Stealing the Future (14 page)

As the Immanuel Church loomed out of the dusk Annette jumped up.

“This is our stop, here we go!”

We jumped down from the tram, and went into one of the side streets.

“How was your day?” she asked, “I’m sorry, I should have asked hours ago, but I was so pleased to see you that I forgot my manners!”

“Crazy. Really weird. And stressful.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Annette sounded concerned, but had slowed down, and was peering at each house in turn, trying to find the numbers in the dusk.

“Something rotten in the State of West Silesia,” I murmured.

Annette had found what she was looking for, and I’m not sure she heard me. She was heaving open the heavy door, before ushering me into the hallway and up the stairs. It was a normal house, grey-brown rendering, grey-brown lino on the stairs, and the ubiquitous smell of floor polish, brown coal and cabbage. We stopped on the second floor, a note pinned to the frame of the door:
Event in the cellar!
Back down the stairs we went, looking for the steps down to the cellar: a stunted door, cowering beneath the staircase. It was wedged open, and we could hear distorted music coming from below.

We made our way down the steps, feeling our way with our heels in the darkness. The steps felt gritty underfoot, as did the floor of the cellar when we got there. Heads bent to avoid the pipes crossing the low ceiling we stumbled through the grey darkness—there wasn’t much light here, the flicker of a film projector showing us the way. We sat at the back of a small crowd, on cushions on the floor. Before us Fritz Lang’s
Metropolis
was playing against the side of the cellar, and in front of that a young man, wearing dark clothes and sunglasses sat on a beer crate, hunched over a guitar. His long dark hair obscured his face and fingers as he plucked the strings, his feet were stretched out, and before them an array of pedals. As I watched, his right foot darted out, and tapped a pedal, then again just a few seconds later. The reverberating guitar chord was joined by another one an octave lower, and both stretched on while Lang’s fantasy world was built up on the wall behind.

The chords continued reverberating, joined by another one whenever the foot tapped a pedal. Without warning, a scratchy voice, a Saxon accent, began talking slowly. The measured, reverent tones suggested poetry, and it took me a couple of lines before I recognised it through his mangled vowels: Dante’s
Inferno
. I shared a quick look with Annette, who was biting her fingers in an effort not to giggle, and we returned our full concentration to the performer.

I couldn’t tell you how long it went on for—Dante’s words had a lulling effect, and the music wasn’t actually that bad, drawing me in, taking my mind off the events of the day.

“The contrast of the decayed context with the superior cultural experience provides a dramatic frame of reference suited to…” began Annette as soon as we’d escaped. One of her silly voices, Saxon this time, same as the performer.

We laughed, and I pointed out that the interchangeability of both nouns and adjectives made her assessment as meaningful as a speech by the Party leadership on May day.

“A bit experimental for my taste, but, I don’t know, there was a sense of preparation, practice and ability that won my respect,” was my contribution, said in a low voice, for I knew I was talking bollocks, and there were still quite a few people about. It embarrassed me to think that these strangers might overhear.

This made Annette laugh again, and she told me that it was I who was taking it all too seriously.

“What was that place anyway?” I wanted to know.

“Oh one of those squats. An Ossi one, which is why the culture was so good!”

“Do you know many squatters?”

“Yeah, used to live in a squat myself, in Kreuzberg. Ancient history, but I still know a few people in the scene. I know some of the squatters who came over in ’90, down in Friedrichshain, and through them I’ve met a few of the squatters up here in Prenzlauer Berg too.”

Shortly after the Wall opened, a stream of squatters came in from Westberlin. Feeling the pinch from hardline police tactics over there, full of youthful arrogance and convinced that they were the ones to show us in the East how to do this revolution thing properly. A series of squats were opened up, the Wessis mostly concentrated round Friedrichshain, the Easterners taking over derelict buildings in Prenzlauer Berg, and, to an extent, in Mitte and Friedrichshain too. Interestingly the two scenes didn’t mix too well—even though they had a squatters’ Round Table, and the West-squats were twinned with the East-squats. You didn’t find many Easterners wanting to live in a Wessi-squat. I didn’t blame them, the Wessi-squats sounded quite stressful. They tended to annoy their neighbours more with raucous parties and fly-tipping, and I’d heard that they had all sorts of alternative-living experiments going on—toilet doors were considered bourgeois, as was exclusive use of underwear.

The Ossi-squats seemed much more civilised to me—sure, they annoyed their neighbours too, with loud parties, graffiti art and flags, and below average awareness of hygiene—but they were, on the whole, well integrated into their neighbourhoods, providing support and labour to whoever needed it, whether it was doing the shopping or taking empty bottles to the SERO for the elderly, or carrying out structural repairs to one of the many semi-derelict buildings.

