Stasi Child (16 page)

He is trying to blame me, trying to make me feel guilty. But his main concern is that nothing about Beate’s state of mind should get out to the authorities. Higher authorities than him. For the first time, I’ve some sort of hold over Richter and Neumann. I wonder if one day it might come in useful.

‘I understand, Herr Director,’ I answer in my most fawning voice. I see Richter smile. It’s not a pretty sight.

I seem to be spending more time asleep than awake, but as the pain in my head and body clears, I realise there is no point giving anyone the impression I’m fully recovered. I still have to wear a neck collar, but they tell me that is a precaution. The sooner I’m completely well, the sooner I will be back in the daily grind of the workshop. I have only Richter’s word that Beate is alive, and I won’t believe that until I see it with my own eyes. I don’t even understand how I survived with just a jarred neck and bruises.

My next visitor is another teacher. Herr Müller.

‘Thank you,’ I say to him.

‘For what?’ he asks.

‘For the b—’ His eyes dart to the side urgently, and I see the nurse sitting there and manage to stop mid-sentence. I don’t think she notices. ‘For coming to see me,’ I say.

He grins. ‘I’m glad I’ve got the chance,’ he says. ‘That was a very, very stupid thing to do. Brave, but stupid.’

‘I still don’t understand how I survived.’

‘We saw you about to fall, and we also saw that Beate had grabbed onto the downpipe. We’d piled up mattresses under Beate’s likely trajectory. Literally a few seconds before you fell, the fire brigade had readied their rescue net. They managed to move it a couple of metres under you. You still fell very heavily onto it. But the doctors say there is no lasting damage. You’ll be fine.’

‘Thank you,’ I say again. He seems such a kind man. A bit bookish. A bit owlish. I still cannot fully understand why he is here working at Prora Ost.

‘Unfortunately, I’m going to have to leave you now, Irma. I hope you and Beate will be OK.’

‘Leave? You’ve only been here a couple of minutes.’

He smiles again. ‘I didn’t mean right now. I can stay a bit longer. What I meant was I’m leaving the
Jugendwerkhof
. Apparently, Neumann has recommended to the education authorities that I’ve seen the error of my ways and am a reformed character.’ He lowers his voice. ‘I think he just wants me out of the way. More trouble than I’m worth, which suits me fine.’

‘I will miss your kindness. There’s not a lot of it around here. Will you miss us?’ I ask.

‘I’ll miss you, Irma. And Beate. Maybe one or two others. But to be honest, I shall be delighted to be back in Berlin. I’m a city boy at heart.’

He leans over, as though to kiss me goodbye, and as he does so, he whispers in my ear. ‘Don’t forget what it says in the book,’ he breathes. ‘I’m sure there’s a way.’ Then a small chaste kiss on my forehead, and he’s gone.

21

February 1975. Day Nine.

East Berlin.

As they headed north through sparse Mitte traffic, the smell of the leather upholstery – together with Tilsner’s extravagant use of aftershave – made for a distinctive aroma in the Mercedes. Müller savoured it. It made a change from the smoky redolence of lignite smog: the trademark odour of the Republic. The roads as far as the
Grenzübergang
Bornholmerstrasse and the Bösebrücke bridge were familiar to them both. After that, Müller would be map-reading their way through West Berlin, towards Schöneberg and the wedding car hire company.

As they approached the checkpoint, Müller saw the dyed-blonde major from Thursday’s visit walk towards the Mercedes. She looked at it disapprovingly, as Tilsner scrabbled for the button for the electric window.

‘Good morning, Comrade
Major
,’ said Tilsner. It brought a smile from the frosty blonde officer.

‘Good morning,
Unterleutnant
. The Ministry for State Security has approved your passage through, and we will be expecting you on your return. Do you know what time that will be tonight?’

Tilsner looked towards Müller, raising his eyebrows.

Müller leant in front of Tilsner, towards the open driver’s window. ‘I think it will be around one in the morning, Comrade
Major
. Something like that anyway. It’s all detailed in the authorisation that was telexed through to you by the Ministry for State Security.’

The major gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head. ‘Good. We will be waiting for you. Good luck.’ With that, Tilsner hit the window switch and the glass rose silently and smoothly. He pressed the accelerator, and the car glided away. Müller dreaded to think how many more marks this car had cost than the Wartburg.

