Stasi 77

by David Young

  When then train sets off again an hour or so later, his body is still there.

  Ignored.

  Just left to rot by the side of the platform.

  Even the Germans have had enough. They can’t be bothered to clear up their own waste. For that is surely what this dead prisoner is to them; simply more detritus of war, another heap of rubbish at the side of the line.

  *

  When the fighter-bombers attack, it almost comes as a surprise. We hear the whine of the diving engines first, then simultaneously feel and hear the sound of the explosions and feel the hot air blast towards us. We cover our heads with our hands as debris rains down, praying there won’t be a direct hit on our wagon.

  Marcellin looks weaker with every passing hour. He tugs at my arm.

  ‘Maybe we can escape under cover of the attack?’ he hisses, a frantic look in his eyes.

  I look through my gap in the wall boards. It looks like some prisoners have done just that. As the bombers continue to dive down and attack, I see a machine-gun toting German open fire, towards the train.

  That’s what happens if you try to escape, I think.

  In the confusion the guards open the wagons, and we are herded outside like the animals they think we are. I have to help Marcellin down from the wagon. His face is contorted in pain. I’ve fashioned him a sling from one of my blankets, as much to stop his arm moving and facing more pain than anything else. So he has only one good arm.

  I spy some prisoners making their escape and others being rounded up. Others are shot in the back of the head. I know Marcellin won’t be able to run. We just have to bide our time.

  Once the raid is over, prisoners from the wagons where people have been strafed or killed by explosions or shrapnel are forced to bury their dead themselves, in a common grave by the side of the track.

  We sit huddled by the trackside. Up ahead we can see the locomotive, badly damaged in the attack. We won’t be going anywhere in a hurry.

  *

  Eventually they sort out a new locomotive, we’re herded back into our wagon, and we set off again. But we can only have gone three or four kilometres further down the track when there’s another air raid warning.

  We’re allowed off the train to shelter. No attack materialises, but in the confusion, more prisoners try to escape. Some are shot as they try to make a run for it – including the Polish man who discovered the body in our wagon.

  His body, like that of his colleague, is left in the open to rot.

  I wonder if that will be the eventual fate of Marcellin and me. But for now we are alive. In his case, only just.

  19

  July 1977

  The train from Magdeburg to Berlin, East Germany

  Tilsner was slowly becoming aware that he was being watched. At first he’d dismissed it as paranoia. After three killings, he had every reason to be paranoid. He moved carriages. The man moved too.

  Perhaps it was a Stasi agent, simply giving him a message that he was being observed. That was one of their tricks. To make you start to doubt yourself. Tilsner knew, because he’d had the training. Thankfully, he’d worked himself a comfortable little number in the criminal division of the police, with a boss who he generally enjoyed working with, and who knew he had divided loyalties. She knew by now he supplied some information to the Ministry for State Security. That was the hold Jäger and others had over him – just as he had a hold over them.

  He got out his notebook and pretended to study it, holding it up so that if he peeked over his notebook he could see who was tailing him. In some ways, if it was a Stasi agent giving him a ‘message’, putting the frighteners on him, then that was the least worst result. What Tilsner really feared was that this was the killer, and that he was stalking his next victim – Tilsner himself. But would the man really be so obvious?

  The man behind him suddenly got up from his seat and started walking down the carriage towards him. Tilsner quickly put the notebook away, got to his feet and moved rapidly in the other direction down the aisle. But where could he hide on a moving train? He had his Makarov in his holster anyway, and he was a good shot – even though he hadn’t had to use it since firing it in anger on the slopes of the Brocken more than two years earlier.

  He saw the toilet between the carriages was free, dived into it and locked the door. Then he flattened himself against the wall, pulled out the Makarov and released the safety catch.

  He felt his finger trembling on the trigger. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t fire until you are certain. Otherwise you’ll be serving, at the very least, a long jail term. It would be the end of everything. And – if he is a Stasi agent – the Stasi would surely liquidate me for doing away with one of their own.

