Stasi 77

by David Young

  They weren’t sacks. but piled up bodies.

  And then we saw his face.

  It was staring at us. Hollowed eyes, hollowed cheeks: a skeleton covered by parchment-like skin. Almost unrecognisable as a human form.

  Yet we knew straightaway that it was him.

  I saw a movement. A clawing hand, making slow grasping motions.

  Not from Grégoire, but from the body above.

  The man was still alive. He had been dumped there to die.

  As we watched, the clawing stopped. He had breathed his last breath.

  *

  Grief is a strange thing. You need space for it. You need time. You need energy to grieve. We didn’t have that space or time. We certainly didn’t have the energy.

  I thought back to our days as young boys, playing our own version of petanque amongst the oyster beds.

  Eating the contents of the oysters, raw and whole. Savouring the taste of the ocean, the texture like the white of a fried egg, and the slightly metallic tang. And then using one of the smaller empty shells as the piglet ball, and the larger ones as our boules. Of course, we should have let our little brother win occasionally. We never did. Brothers can be cruel like that, and Grégoire would often end up in tears.

  Remembering his tears finally start mine, later, when we are back in the tunnel. But I do not have time to cry or stop work. There is a crash of the Kapo’s baton on my back, and a shout of ‘Work, you French piece of shit!’ I know Marcellin would defend me if he dared. But if he did, the punishment for him would be even harsher.

  *

  For both of us, Grégoire’s death was a turning point. The hope has gone. It’s been extinguished. Whatever happened, we would never be that team of three brothers again. So we no longer care. And because we no longer care, we are dangerous. We are dangerous and can start to fight back. What more can they do to us?

  *

  We manage to stick together in the same work Kommando. After the tunnels were finished, we somehow get one of the easier jobs as welders through our knowledge of mending fishing nets, and generally repairing things. For some reason, we French are trusted more than the Russians, who tend to be kept on the manual, unskilled tasks.

  And as welders, we begin to take risks.

  Nothing is spoken, there is no organisation down here in the work tunnels, no system for undermining the Reich. But that is still our aim.

  I notice Marcellin doing it first. The quality of the welded seams of the rockets is often poor. Perhaps deliberately so, as a result of sabotage further down the line. Our job is to strengthen these seams with rivets or spot welding.

  But it is easy enough to hide a missing spot weld with the slag from the electrodes.

  That’s what we do. Again, again and again. Hoping that by our little actions these weapons of mass destruction will fail on launch, or fail in mid-air, before they can complete their murderous intent.

  This is how we will avenge Grégoire.

  It isn’t much. But it is the best we can do.

  10

  July 1977

  Karl-Marx-Stadt, East Germany

  Müller sorted her family problems via a call to Oberst Reiniger, her People’s Police boss back in the Hauptstadt. He agreed to get his secretary to sort the necessary plane seats and travel warrants for Helga and Müller’s children. It meant Müller felt less guilty, and that she could concentrate all her mental resources on the current case. And the current case had just widened, thanks to a Telex delivered to her by Elke Drescher.

  ‘Your national appeal to other police districts about similar murders seems to have come up trumps already,’ she said.

  Müller eagerly snatched the note from Drescher’s hands.

  ‘Leinefelde?’

  Drescher nodded.

  ‘But that must be more than two hundred kilometres away?’

  ‘More like two hundred and fifty. Around two and half hours by car. Not far from the state border.’

  Müller sat back in her chair, her hands clasped together on her lap. ‘At the back of my mind, there’s something clicking about Leinefelde.’

  ‘The answer’s in the name,’ said Drescher. ‘It literally means linen fields.’

  ‘Of course!’ Müller clicked her fingers, then ran them over her cotton blouse. ‘It’s another new town, isn’t it? Another socialist city.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Drescher. ‘Built around a cotton-spinning mill.’

  *

  Drescher stayed behind to lead the investigation at the Karl-Marx-Stadt end. Jonas Schmidt had unfinished business with the forensics there too.