Müller looked out of the windows, comparing what she saw with her own eyes with what was marked on the map. They could have almost been anywhere in the Hauptstadt. The only difference was the style of street signs, more cars and trucks, and the actual makes of those cars. The ever-present Trabants, Wartburgs and Ladas from the East were nowhere to be seen.

By the time they reached the wedding limousine hire company in Schöneberg, Müller had reappraised her snap judgement that the West looked pretty much like the East. Their route had taken them to the west of the Spree, swinging further west through Tiergarten, and then – just to see first-hand what they’d already seen in the photo of Silke Eisenberg – Müller directed Tilsner on a small detour to take in the exterior of the Kaufhaus des Westens. Tauentzienstrasse reminded her of the Paris boulevards she’d seen on western TV and in magazines, the throng of Saturday shoppers making her feel almost claustrophobic, even though they were safely ensconced in the comfort of the Mercedes.

Tilsner took one hand off the wheel to point out of the windscreen towards a high-rise building with a revolving silver emblem on top. ‘The Europa Centre, commonly known as the Mercedes Building. That’s the Mercedes logo spinning round.’ To Müller it looked ostentatious, unnecessary. A symbol of the economic power of the West perhaps, but also a sign of the West’s glorification of business and the business of making money.

Ignoring the road signs, Tilsner made a U-turn, so they could have another look at the KaDeWe from the southern side of the street. Müller marvelled at all the fashions in the window displays. She remembered that the KaDeWe was on the list of required shops they had to visit. She felt something akin to excitement, and then chastised herself. Those who could afford all this – who had they trampled on to reach the top of their businesses? At least east of the protection barrier, for all the shortages, they were trying to build a fairer way.

Once they had reached Schöneberg, the hire company was relatively easy to find and all the documentation was ready for them to sign. Tilsner showed his fake papers and handed the salesman the hire amount and deposit in Deutschmarks from the envelopes Jäger had given them. He did it all with the smoothness of someone who was used to this level of duplicity, betraying none of the nerves that Müller herself felt. It reinforced her suspicions of earlier that morning. There was far more to Tilsner than met the eye.

Her deputy was wearing gloves just in case the previous hirers had left fingerprints, but as it was winter, that didn’t attract the suspicion of the hire company staff. Müller very much doubted the person – or people – they were hunting had been stupid enough to leave prints. But maybe – if the murdered girl had still been alive by the time she was in the car,
if
indeed she had ever been in the car – they might find something to establish her identity.

She reluctantly climbed into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes, and then followed Tilsner and the limousine out of the car park, after first warning him to drive slowly. After initially struggling with the unfamiliar gearstick and controls, she managed to keep pace with him round the ring road, before turning east at Westend. They cruised along Spandauer Damm, then Charlottenburg Palace emerged on their left. Müller risked a quick glance away from the road when they stopped at the traffic lights. It was a symbol of great wealth, of privilege, of everything the Republic was fighting against, but as she turned into Schlossstrasse where their hotel was situated, Müller had to admit the palace – with its central copper-domed tower, red-tiled roof and wing upon wing of sumptuous cream stone – was a beautiful building. Whoever had commissioned it, privileged or not, certainly had good taste.

In the hotel, things took a strange turn. They’d agreed to have a couple of hours’ rest before setting off to buy the items on Jäger’s shopping list. Müller’s room looked out onto Schlossstrasse, and the angry repeated beep of a car horn drew her to the window. She edged back the curtain a fraction, and saw the Volvo limousine pulling out of the space where Tilsner had parked it. For an instant, she wondered if it was being stolen. She knew rates of car theft were higher in the West – or so
Neues Deutschland
claimed. But then she recognised Tilsner at the wheel, laboriously trying to manoeuvre his way out of the space. That was what had attracted the ire of other drivers. Where was he taking the vehicle, and why? Was she wrong about his loyalty to the Republic – could he even be using this as an opportunity to defect?

She picked up the hotel phone and asked reception to put her through to Tilsner’s room. No answer. She wasn’t expecting one.

She decided the best policy was to say nothing. If he wasn’t aware she knew he’d slipped away, it might be to her advantage. Turning away from the curtain, she moved to the bathroom and ran a hot bath – adding dollop after dollop of bubble bath. Müller slipped out of her new western clothes, the ones Jäger had given her from the bag in his car, enjoying their silky feel on her skin as they fell to the tiled floor. She smiled to herself. Some decadent western luxury, it was what she needed.