  He waited, and waited. Nothing happened. Slowly his heartbeat started to settle. Maybe he was imagining it after all. This had all affected him badly. First, there had been the shock of seeing the face of Ronnebach, after more than thirty years. Then there had been the same shock about the man living as Ingo Höfler, although that wasn’t the name Tilsner knew him by. And there was now the man known as Schneider – who, even worse, had been killed where it all started. The old woman recognising him had been the final shock even though he didn’t recognise her. She’d even mentioned the ‘estate’ where he used to work as a teenager.

  Everything, everything was unravelling.

  Suddenly, there was an urgent rap on the door. Tilsner gripped the gun more firmly. He would have to confront whatever it was head on.

  He unlocked the door.

  A man in uniform stared at his gun in horror. Without lowering it, Tilsner got out his Kripo ID with his other hand. ‘Kriminalpolizei,’ he hissed, sotto voce. ‘Who exactly are you?’

  ‘I’m the train guard,’ said the uniformed man. ‘Could I see your ticket, please?’

  Tilsner lowered the gun, clicked the safety catch back on, and replaced the weapon in his holster. He started laughing to himself.

  The guard looked at him severely. He clearly didn’t get the joke.

  20

  Strausberger Platz, East Berlin

  Müller decided to take Reiniger up on his earlier offer to use the remainder of her leave. It would mean she could help Helga out before the twins went back to their crèche at the start of the new term. It also gave her a chance to spend some time with her family.

  Being taken off a case – especially one as intriguing and bizarre as the current one – for the second time in the space of days left her reassessing her future. She’d been reluctant to take this role to start with. It was the chance to try to solve interesting homicide cases on the ground that had persuaded her. Well, that and her new apartment.

  Helga was obviously out taking the twins for a walk by the time Müller got back. She made herself a coffee, and then wandered over to the lounge window. It was a side view, but she could see part of the impressive Strausberger Platz fountain from here, and then the majesty of Karl-Marx-Allee. Müller knew she was fortunate to have acquired an apartment here, especially one so large. When she’d separated from her doctor boyfriend Emil, the father of the twins, he had moved back into his hospital apartment. Yet she’d still been able to keep a three-bedroom apartment. And this was all due to her promotion to the head of the Special Crimes Department.

  But other than that one case in Senftenberg, Guben and Eisenhüttenstadt – at the very eastern border of the Republic – the job had resulted in frustration after frustration. She knew that if she quit she would lose this apartment. She might not even be able to stay in the Kriminalpolizei. But she couldn’t carry on being undermined and overruled by the Ministry for State Security. On top of that, her deputy Werner Tilsner appeared to have undergone a personality transplant. And the new Tilsner wasn’t someone she liked. If she resigned, she would miss Jonas Schmidt, and feel slightly guilty about letting him down. She couldn’t say the same about Tilsner. Not in his current mood. He insisted it was because of his nebulous ‘new girlfriend troubles’,
but Müller wasn’t so sure.

  *

  The sound of a key turning in the apartment front door lock immediately lifted Müller’s mood. She felt a lightness in her limbs and rushed to greet her little family.

  Jannika was first in the door, running on her tiny legs with a plastic flower windmill in her hand. Müller gathered her up and smothered her faces in kisses. Her daughter wiped her face.

  ‘Silly Mutti. Look flower.’ The girl offered the windmill toy to her mother, then her face fell and she immediately wanted it back.

  Helga then wheeled the double pushchair in, with Johannes still strapped inside. When he saw his mother, he started excitedly clapping his hands. ‘Mutti. Mutti.’

  Müller gently placed Jannika down on the floor, ruffling her blonde hair. The girl’s face looked as though tears might begin. Müller lifted Johannes and kissed his face, then crouched down to talk to Jannika. ‘Mutti loves both of you equally. She has to be fair.’ Johannes started tugging her hair. ‘Ow! You’re getting too strong, young man.’ She prised his hand away and got a slap in the face for her trouble.

  ‘He’s lively today,’ she said to Helga. ‘How have they been?’

