Stasi Child (20 page)

Day followed night, followed day, and no one spoke to him, told him what he’d done, or even where he was. He thought of Karin and wondered what she would know. Had she been arrested too? Had the school been told? Who would be taking his class?

On the third day the routine suddenly changed. There was no evening meal of stale bread and margarine, and no explanation why.

Night-time: light on, light off, on, off, on, off, every few seconds. He tried to get to sleep, but hunger gnawed at his stomach. Finally, he dozed sporadically for what seemed just a few seconds at a time between the light’s flashes. He was woken by the sound of keys being turned in the lock. A male guard roughly pulled him from the bed and cuffed their hands together. The metal bit into Gottfried’s wrist. The guard might as well have been deaf and mute for the way he ignored all questions as they went along corridor after corridor, up and down staircases, and past red light after red light. They encountered no other prisoners and no other guards, and Gottfried could only conclude that the lights were some kind of warning system that the corridor was occupied by a prisoner – him. Finally, he was ushered into a room containing an officer in plain clothes, sitting behind a desk with a single telephone and typewriter. The guard uncuffed his wrist, and then shackled Gottfried’s hands together before refastening the cuffs. He locked the door behind him as he exited, and the plain-clothes officer gestured at a stool. ‘Sit, Herr Müller.’

Gottfried felt almost joyful at hearing his surname. He obeyed, and perched on the stool.

The officer looked up from the papers on his desk, and pushed his glasses back up his nose. ‘I am
Major
Hunsberger. As you’ve probably guessed, I work for the Ministry for State Security.’

Gottfried stared back at Hunsberger. He wanted to ask so many questions. What was he supposed to have done? Why was he here? But although he tried to speak, nothing came.

‘How is your wife Karin?’ the officer asked.

The question momentarily confused Gottfried. Of all the things they might have asked, why were they talking about his wife? He struggled to form the words of his reply. ‘I . . . I . . . I haven’t seen her for several days.’

‘No, no. I can understand that. You’ve been locked up here after all. But before that, how was she? How were relations between you two? Is it hard to keep a younger woman satisfied?’

Gottfried frowned – what was the Stasi man driving at? ‘I don’t understand. Why are you asking questions about my wife? Can you please just tell me why I’m here, get me a lawyer and release me?’ He emphasised the point by slapping his hand on the table, causing the phone to jangle. Immediately, he regretted the flash of petulance. He needed to stay under control. There was no point riling Hunsberger unnecessarily.

The officer rose, wandered towards the window, then turned back towards Gottfried and held his gaze. ‘You will understand quickly, Herr Müller, that
we
ask the questions here. Not you.’

‘But –’

‘Please let me finish, Herr Müller. I can assure you it is in your own interests. You are in a remand prison of the Ministry for State Security. You are fortunate that within less than a week, we have seen fit to interview you. That’s mainly because your wife is an important detective in the
Kriminalpolizei
–’

‘Yes, I know all that, but –’

‘Herr Müller!’ Hunsberger’s sudden shout startled him. ‘Sit down on the stool. Now. We have the power to keep you on remand for as long as we wish, and unless you cooperate you will be sent back to your cell, and we may not see fit to interview you for weeks . . . months . . . some people have been here years. Do I make myself clear?’

Gottfried’s shoulders slumped. At the very least, he needed to know what was going on.

‘I was asking you about your wife, Comrade Karin Müller. How has she seemed? How have you two been getting on?’

Where was this leading? ‘We have our ups and downs – like any married couple. She’s been very busy recently, because of the murder case . . . It’s a big thing for her.’

‘Very busy, yes . . . would you like to see a recent photo of your wife?’

Gottfried nodded cautiously, and Hunsberger passed him a black-and-white print. It was a photo of Karin with her deputy Werner Tilsner, lying side by side on a strange bed.

‘She does look busy, doesn’t she?’ asked Hunsberger.

‘What the hell is this, she wouldn’t –’

Hunsberger handed over another photo. ‘And even busier in this one, wouldn’t you say? Of course you can’t see exactly what her facial expression is. But her lips look . . . busy.’

Gottfried stared at the photo open-mouthed. Karin and Tilsner. Together. Jaws locked in what was certainly not just a comradely kiss – their hands pawing each other. He dropped the photo to the floor.

‘Is she a good kisser?’ asked Hunsberger, a smirk playing on his face.

