pulled him forward, expecting more gunfire, but nothing more came. The final two bursts must have been parting shots.

“Where are you hit?” Katarina asked.

“The leg. Right leg.”

Wolfgang let out a roar of pain as she helped him forward, wrapping her arms around his waist as he hopped on one leg.

They finished making the turn, putting themselves in the West and in the clear. The Vopos didn’t dare pursue past the border, not even a subterranean border.

“If I die, I’m blaming you,” Wolfgang said. He didn’t even seem to notice how ridiculous his statement sounded.

West Berlin

The sewer route was closed for good. After the incident, the East Germans had acted quickly to fortify all of the sewer lines with strong barriers—much stronger than the steel grilles that had been installed in the ’50s. Wolfgang’s wound turned out to be minor, and the doctors acted quickly to prevent any infection from the exposure to sewage. This was good news; but for Katarina, there also came a heavy dose of bad news.

“That can’t be true,” she said to Wolfgang when they met over a week later. He had set up the meeting. Strictly business, he stressed.

“We don’t know for sure if it’s true. But we have strong suspicions.”

“I know Stefan. I can’t believe he’d do something like this.”

Wolfgang warmed his hands on the sides of his coffee cup. They had found a table in the back corner of Café Koch.

“Believe it. There’s a good possibility that your boyfriend betrayed you. We think he revealed our sewer route.”

“You really think Stefan is an informer?”

“It’s a good possibility.”

Stay cool.
Katarina absorbed the impact of those words, trying not to let Wolfgang see how it shook her. “Even if he was an informer, how would he know our escape was through the sewers?”

“That’s what we’d like to know.”

Wolfgang seemed to take great pleasure in being the bearer of bad news. “Herr Hansel is too big a risk,” he added.

“You mean Stefan is off the escape list.”

“That’s right. I’m sorry.”

Katarina didn’t buy his sympathy. She scowled into her cup of coffee.

“When you made contact with him on Christmas Eve, did you say
anything
about the escape through the sewers?” Wolfgang asked.

“Absolutely not. I know the rules. I only asked if he wanted to come west. He said he was interested. That’s all. He knew nothing about the sewers.”

Wolfgang stared her in the eyes, as if searching her soul for any signs of duplicity. He acted as if he had a sixth sense about people, but in Katarina’s opinion, he didn’t have even a first sense about people.

“Listen, why would I give away our secrets if I knew I could get shot if something went wrong?” As she said this, she couldn’t keep her eyes from settling on his crutches, which leaned against the wall.

“I’m
the one who was shot,” he pointed out.

“I’m sorry. I’m just saying it could’ve also been me getting hit. So why would I put myself in such danger?”

Wolfgang took a slow sip of coffee. “I know you’ve risked a lot for the Kappel Group. You have shown uncommon valor, and you are not under suspicion.”

Even when he tried to be reassuring, his words dripped condescension.

“What leads you to believe that Stefan is an informer?” she asked.

“I’m not at liberty to say. But we are not going to jeopardize any future escapes by involving him. We can’t help him now. We
won’t
help him.”

Katarina ground her teeth. She wondered if this was Wolfgang’s way of getting back at her for rejecting his advances. But there was also the nagging suspicion that he might just be right about Stefan.

“What happens now that the sewer route is closed off?” she asked in a dull monotone, eyes on the table.

Wolfgang scratched at his beard. “We have plans.”

“What kind of plans?”

“I’m not at liberty to say just now.”

Not at liberty to say just now!
Katarina frowned.

She was testing Wolfgang to see what he might divulge, to gauge the seriousness of his suspicions, and it was clear that he considered her tainted by her relationship with Stefan. But she didn’t need Wolfgang’s information, because she had close friends in the group, and they had already told her what was in the works: a tunnel. They were digging a tunnel, and she planned to be part of the effort, no matter what Wolfgang might think or say.

East Berlin

Stefan couldn’t believe his good fortune. He spotted an open seat at the cloth-covered table in the far corner. Seated at the round table was Elsa Krauss, one foot crossed over the other and bobbing to the beat of the music. She was heavily made up—thick eyelashes, bright red lipstick, and pearl earrings. She was stunning in a tiered white lace dress.

No doubt in Stefan’s mind: This was an assignment he didn’t mind taking.

He strode over to the table before the empty seat could be snatched by another male on the move.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, pulling her attention away from the dance floor, where a couple was demonstrating dances for the college students who had gathered.

Elsa looked up at Stefan and smiled; then she shook her head and said, “No. Please, be my guest.” She smiled politely again and then turned away to gaze at the dance floor.

Stefan slid into the seat and pretended to stare out on the dance floor as well, but Elsa remained in his line of vision, and he spent most of the time studying her blonde hair, which was pulled back from her face and piled up, her bangs sweeping down just above her left eye. She was stunning.

After taking in Elsa for several minutes, he finally let his eyes drift to the dance floor, where a man and a woman, both in their thirties, were demonstrating the Lipsi—a dance created by East German cultural authorities to counter popular American dances. It had never occurred to Stefan before, but the Lipsi looked like a stilted, robotic version of a Latin dance like the rumba. The man and the woman stayed in dance position most of the time, for dancing apart would seem too American, too rock and roll. They stepped back and forth from side to side, occasionally throwing in a twirl, sending the woman’s long dress swirling around her body. Every so often, they would also toss up an arm, which was about as expressive as the dance allowed them to be. All the moves were committee approved, and they looked like it. The Lipsi dance was not born; it had been manufactured.

“Care to dance?” Stefan said as soon as the demonstration was over and the students were invited to take the floor.

Elsa shot a look over her shoulder, as if she was surprised he was still sitting at her table. But Stefan wasn’t fooled. He knew he had a knack for turning the heads of women, and he didn’t lack confidence. He knew that she knew he was there.

“Yes, please, that would be nice,” she said.

He was immediately on his feet, taking her by the hand and leading her to the floor.

“I suppose we should begin with the Lipsi,” he said.

“If we don’t, we might start an incident.”

“And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

So they began rocking from side to side, and Stefan could see that she was displaying a little more hip movement than would probably meet government approval. But monitoring dance steps wasn’t something the Stasi had taken up as a cause—yet.

“My name is Stefan Hansel.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Elsa Krauss.”

Very formal, very polite. A perfect accompaniment to their stiff dance steps.

“I noticed you from a couple of my classes,” Stefan said. “What are you studying?”

“Art. And you?”

“Law.”

“Oh.”

Elsa drew her eyes away and perused the other dancers, all doing the Lipsi.

Stefan was well aware that she had seen the inside of a Stasi cell, so he didn’t suppose she would be too fond of the law. But he aimed to change her opinion of lawyers—especially prospective lawyers like him.

“Have you ever done the twist?” he asked.

Elsa snapped her head around and gave him a wide-eyed look. This was what he was going for.

“Herr Hansel, don’t you dare.”

Stefan wouldn’t dare do the twist. He wasn’t that bold, but Elsa didn’t need to know that. She squeezed his arms and smiled, as if she was pleasantly excited by the rebelliousness of his suggestion. If Katarina were here, she would have no qualms about doing the twist, a dance that had caught fire in America. She would probably twist the night away—at least until the authorities dragged her out.

“Why not?” Stefan asked, pretending to break away so he could start twisting. But Elsa clung to him, preventing him from separating. That was the idea as well. She clearly got the message. He might be a future lawyer, but he was willing to break the rules.

Elsa was intrigued. Stefan had a dark, Mediterranean look, which was refreshing after so many years with Peter, as Aryan as they came. She also liked his brashness. Peter would never dare suggest doing the twist at an official university function like this.