  So it was left to Müller and Tilsner to set off for Leinefelde. Their route took them on the motorway north of Leipzig, then through the centre of Halle. Müller realised Tilsner was taking her right through Halle-Neustadt – along the raised roadway with its giant street lamps that looked like something from a spaceport, and then over the Saale river, and straight along the Magistrale – the main road that bisected this new city. It was a city where Müller’s life had changed for ever. Awful things had happened here, and she had been at the centre of them. But the end result had been two little miracles in the shape of Jannika and Johannes – the children that doctor after doctor had said she’d never be able to have after what had happened to her at the police college all those years ago. Some things she didn’t want to remember, but her twins had changed her life. Thanks to Reiniger, they would soon be on a plane high above Bulgaria, or one of the other friendly socialist countries, on an Interflug flight to Schönefeld. She just hoped they – and her grandmother – would arrive back in the Hauptstadt safe and sound.

  *

  As they approached Leinefelde, Tilsner seemed to snap out of whatever troubles were weighing him down.

  ‘Are you aware of the history of this area?’

  Müller stared at him blankly. ‘What do you mean?’

  Her deputy took one hand off the Wartburg’s steering wheel and made a sweeping gesture. ‘All this was once countryside. The Eichsfeld. A very poor region, cut off from the larger cities on the other side of the state border. Our leaders were worried it might be a centre of revolt and insurrection.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the glue that brought the area together was religion. Catholicism held sway rather than socialism. The idea of building the cotton mill here – of developing Leinefelde into an industrial centre – was to break the grip of the Catholic church.’

  Müller gave a doubtful look. ‘Why’s that relevant to our inquiry?’

  Tilsner shrugged as he drove. ‘It might not be relevant at all. But you said the Stasi didn’t want you asking about Herr Ronnebach’s past. If he was linked to the cotton mill at Sachsenburg, maybe he also had some link here. Here you would have a motive: church leaders who didn’t want their grip on power broken.’

  The theory sounded a big and fanciful leap to Müller. But she nodded thoughtfully, more for show than anything else. At least Tilsner seemed to be engaging in their work again. What she needed was a fully functioning deputy, not someone in a perpetual sulk over his girlfriend troubles.

  *

  Leinefelde was like Halle-Neustadt in miniature. Block after block of concrete slab apartments, and on one side of the new town, the cotton mill. Their destination, though, was just beyond the main Kaufhalle and shopping centre: Leinefelde People’s Police office.

  Tilsner had radioed ahead from the car, and an officer was waiting to show them an allocated car parking space. Once they’d parked, he ushered them into the building.

  ‘I’ll take you straight to Hauptmann Ingersleben. He’s expecting you.’

  The officer led them to the first floor of the four-storey block, and then knocked on a door.

  ‘Enter,’ barked a voice from inside.

  ‘Comrades Müller and Tilsner from the Serious Crimes Department in the Hauptstadt are here, Comrade Ingersleben,’ said the officer.

  ‘Aha. Good.’ A sharply dressed man with
a wide blue tie, white shirt, and neatly pressed blue-grey suit rose from behind his desk to greet them, extending his hand to Müller. ‘Dolphus Ingersleben. I’m head of the murder commission here.’

  ‘Major Karin Müller, and this is my deputy, Werner Tilsner.’

  ‘Please. Sit down,’ said Ingersleben, gesturing to two seats opposite his, with his desk in between. ‘Did you have a good journey from the Hauptstadt?’

  ‘It’s actually Karl-Marx-Stadt that we’ve come from,’ said Müller. ‘But yes, a clear run. Lovely weather and little traffic.’

  Ingersleben smiled. ‘Of course. The murder at Sachsenburg that you wanted to compare to any other similar murders. I think ours fits the bill. To be honest, we had it down as an accidental death to start with. In fact it was the Stasi who’d investigated it. We got involved somewhat fortuitously – otherwise it might always have remained an accident.’ He opened a file on his desk, and drew out a photo, then rotated it for Müller and Tilsner’s benefit. Tilsner picked it up for a closer look, then placed it down quickly.