Gottfried, riled by the officer’s mocking, leapt up. He attempted to strike the Stasi officer with his cuffed hands, but Hunsberger caught and gripped them tightly, making him wince with pain.

‘Don’t try it, Herr Müller. You’ll regret it very much. Why don’t you sit down there?’ Hunsberger pointed at an armchair. Gottfried slumped down into it.

The Stasi officer picked up the phone and began talking rapidly into it. Then he replaced the receiver. ‘You haven’t eaten yet today, Herr Müller, have you? I’ve just ordered you some food. You will have a choice. Some of your favourite things. That will make a change from bread rolls and margarine, won’t it?’

Hunsberger was smirking, rocking back on the two rear legs of his chair, his arms folded in front of him. Gottfried didn’t reply. The question had been rhetorical.

A few moments later, a guard knocked on the door and brought in two plates of food, which he placed in front of Hunsberger. On the left, despite what the Stasi man had promised, more bread rolls, margarine and jam. On the right,
Gebackene Apfelringe
– Gottfried’s favourite dessert, a speciality of Karin’s. Apple rings in choux pastry with vanilla cream and raspberries. Something they could usually only obtain a few times a year, when raspberries were fleetingly in the shops. Gottfried could feel his mouth watering. He knew Hunsberger had seen his eyes drawn to the right-hand plate. He swallowed the saliva down.

‘Just the way Karin makes it,’ whispered the Stasi man, reading the teacher’s thoughts. ‘But first you must answer some questions, and then I will explain your choice. Look at this!’ Hunsberger’s tone had changed from syrupy bonhomie to ruthless efficiency in a second.

The Stasi officer handed him another photograph. Again it appeared to be from a surveillance camera, and Gottfried immediately recognised it as the sanatorium at
Jugendwerkhof
Prora Ost – somewhere he’d have been happy to never see again in his life. It showed him standing by Irma’s bed, although the girl herself was obscured. He knew what was coming next – a photograph from a few seconds later. He knew it would show him kissing Irma on the forehead. But he was wrong.

‘What the hell is this?’ he screamed, dropping the photo back on the table. Gottfried recoiled from the image. It showed him apparently kissing a girl on the mouth, his hand mauling her breast. But the girl’s face was not Irma’s – it was Beate Ewert’s.

‘You tell me, Citizen Müller.’

Gottfried jumped up, picked the print off the table and began tearing it in two. ‘This is a fake! A fake! I kissed a girl on the forehead. That girl was Irma Behrendt, whose life I’d just helped to save. But this monstrosity –’ he threw the torn pieces of photo into the air, ‘– has been doctored to show me with a completely different girl. I certainly did not molest any of the girls.’

‘The evidence says otherwise, Herr Müller. The evidence which you’ve just destroyed.’ He bent to pick the torn pieces of photograph from the floor, and then started arranging them on the table like a jigsaw puzzle, until the image of Beate reappeared. ‘But it’s easy to put it back together, as you see. And we have copies.’

Hunsberger wasn’t finished. He reached into a file and pulled out another set of photos. ‘What I showed you in the
Jugendwerkhof
is of course very serious. But not as serious as this.’ With a flourish, he passed the next photograph to Gottfried. The black-and-white print showed the teacher about to enter Gethsemane Church. ‘You know where this is, don’t you?’

Gottfried declined to answer. But yes, he knew. And he thought he knew when it had been taken, and suspected he knew who had taken it. That Tilsner bastard. The arsehole
had
been spying on him. Rather than look at the photo or the Stasi officer, he stared at his hands in his lap, watching the ends of his fingers shake. The next photograph was one of him with Pastor Grosinski.

‘That man is under surveillance for alleged anti-state activities,’ said Hunsberger. ‘Yet here you are consorting with him.’ Hunsberger now took two further pieces of paper from the file. They looked like official documents. He handed one to Gottfried. ‘Could you read this, please?’

Article 96 of the DDR’s constitution, highlighted in red marker pen. But Hunsberger read it out to him anyway from his own copy. ‘This is the relevant part, Herr Müller.’ He leant over and traced his finger along the red highlighting on Gottfried’s copy. ‘Whoever is convicted of undertaking to undermine the political or social order of the DDR can, in severe cases, be sentenced to death.’

Gottfried started to protest. ‘What? I was just meeting a priest.’