But despite all that, it looked like they couldn’t put on a decent cultural event.

“Do you know anywhere round here? A bar? A place to go dancing?” Annette wanted more of me, and I wasn’t exactly ready to go to bed yet either.

“I’m sorry, I should have said before… I’ve got a really stupidly early start in the morning—I can’t stop out too long.”

Her face fell, but a smile sprang back into position before I had time to react.

“That’s a shame, but never mind—Monday’s not really the day to go dancing, is it? What’s happening in the morning?”

“I’ve got to be there when the police make an arrest. Nothing particularly exciting–”

Annette patted my arm, reassuring me that it was OK.

We walked back to the tram stop, it was still rather early, and I hoped that Annette wouldn’t think I was giving her the brush off, but if we went to a bar or something now, who knew what might happen between Annette and me. That was a really nice thought, but I wasn’t sure I was ready for it yet.

We sat on the tram, silent, but still holding each other’s hands. When we got off, I walked her back to the Friedrichstrasse station. We said goodbye with a hug, and another brief kiss. This wasn’t so unexpected, it didn’t have the same electric shock effect as before, a mere brush of soft lips against mine. I found myself responding, leaning in for another kiss, but Annette had moved away. I opened my eyes, she was already halfway down the steps to the U-Bahn.

“Bye Martin—thank you for the lovely evening!” She blew me a kiss, and was gone.

Moscow:
The Soviet President Mikhail Gorbachev is no longer under house arrest. The news comes at the same time as Internal Military units, under the command of the Soviet Interior Ministry, move against the barricades erected by the KGB around the parliament building, which was occupied last week by members of the dissolved Soviet of the Republics. President Gorbachev is returning to Moscow to take command of the Internal Military, but it is unclear how he can survive the crisis without the support of the KGB.

Görlitz:
The West Silesian government has ended the co-operation between Silesian and Saxon police in the matter of the investigation into the death of the WSB politician, Johannes Maier. The West Silesian Interior Minister, Jakob Schröter, stated last night that his police force is able to deal with a murder inquiry without what he referred to as: ‘outside interference’. As yet there has been no official response to the offer of assistance made yesterday by the Westgerman Federal Criminal Police Agency.

05:54

I showed my pass to the policeman sitting at the front desk, asking for Captain Weber. He didn’t answer, just pointed up to the first floor. It was the first time I’d been in the Marchlewskistrasse police station, and I was curious. Apprehensive too. The cops from this station had a reputation: the hard lads of the Berlin police force, happy to take matters into their own hands. They were the ones who made sure suspects stumbled down stairs and walked into fists. Before the revolution a friend of mine had his flat turned over by Marchlewskistrasse officers. No reason, no excuse given, and despite the fact that he lived in Prenzlauer Berg, a long way off their beat.

Up the granite steps, hand trailing the steel balustrade. The corridor at the top was busy—mostly cops in uniform, holding plastic shields and helmets, heading towards double doors about halfway down. I followed them into a large room. Red, black and state flags adorning one wall, opposite a notice board covered with press and magazine clippings, declarations and hand written headings: some kind of wall newspaper for the brigade. The police officers were falling into ranks, facing the flags and an officer, who was conferring with a woman in mufti. The officer was a captain: that’d be my man. I waited for him to finish talking to the woman, then went to introduce myself.

“Grobe. The Minister requested my presence during this arrest.”

“Weber. Take a seat,” he shook my hand firmly but briefly, then turned away.

I looked around for a chair, the only ones available were against the back wall, below the wall newspaper. I decided to remain standing but moved a little to one side, next to the doorway.

Silence had fallen, and the cops were all facing their captain. Shields resting on the floor, held steady with the left hand, helmets clipped to belts, right hands pressed against legs, fingers parallel to trouser seams. All very correct and commendable, if a bit intimidating to a civilian such as myself.

“Comrades, your task is to effect the arrest of a suspect. According to the ABV Officer of the area, the suspect is in the squatted building on the Thaerstrasse. Disembarkation on the Mühsamstrasse beginning at X minus 7, mustering on the Bersarinstrasse, 100 metres north of Bersarinplatz at X minus 3. At time X
Kommando
B will effect entry and secure the front of the building.
Kommando
C will effect entry to buildings to the rear, on Bersarinstrasse,” here Weber walked over to a detailed map, pinned to the wall next to a blackboard. “They will secure access to and from the rear of the squat.
Kommando
C will follow
Kommando
A and will provide support in locating and detaining the suspect. The suspect is using the flat on the second floor, right hand side.”