22

Day Nine.

East Berlin.

As he’d gone to get the newspaper, Gottfried had noticed the bread van parked on the other side of the street. It had seemed out of place. And the name of the bakery was unfamiliar.

He’d already been exhausted by the constant rowing with Karin. Now it felt as though his whole world had disintegrated. He’d meant to get up early, to see her off and perhaps mend some proverbial fences. Instead, she had left on her secret weekend mission without saying goodbye, and he hadn’t woken. The row would now fester in her mind, just when he needed her most.

It was about ten minutes later, when Gottfried was settling down to do some school marking, munching on a fresh
Brötchen
, that all hell broke loose. A hammering sound on the apartment door made him look up in shock.

‘Who’s that? What’s going on?’ he shouted, through a mouthful of bread. In the back of his mind, he already knew. His transfer to Rügen had been a warning. A warning he’d ignored.

As he got up to move towards the door to open it, he realised he didn’t need to bother. With a splintering sound, the door burst open and half a dozen leather-jacketed men surrounded him. Pinning his arms. Cuffing his hands behind his back. Ignoring his frantic shouts and questions, and dragging him down the stairs.

‘What are you doing?’ he screamed. ‘My wife’s a police officer. She’ll report you to the authorities for this.’ As soon as the words left his mouth, he realised his threat was empty. For all he knew, Karin may have been already aware that this was going to happen. May have even ordered his arrest. It was a frightening thought.

One of the thugs yanked his cuffed arms further up towards his shoulder blades. The pain pulsed into his head.

‘Keep quiet, citizen,’ he hissed into Gottfried’s ear. ‘If you know what’s good for you.’

Despite his desperate situation, Gottfried still found himself checking that no neighbours were watching as he was forced across the pavement towards a Barkas van – similar to the bakery van but a different colour, a different company name on the side. He didn’t want anyone to see his shame, his humiliation.

The aroma of fresh bread from breakfast was still in his nostrils, the taste on his tongue. But they were instantly replaced by the smell of piss and shit as he was bundled inside and forced into one of several tiny holding cells in its rear.

The door to the cramped cell was slammed shut. Seconds later, he heard the engine roar to life. He was being taken somewhere. He just didn’t know where, or why.

23

Day Nine.

West Berlin.

Oberleutnant
Karin Müller found herself sweating inside her new western clothing provided by Jäger as she browsed the KaDeWe’s shoe department. The skirt was wool, the blouse silk, the knickers and bra cotton – natural, expensive materials. On her, they just didn’t feel right. Like a painting in an incongruous frame. And it didn’t help that the heating inside the department store seemed to be on too high. She looked down at the fur-lined winter boot that the male assistant was levering her left foot into. Almost 300 marks’ worth of footwear – the pair cost virtually the same as Müller’s weekly wage.

‘Would madam care to take a walk? Perhaps look at them in the mirror over there? They suit you very well.’ Müller reddened at the man’s compliment, but played the part and walked towards the full-length mirror. She was glad Tilsner wasn’t here to add to her discomfort; they’d agreed to meet up later in the hotel in Charlottenburg, and meanwhile he’d gone to the sports department to buy some Hertha Berlin football paraphernalia from Jäger’s shopping list.

She fussed with her hair in the reflective glass. It was hanging limp and greasy. Then her eyes moved down to the boots. Black suede, ending just below the knee, with grey fur turnovers. Over her shoulder she could see the assistant, waiting eagerly.

‘I’ll take them,’ she said, smiling. The man returned her smile, but there was something about his that seemed unctuous and false. He just wanted the sale, she thought. That’s what it’s all about here.

Müller lay back on the hotel bed and stared up at the ceiling. She couldn’t help feeling something was badly wrong when she’d been able to enjoy – if that was the right word – an afternoon’s shopping in West Berlin’s most iconic department store, while the dead girl she was supposed to be trying to identify lay in the cooler of the Charité Hospital mortuary. Could they, should they, be doing more in the Republic? Knocking door to door, on every apartment with a teenage girl the right age? But that would be a Sisyphean task. Reiniger and Jäger would never authorise such a campaign.