‘Who is going to believe you, a pervert who molests schoolgirls when they’re ill in bed?’

‘I didn’t –’

‘Silence!’ Hunsberger moved the plate with the
Gebackene Apfelringe
to the centre of the desk. ‘You’d better start telling us the truth, Herr Müller, otherwise it will be dangerous for you and your wife. We will question the relevant people, but it seems to me you are guilty and we will find the evidence to prove it. And the penalty, in the most serious cases, is the ultimate penalty.’ Hunsberger rotated the plate of dessert so that the raspberries were under Gottfried’s nose, but instead of continuing to make his mouth water, he could feel bile rising in his throat.

‘Have a good look at this plate of food, Herr Müller. Before carrying out any death sentence, the prisoner is allowed to request a last meal.’

A flash of light. The entrance to Gethsemane Church. A flash of light. He and Grosinski deep in conversation. A flash of light. The photo of lips-locked Karin and Tilsner. A flash of light. The image of him kissing Beate, his hand on her breast. A flash of light. The blood-red raspberries, vanilla cream and puffed-up dough around the apple rings.

He pulled the blanket over his head, turned on his side, tried to hide from the ever-flashing light and the ever-present images. Ever since he had left Hunsberger and been led back to his cell, utterly defeated, the torment had begun again. But then came the rustle of keys, the clang of the door.

The fat-faced female guard was back. ‘Hands off the blanket. Blanket off your face. And lie on your back!’

Same words. Another night. Another day. Another night. How many more before that last-ever plate of
Gebackene Apfelringe
would be brought to him? He thought of Karin. He didn’t blame her for being tempted by Tilsner. He was sure that was just a mistake on her part, and he had been stupid and risked getting her into trouble, risked wrecking her career. If only he could talk to her; he was sure she would be able to clear this up and get him out of this hellish place.

29

Day Eleven.

The train to Stralsund.

Sleep last night had come fitfully for Müller, punctuated by various nightmares featuring Gottfried, Jäger, Tilsner and the girl’s body on the autopsy table, all jumbled together in a montage of horror. Now, as she rocked from side to side with the motion of the train, her body craved a nap – but her brain, racing full of thoughts and theories, wouldn’t let her. She glanced across at Tilsner and Schmidt on the other side of the aisle, heads slumped and snoring loudly.

Müller felt disloyal to Gottfried. Should she have refused to come to Rügen and have insisted instead that they allow her to visit him? She couldn’t have done that without at least risking a reprimand.

Schmidt’s progress in the lab, the clues from the car, all seemed to offer hope of a genuine breakthrough. But something nagged at her. If the limousine had been cleaned, as Schmidt maintained, why did this evidence remain? Evidence so clear-cut it almost felt as though it had been planted. If so, by whom? The Stasi? After all, it was Jäger who was sending them up north to Rügen. But why?

She sighed and took a sip of the train coffee that Tilsner had fetched earlier from the buffet car. It was lukewarm by now, and its bitterness made her recoil. She reached for another sugar sachet and stirred it in.

The other major problem was that there were no reports of missing girls from either the Harz or Rügen – certainly none that fitted the dead girl’s profile. There was just this single mysterious complaint about a teenage girl which had been referred to the Stasi. The one Jäger had mentioned in the bar. She’d even disturbed Tilsner’s weekend by ordering him to go over all the files again. He’d found nothing, but had brought along the files for Müller to double-check.

She took the folders out of her bag. Three of them: one for each of the Republic’s most northerly
Bezirke
: Rostock, Schwerin and Neubrandenburg. She started with Rostock, lifting it onto her lap and leafing through the pages. It was their best chance. The Rostock district included Rügen and all of the DDR’s Ostsee coast.

The train rocked violently, and her coffee sloshed onto the dirty floor. Tilsner woke with a snort.

‘Must have drifted off there, apologies,’ he said, wiping his hand across his face. ‘Mind you, you did get me to work on a Sunday.’ She saw him peering over the folder she had in her hands. ‘There’s nothing there,’ he said. ‘I told you yesterday. Not a single girl matching the profile of our body.’

Müller continued to read through the files. There were older girls, taller girls, young women, men, pensioners. Many of them were marked as suspected
Republikflüchtlinge
, but Tilsner was correct – there was nothing matching the dead girl’s profile.