The captain paused, then walked back to the front of the ranked policemen. “Remember, this is a squat. We should be prepared for disrespectful behaviour, including violence. Use of reasonable force in self-defence is acceptable.”

A murmur rose from the assembly, the men at the back digging their elbows into their neighbour’s sides and grinning. The captain waited, face immobile, then pointed towards me.

“First Lieutenant Grobe here will be coming along to observe the operation. He is from the
Republikschutz
. Make a note of his appearance, since he has chosen not to come in uniform, you will need to be able to tell him apart from our clients.”

Given the reputation of these bulls, the captain’s order had a disquieting affect on me. Thirty faces looked my way, assessing me, but giving no clue to what they thought. I decided that this was not the time to tell the captain that I’d been promoted, that I was now his equal in rank. But it might be judicious to let him know before zero hour, and if I could, somehow to give the impression that I had the ear of the Minister.

“Right, men! Time X is at…” Weber looked at his watch, comparing it to the clock on the wall above the door, “06.35. Embark in the yard immediately. Transport is waiting. Dismiss!”

The cops filed out, talking in excited whispers, clearly relishing the prospect of raiding a squat.

“You can come with me, no need to go on a truck,” with a brisk half-smile Weber strode out of the room, the squad parting to let him through, with me in his wake.

“Why don’t you wait in the yard, we’ll be taking the Volga. I’m just going to pick up the paperwork.”

I made my way down the stairs, surrounded by cops telling each other stories of previous raids, pumping each other up, preparing for violence. The Minister hadn’t mentioned the fact that the arrest was to take place in a squat. He hadn’t told me who we were supposed to arrest either. Presumably the snatch squad,
Kommando
A, had been briefed on his identity before I got here.

The cops were talking as if 1989 had never happened, I could overhear snippets of conversation:

“We’ll show these arseholes!”

“They’ll wish they’d been gassed when we’ve finished with them!”

“If any of them tries to resist… just let them try!”

And here I was, on their side of the barricades. I was part of the system now, alongside these men who took pleasure in violence and who hated anyone who didn’t fit into the meat-veg-and-potatoes, wife-and-two-kids model of how life should be.

Weber had come out into the yard now, holding a clipboard with several pieces of paper on it. All of his men were sitting on the back of the W50 trucks, the engines growling as they waited for the signal to depart. A driver held the front passenger door open for Weber, and before getting in he nodded to the nearest truck driver. With a roar and billowing exhausts, the trucks moved out of the yard and on to the street. I got in the back of the black Volga car, and we followed the convoy.

It was a short drive up to the Frankfurter Allee, the convoy heading up the Strasse der Pariser Kommune rather than going by the more direct route via the Frankfurter Tor, presumably to avoid passing too close to the squat on the Thaerstrasse. It was all going according to plan: park on the Mühsamstrasse, cops sprinting along to the junction and forming into three squads, one squad entering a couple of buildings on that street, the other two running around the corner into the Thaerstrasse.

Weber was sitting patiently in the front seat, and I sat behind him, watching the uniforms disappear into the early morning gloom.

“We’ll wait here a moment, let the dust settle,” said Weber, half turning towards me.

I pushed my door open and got out.

“Grobe! Wait here!” Weber wasn’t playing nice guy any more, he too had opened his door, and was half out of it before I had even thought of a reply.

“I have my orders.”

“I order you to stay here,” Weber’s face was turning dangerously red.

“Fuck you, I’m a captain, too!” I shouted back over my shoulder as I broke into a jog.

I ran across the road, skipping over the tram tracks and holding my hand up to ward off the sparse traffic. Round the corner, into the Thaerstrasse. A small knot of cops stood around a doorway a bit further up the road. I shouldered my way through, getting an elbow in the kidneys for my efforts, although at least none of them seriously tried to stop me. Past a heavy wooden door, the lock smashed, and into the hall. Up the stairs: second floor right, Weber had said. I was going up as fast as I could, feeling the pain in my left kidney, but not responding to it, concentrating on getting up those stairs, blocking out the shouts and the screams around me. A helmeted policeman, wooden truncheon ready in his hand, was standing at the entrance to the flat. He was peering in through the open door when I reached the top of the stairs, but he must have heard my laboured breathing, turning to look at me. I held my palm out towards him, moving past, into the flat. There were two doors in front of me, and the corridor bent round to the right. Both doors were open—one room looked empty except for a cop swiping at a shelf of LPs with his truncheon. In the other room two bulls were shouting at a form huddled in a sleeping bag on a mattress. One bent down, pulling the sleeping bag from the bottom end, the other grabbing an arm that had come into sight. Between them they pulled the slim figure off the bed, screaming at her to kneel down, face the wall, hands behind the head. Only when she had complied did the cops turn to me, a satisfied grin on each of their faces as they stood either side of the naked woman.