  ‘Well, it will be nice when the crèche starts again after the summer,’ laughed her grandmother. ‘You’re back earlier than we expected.’

  ‘Earlier than I expected, too. I think my time as a policewoman might be drawing to a close.’

  ‘That bad? Do you want to talk about it?’

  Müller shook her head. ‘Not now. Perhaps later. Do you want a coffee?’ Then she sniffed the air. ‘Actually it smells like someone – possibly two someones – need changing. I’d better do that first. You go and put your feet up. I’ll prepare supper tonight.’

  *

  When Müller had cleared away the dishes, and read a picture book story to the twins before turning their light out, she joined Helga in the lounge.

  Her grandmother had put a bottle of Sekt on ice.

  ‘As you’ve got a few more days’ holiday, I thought we could celebrate.’ The popping of the cork startled Müller. Its echo around the cavernous room sounded almost like a gunshot. Perhaps it really was time to consider a new career. ‘And then,’ continued Helga, ‘we could be really naughty and watch Tatort. If you’re serious about leaving the police force, you won’t be getting into as much trouble for watching western television.’

  Müller grinned. ‘All right. But I hope I can actually watch it this time.’ The last time they’d both sat down with a glass of sparkling wine to watch the popular West German crime series, it had been interrupted by a newsflash about a bombing. The victim had been a politician deeply involved in the first case for Müller’s Serious Crimes Department.

  Helga tuned the TV in and they sat down to watch.

  Müller wagged her finger at her grandmother. ‘And remember. I’m only agreeing to this as long as you don’t go telling tales on me.’

  *

  The evening’s relaxation was followed by a deep sleep, and then at breakfast both the twins were in fine form. It started Müller’s day off on the right foot, and when Helga took the twins out to the park, she had a chance to tie up some loose ends. One of which was catching up with Jonas Schmidt. She’d last seen the forensic scientist in Karl-Marx-Stadt, but he would now be back in the lab at Keibelstrasse assisting on other matters. Even though they were now officially off the case, there was nothing to stop her getting him to bring her up to speed with his work. One of the things she’d asked him to do was to pinpoint which town was shown in the black and white photograph of the Höflers. In the confusion of the visit from the Stasi, she’d taken the photo from the frame when Frau Höfler had answered the door to Jäger, photocopied it at Leinefelde police headquarters, and then posted a copy to Schmidt at headquarters. She already knew the answer to the question. She’d seen the building with her own eyes. But it would do no harm to double check that Schmidt had reached the same conclusion.

  ‘Did you get back from Karl-Marx-Stadt safely, Jonas?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Comrade Major.’ Müller had never managed to persuade her Kriminaltechniker to drop the ‘Comrade this’, ‘Comrade that’ honorifics, despite her best intentions. ‘And I have the results of those things you asked me to check.’

  ‘Oh yes. What about that photo? Did you manage to find the town?’

  ‘Of course, Comrade Major. It’s Quedlinburg.’

  Müller nearly dropped the phone in surprise. It wasn’t like Schmidt to make a mistake, but she was sure he had. She’d seen the town hall with her own eyes. It was Gardelegen. She was sure she wasn’t mistaken.

  ‘You’re certain of that, Jonas?’

  There was silence for a moment at the end of the line. ‘Y . . . y . . . yes . . . Com . . . Comrade Major.’

  ‘What about the voice recordings of Herr Ronnebach and Herr Höfler? Have you had chance to study those, and compare them with regional accents?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Schmidt, almost snappily. To Müller, he sounded out of character. But perhaps it was the fact that she was talking to him over the phone, rather than face-to-face. ‘Both voices have inherited the regional characteristics of where the subjects were living for several years. So Herr Ronnebach’s is typical of the Karl-Marx-Stadt area, and Herr Höfler’s of Eichsfeld – the mainly Catholic area surrounding Leinefelde.’

  ‘So there was nothing to link the two men – no area where they’d both been living?’

  ‘Well, yes, there was, Comrade Major. There were traces of the distinctive accent of the northern Harz mountains.’

