by David Young
They started to leaf through the photographs together. Müller recognised the town hall, without its ivy cladding, behind a column of townspeople carrying white crosses on their shoulders.
‘That was around the time I was interviewed by the war crimes investigators. All the able-bodied men of the town were forced to carry a cross each and were marched up to the Isenschnibbe barn, carrying spades and shovels with their other hand to dig the victims out of the trenches the SS and paratroopers had buried them in, and give them a proper burial.’
Tilsner suddenly pointed in excitement at one of the photos of the digging.
‘There – that man in civilian clothes. That’s Höfler. He must have been from the Volkssturm. They were among those who had to rebury the dead.’
‘What about the other two?’
‘If Ronnebach was a paratroop officer, as I seem to remember, he would have either fled ahead of the American advance, to defend Berlin, or he would have been captured. Unterbrink, I don’t know.’
Müller felt reassured by Tilsner’s renewed cooperation. She could have insisted he came with her to the public call box outside the library, but at the end of the day, whatever had gone on in the past, he was still her deputy. Perhaps she ought to be prepared to trust him.
60
As soon as Müller returned to the main reading room of the library from the phone box, she knew something was wrong. Tilsner was nowhere to be seen. Her renewed trust in him had been misplaced.
She rushed towards the librarian. ‘Did you see which way my deputy went?’
‘He went off with another man, towards the front exit.’
Müller raced to the entrance and looked right and left. There was no sign of Tilsner and his mystery ‘friend’.
She rushed back to quiz the librarian again.
‘Did he look as though he went willingly?’
The librarian frowned. ‘I think so. They were laughing and joking. The man had his arm round your friend.’
‘They were both laughing and joking?’
The librarian’s frown deepened. ‘Wait a moment, no. Only the other man was, come to think of it.’
‘How were they holding each other?’
‘You’ve got to understand I only saw this from the corner of my eye. They seemed to stumble a little. I thought the other man might have had a little too much to drink.’
Or he was walking awkwardly because whoever it was had Tilsner in an armlock, concealing a gun held against his ribs? For Müller, her own imagined, unspoken scenario was the most likely. But was it Verbier, or someone else?
Müller immediately ran to the Lada, which was parked up outside, then radioed through to Hauptmann Janson.
‘Berti, can you put out an all-bulletins alert for my deputy, Hauptmann Werner Tilsner? It’s urgent. I think he’s been abducted at Gardelegen library, and I think his life may be in danger. I will meet up with you soon. And get one of your officers to interview the librarian and get a description of the man he was with. I should have done it, but I have one idea where he might have been taken.’
She cut off the link before Janson could ask where that was. Perhaps he would guess anyway. The one place that bound together Verbier, Jäger and Tilsner – although only the former had carried that name when they first met there in terrible circumstances.
The last remaining portion of the wall of the Isenschnibbe barn.
At the memorial to the dead.
*
As Müller accelerated out of Gardelegen towards the north-west, playing in her head were the imagined scenes from 13 April 1945, overlaid on the real vista before her through the car windscreen, and the photos of the aftermath and burial she’d viewed with Tilsner in the library minutes earlier.
She imagined the pitiful march from the cavalry school, with the convoy of wagons carrying those prisoners unable to walk. The prisoners in their zebra-like striped clothing, who’d already endured the death marches around Gardelegen, and before that the cruelty of the labour camps, and the inhuman conditions on the rail transport to the north and east.
As the silhouette of the last remaining wall of the barn started to take shape on the horizon, her mind took her back to a day a few weeks before she herself had been conceived. When crazed, fanatical followers of one of the most vicious tyrants to ever walk the earth set fire to the straw in that barn, and roasted the occupants alive. However it played out, she knew that this investigation would stay with her for ever.
Müller parked the car at the end of the lane that led to the memorial, out of sight of anyone who might already be there. Then she climbed a farm gate, and followed the fence line in a crouch, trying to make herself as invisible as possible.
At the entrance to the memorial grounds, she could see the silhouettes of at least three cars. One of them was sleeker, more pointed than the other two, with an aerofoil interrupting the gentle slope of its hatchback rear door. In profile, it looked a little like a space rocket.
She immediately recognised it as something different from any of the Republic’s models, or even any of the usual imports from the West, rare though they were.
It was a French-manufactured Citroën CX, belonging to former labour camp inmate Philippe Verbier.
The man she’d assumed was her murder suspect.
But she was no longer sure.
*
Four figures were gathered by the memorial, but it wasn’t until she drew closer that their faces became clear enough to identify.
One was Verbier himself. One was Jäger. And one was Tilsner. The fourth man was in profile so she couldn’t recognise him from this distance although he seemed vaguely familiar. With horror, she realised what he was doing: holding a gun to the side of Tilsner’s head.
To get any closer, to hear what they were saying and to identify this fourth man, she risked giving herself away.
But it had to be done.
She reached into her shoulder holster and drew out the Makarov. Then as quietly and slowly as possible, she released the safety catch, trying to hold it back with her finger to avoid it snapping and revealing her position.
This field had been left fallow as meadow, rather than ploughed. She dropped to her stomach and edged forwards along the ground, a little like she’d seen East German and Soviet troops doing on news reports of their big exercises near the state border – imagining an invasion from the West.