“Is this who we’re looking for?” I asked them.

They smirked at each other before one of them answered.

“No, it’s not,” then, as an afterthought, “sir.”

I looked at the young woman, slim, not too tall, broad mohican, vaguely coloured red: Karo.

“You two—out! Now!”

The cops glanced at each other and shrugged, one looked down—devouring the image of Karo, naked and shivering on her knees, breasts lifted up by her raised arms, nipples and goose pimples standing out in cold and fear—then gently trailed his truncheon over Karo’s chest, deliberately catching a nipple, then up, over her shoulders as he moved out of the room.

As soon as the two cops had moved away, Karo turned to see who was in the room with her, hands still clasped behind her head. I could see the fear in her eyes give way to bewilderment, soon hardening to hate.

“You,” she spat, “wanker!”

I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? I just turned and closed the door behind me, moving further into the flat. Shelves ran the length of the corridor, the contents lying smashed on the floor below. More shouting ahead. Doorway left: bathroom, empty—looking untidy, but so far untouched by fist or truncheon. Doorway right: kitchen. Young man, also naked, lying on his belly on the floor, four cops: the pair from the first room stood by and looked on as the other two did the work, one with a boot on the boy’s head, pressing it hard into the bare wooden boards. The last cop had a knee on the boy’s lower back and was shouting directly into his ear.

“Where is he, you shitty communist? Speak up, can’t hear you! Where the fuck is he?”

The kid was hysterical, shouting and crying, snot and blood running from his nose.

“Silence!” I shouted, in my best parade ground voice. It worked. The only sounds were the background crashing and screaming from the rest of the house, and the snivelling of the figure on the floor.

The four cops looked at me, expectantly. It was obvious they didn’t appreciate my interruption, but I hoped they would appreciate my rank.

“Is this the suspect?”

The four shuffled a bit, looking down at the mess of humanity lying on the floor. They shook their heads like naughty schoolchildren accused of stealing apples.

“Right, out. Now! Exit this flat, now!” I grabbed one by the arm, the one with the most braid on his shoulder boards. “
Oberwachtmeister
, I want all the residents of this building gathered in the backyard. No need for any more searching of the premises, just the people. Out there, now.”

“Yes, Comrade First Lieutenant!” he snarled, roughly pulling his arm free from my grasp.

“Move! Oh, and
Oberwachtmeister
? It’s Captain now.”

The cop didn’t look back, just moved down the corridor at a fast pace, already bawling orders. He stopped, shuffled around in the mess on the floor with his boot, then stooped and picked up some papers. He turned, and came back to me. I was still at the end of the corridor, watching him.

“Herr
Oberwachtmeister
,” I started, deliberately not calling him comrade. “What’s the name of the person we’re looking for?”

“Fremdiswalde, Comrade Captain.”

I’d been too slow. Fremdiswalde was registered at this address—I’d even seen it in his files. And there was obviously some connection between Fremdiswalde and Maier—Fremdiswalde had been to school in Hoyerswerda, which is where Maier was based before the revolution. Then there was the fingerprints on the papers from Maier’s pockets. What had the Minister said?
A lovers’ tiff
.

“Dismiss!”

Before he turned and went, he pressed the bundle of papers into my hand. Without looking I rolled them up and put them in my jacket pocket, then turned my attention to the boy on the floor. His nose was still dripping, but the snivelling had turned into a heavy panting. I looked round the kitchen, found a paper bag with some dried bread crusts in it. Tipping them out I held it to the boy’s mouth, being careful to avoid the blood and snot. His breathing calmed, and he turned himself onto his back. A look of fear, then hostility crept into his eyes, the same hard look that I’d just been given by Karo.

“What’s your name?”

There was no answer. It didn’t feel like I was going to get far with my questioning, but I tried again anyway.

“Where’s Fremdiswalde?”

The kid’s face screwed itself into a grimace, and he spat blood out onto the floor. He was sitting up now, leaning against a kitchen cupboard.

“Gone. Not here. You won’t find him here.”

“When did he go?”

“Cleared out last night, in a bit of a hurry. He’s gone.”