  Müller knew enough to be aware that Quedlinburg could be considered the northern Harz, although it was right on the edge. The only problem was she knew that Schmidt was mistaken about the location of the town hall. If that was the case, why did the voice analysis point to the same area? Either Höfler and Ronnebach didn’t – as Müller had initially suspected – have a link to the Gardelegen area. Or, and she found this hard to believe, Schmidt had made two separate mistakes. Three if you counted each of the two voice analyses. Either she was wrong, or he was wrong about something.

  ‘Look, Jonas, I’m on leave at the moment, but I was planning to pass by Alexanderplatz later. I’ll pop in to discuss things with you in person.’

  ‘A . . . a . . . as you wish, Comrade Major. But I thought our team had handed over to the Ministry for State Security? And you are on leave.’

  ‘We have handed over to the Stasi. That’s true. And I am on leave. I just want to stop by for a chat. I’ll take you out for lunch. Now that’s something you don’t usually turn down, do you, Jonas?’

  Schmidt was silent for a moment on the other end of the line. ‘You know me too well, Comrade Major.’

  21

  Later the same day, Töplitz, East Germany

  Jäger had summoned Tilsner to this meeting with a message delivered by a motorcycle messenger, no doubt a Stasi minion, thought Tilsner.

  The meeting place was a wooded area on the banks of the Havel river, near Töplitz, itself not far from Potsdam. Near enough the Hauptstadt for both of them to get there easily by car. Far enough away and quiet enough to hopefully deter prying eyes. That was what Tilsner assumed, anyway.

  The incident on the train – if indeed that was what it was – had unnerved him. Had he been followed and tailed? Now he wasn’t so sure that it was just his own paranoia.

  Jäger had chosen a meeting place at the end of a wooden boat jetty. Tilsner would have to make sure he never turned his back on the man, and he was ready to get the Makarov out at the slightest provocation. The guard on the train had been petrified when he’d done that in the carriage toilet.

  He was a few minutes late. He could already see Jäger standing at the end of the jetty, silhouetted by the setting sun. It would be very tempting to creep up behind him and simply push him in. The man had brought Tilsner – and Müller – nothing but trouble. They’d never really been friends. The
y were just bound by history, by circumstance. Tilsner chuckled to himself about Müller’s first experience of the Stasi colonel – then a mere lieutenant colonel – in the cemetery in Mitte, by the Wall, or as Karin preferred to call it, in her oh-so-correct fashion, the Anti-Fascist Protection Barrier. He’d had to hide the fact that he and Jäger were already well acquainted. He’d also hidden the fact that he’d been planted in Müller’s team, specifically because she was young, green and malleable. Jäger had certainly tried to mould her – but Tilsner guessed he’d been surprised that the young murder squad head was tougher, and savvier, than he had assumed. At the beginning she was green – that couldn’t be denied. In this latest case, she’d been getting far too near the heart of the matter, until the Stasi had intervened.

  ‘Hello, Werner.’ Jäger greeted him before he turned round. He’d obviously assumed it was Tilsner from the feel of his footfall on the wooden jetty.

  ‘Klaus.’

  Jäger turned to meet his gaze, a serious look on his face. ‘I think someone has it in for us. Both of us.’

  This wasn’t what Tilsner wanted to hear. He wanted reassurance. He wanted to know Jäger and his team were covering his back. He felt his pulse thundering in his ears.

  ‘You’ve got it under control, though, haven’t you?’

  ‘I thought so. Until I got to the fourth or fifth set of traffic lights on the way here. And pressed on the brake pedal.’

  Tilsner balled his hands into fists, and clenched them until his knuckles turned white.

  ‘It’s not very pleasant sailing through a red light when you’re expecting to brake. Luckily I was going slowly. The brakes were working when I set off, otherwise I’d have noticed. Someone must have sawed part-way through the brake lines, knowing they would fail sooner or later. But not be obvious to the driver straightaway. A professional job. The sort of job my agents do.’