  Ingersleben seemed to stare hard at her deputy for a moment, before continuing. ‘Herr Ingo Höfler. He is – or rather was – the managing director of the VEB Baumwollspinnerei Leinefelde – the cotton-spinning mill you may have seen on your way here. It’s the biggest employer around here, with several thousand workers.’ Ingersleben slid across another photograph from the file, and again turned it towards the two Berlin detectives. ‘And this is how he was found, slumped on the factory floor, overcome by smoke.’

  This time Müller picked up the photograph, then immediately recoiled. At first glance, the similarity with Ronnebach’s death in the Sachsenburg mill was uncanny.

  Höfler’s body – like Ronnebach’s – had been found by a closed exit doorway. His arms were clawing out, as though he was desperately scrabbling to escape.

  She offered the photo to Tilsner. He glanced at it for a moment, shook his head, and replaced it on the table.

  ‘So, Comrade Ingersleben, why are you now certain this was a murder?’ asked Müller.

  Ingersleben stroked his chin. ‘Well, it was soon obvious that arson was involved – that the fire was set deliberately. We’re very near the state border here as you know. It’s a sensitive area. Before the factory and all the apartments for workers were built, there were fears that this area could be a centre of revolt against the state, fomented by the church. This was the Ministry for State Security’s reasoning for why they should take control of the case. We initially didn’t get a look in.’

  Tilsner gave Müller a knowing look, no doubt pleased that the theory he’d espoused on the journey was being echoed back to them.

  ‘What changed?’ asked Müller.

  ‘Well, I don’t think the Stasi could find any real evidence of a plot. So they lost interest.’ Ingersleben paused, and leant back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. ‘Also it’s mainly a rural area, apart from pockets of industry like here in Leinefelde, so pathologists are rather thin on the ground. We have to share one with the Ministry for State Security. And our friendly pathologist didn’t particularly like the way this arson attack was being portrayed as simply a grudge by so-called counter-revolutionaries. You see, to the pathologist, it was clear that Herr Höfler was the target.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Müller, though she suspected she knew the answer.

  ‘His hands and feet had been lashed together. All the doors to the factory unit where he was found were locked from the outside. He wasn’t meant to escape . . . and he didn’t. I gather that is a very similar modus operandi to your murder in Sachsenburg.’

  ‘It’s uncannily similar,’ said Müller. ‘The hallmarks of some sort of ritualistic killing.’

  Tilsner leant forward in his chair, his hands on his knees. ‘Could someone have borne a grudge against Herr Höfler to do with the factory? Perhaps someone who’d lost their job?’

  ‘We’ve looked into that,’ said Ingersleben. ‘And drawn a blank amongst the employees. You have to do something pretty awful to lose your job in the Republic, as you’re no doubt well aware.’

  ‘But you say this area was mostly countryside before the factory and town were built?’ continued Tilsner.

  ‘That’s right. Leinefelde existed – but it was little more than a village.’

  ‘And the land the mill was built on?’ asked Tilsner.

  ‘Farmland, I would think,’ said Ingersleben.

  ‘At one time, no doubt owned by a farmer who then lost his land.’ Tilsner slapped his hand on the desk. ‘There’s your possible motive. And it fits in with the Sachsenburg murder too. The victim there was involved in the decision to nationalise that mill.’

  Ingersleben looked doubtful. Müller was too. Tilsner was just a little too eager to push them down one line of inquiry when they should – at this stage – be keeping an open mind.

  11

  When she went to question Herr Höfler’s widow, Müller toyed with the idea of leaving Tilsner behind. The fact that the Ministry for State Security here in Leinefelde hadn’t yet twigged what she was up to gave her a slight window of opportunity to find out information without the presence of a Stasi agent obstructing any of her questions. In the end, though, she decided to take her deputy. Tilsner had never let her down before, not when it really mattered. She wanted him concentrating on the task, not sulking about whatever it was that was getting him down.

  The Höfler residence was a half-timbered, mediaeval-looking house, that appeared to have once been a private farm, just off the main road towards Worbis, to the north of Leinefelde itself.

  As they parked, Tilsner echoed what Müller had been thinking. ‘A farmhouse, a former farm, built on farmland and now occupied by the head of a state cotton mill. Plenty of potential motives there.’

  ‘Perhaps, Werner. But let’s not prejudge things,’ replied Müller.

  *

  After the introductions, Frau Höfler led them into a spacious, rustic kitchen, and offered them coffee. The middle-aged woman’s hands shook as she poured into three mug-like cups, and offered two of them to the detectives. She gestured to the wooden kitchen table.

  ‘We can talk here, if that’s all right. I’ve been struggling a bit since Ingo passed away. But I want to help if I can.’

  ‘You understand why we’re taking an interest?’ asked Müller.

  ‘Well . . . I was told by the police here that things might not have been how they first appeared with Ingo’s death, yes?’

  Müller took a sip of the coffee. It was the real thing – clearly the Höflers didn’t have to rely on Kaffee Mix. Then she stared hard at the woman. ‘We want to know as much as possible about your husband to enable us to get to the bottom of all this.’

  The woman frowned in confusion, her faced framed by a mass of dyed blonde hair, permed into tight curls. ‘Well, I said everything I could to the Ministry for State Security and then later the police in Leinefelde.’

  Tilsner sighed. ‘We’ll need to go over it all again. Can you think of anyone who may have wished your husband harm?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know all his business. We tried to keep our work and private lives separate. It was a bit of a rule.’

  As Tilsner continued to question the woman, Müller found herself losing concentration and scanning the room. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but her eyes were drawn to a dresser, and the centre shelf which held a framed photo of a young-looking couple.

  ‘I must say,’ said Tilsner, ‘this house of yours is lovely. It’s more like something you’d expect in the West.’ Müller could hear the accusatory note in his voice, as she got up to study the photograph more closely. ‘How did you come to acquire it?’

  The question hung in the air without answer, as Müller picked up the framed photograph and studied it more closely. It showed a young couple outside an ivy-clad historic town hall, with a steep red-tiled roof punctuated by low dormer windows, above a grand-looking firs
t floor which in turn straddled the arches of a colonnade at ground level.

  ‘Who’s this?’ asked Müller. From what she could tell, the photo was taken in the 1930s.

  ‘That’s myself and Ingo, of course, just before we were married.’

  Tilsner got up to study the photo too.

  Müller looked for clues about the location. ‘Where was it tak—’

  There was a sudden roar of car engines and then furious braking coming from outside. The three of them peered out of the kitchen window as there was a hammering on the kitchen door.

  Frau Höfler went to open it, and Müller tried to repeat the question. ‘Where, Frau Höfler? I need to know. Now!’ While the woman’s back was turned, she quickly removed the photo from the frame, and slipped it under her jacket.

  ‘Hang on,’ said the woman. She opened the door.

  Müller almost didn’t believe who was standing there. Why is he here again? Always interfering. Always controlling everything I try to do.

  Her sometime nemesis.

  Her sometime saviour.

  Oberst Klaus Jäger of the Ministry for State Security.

  *

  The sudden intrusion by the Stasi seemed to reawaken Frau Höfler’s grief. Jäger instructed a female agent to sit with her at the kitchen table, while barking orders to other officers – apparently sealing off the farmhouse. Then he ushered Müller and Tilsner into the lounge.

  He was dressed neatly, with collar-length sandy hair. Immediately, he slipped into the suave patter that always reminded Müller of the smooth-voiced news presenters of West German TV – something that, as a major with the People’s Police, she wasn’t even supposed to watch.

  ‘Sorry about all this, Karin and Werner. We’ve received new information about both the Höfler killing here, and the one of Ronnebach near Karl-Marx-Stadt, which means we’re having to take over both cases.’ The Stasi colonel looked apologetic. Müller knew he wasn’t.

  ‘I’ll need to check what you have said with Keibelstrasse, Comrade Oberst.’ It was futile to put up any resistance, but she had to at least go through the motions. ‘Oberst Reiniger may not agree with this.’