She reached the edge of the field.
On the other side of the wall in front of her were the four men.
To her left-hand side was a bush. She used it to shield herself as she stretched to full height, straining to hear the conversation, and to see the identity of the man holding the gun.
She risked one peek from behind the foliage.
Immediately, the blood chilled in her veins, despite the oppressive summer heat which was causing beads of sweat to form on her forehead.
She knew the man.
She’d seen his photograph when investigating his son’s activities in the Guben medical experiments case. His son was Jan Winkler.
He was Comrade Generalmajor Winkler, one of the most powerful men in the Ministry for State Security.
The Stasi.
*
As she strained to hear, slowly the words he was saying began to take shape.
‘It’s up to you now, Verbier. I had to choose who to shoot all those years ago. Now you can choose. Who’s going to be first? But to be clear, there is no point getting your hopes up. None of you are getting out of here alive – except, perhaps, you, if I decide to spare you. But then you will be going to jail for the murders of Ronnebach, Höfler, Unterbrink and Schneider. And for the killing of these two gentlemen here. So that would almost certainly be the death sentence.’
Then Müller heard Jäger’s voice. It was higher pitched than normal. Faster. Panicked. ‘Don’t be an idiot, Winkler. You’ll never get away with this.’
‘Don’t call him Winkler,’ spluttered Tilsner. ‘Let’s give him h
is real name. Willi Pfeiffer. Sadistic little Willi Pfeiffer. You know he’s the one who killed Marcellin, don’t you, Philippe?’
‘Shut up, Tilsner. Otherwise I’ll shoot now.’
‘I know,’ said Verbier. ‘But you will find no evidence for me killing the four you mention. I only found out about poor Lothar the other day. Was that you, Pfeiffer?’
‘All of it was him,’ said Jäger. ‘He was worried that you really were about to pick us off one by one because of your notes. Only a few people knew who he really was so he decided to eliminate those who knew. That’s why you asked us to meet you here, Winkler, isn’t it? To eliminate the remaining three who knew all about your role at Isenschnibbe.’
‘Shut up, Klaus.’
There was a moment’s silence. Müller considered her options. Was she a good enough shot to take out Winkler without hitting Tilsner? She’d had the training. She risked one more look over the wall from behind the bush, before crouching down again. She couldn’t be sure. Winkler still had her deputy held tightly against him. It was too risky.
‘In any case we have the evidence against you, Verbier,’ Winkler continued. ‘The notes you wrote to Ronnebach, Höfler, Unterbrink, myself, and Jäger and Tilsner here were all typed on French manufactured paper, with ink from a French typewriter ribbon. That’s pretty damning, don’t you think?’ Although she was concentrating on getting a clear line of sight – without taking out Tilsner as collateral – Müller couldn’t help thinking back to the blue French envelope in Martin Ronnebach’s weekend cottage. It hadn’t contained a lover’s letter. It must have been one of these notes.
‘I didn’t send any notes to Günther or Harald. I owe them my life. Why would I try to scare them? You must have faked those two. I hold my hands up to the note to you and the other three – but my revenge was just psychological. I wanted to scare, not kill. I just wanted some of you who’d got off scot-free to get a feel for some of the terror and cruelty that you meted out on others. That didn’t include these two. I would never stoop to the level of a Nazi like yourself. You probably still have a photo of the Führer in your bedroom, don’t you?’
‘Shut up, Verbier. Otherwise it’s you first.’
There was a moment’s silence. Then Müller heard the safety catch of a gun being released.
Winkler’s voice spoke again: ‘Kneel down there!’
Müller risked raising her head above the wall again, partially shielding herself behind the bush. She brought the Makarov up, aiming at Winkler. He was standing behind Tilsner, who was now kneeling on the ground. But she hesitated, her finger on the trigger. She still didn’t feel confident enough to target Winkler, without hitting Tilsner.
‘Don’t do it, Winkler,’ shouted Jäger. As he did, Verbier calmly walked between the kneeling Tilsner, and Winkler’s raised pistol. He was protecting Tilsner – just as Tilsner, or rather Günther Palitzsch, had protected him thirty-two years ago. Protecting Müller’s deputy with his own body.
Now, if Müller fired, she would almost certainly hit the Frenchman as well. She crouched down again, and moved a few metres sideways along the wall separating her and the field she was in from the memorial. She had to find a better angle to fire from.
Verbier challenged Winkler. ‘You’d better do what you wanted to do all those years ago, then. You’ll have to kill me, if you want to kill him.’
Müller estimated she’d crawled enough metres now to have changed her angle of fire. She didn’t have the bush as cover any more. She raised herself with the gun pointed at Winkler.
In that instant, Jäger saw her, and shouted out: ‘No, Karin!’
Winkler turned to train the gun on her. He was too late, but by turning became the target Müller had trained for at the police university.
She had eight bullets in her Makarov. She needed just one.
A single bullet. Aimed at the lower portion of the so-called T-zone – the line between Winkler’s eyes and the tip of his nose.
It happened instantaneously, but appeared almost in slow motion.
Like a feature film slowed down.
But this was real, and in real time, the bullet slammed into the soft tissue and cartilage. There was an explosion of blood, and then – Müller knew from her training – the bullet penetrated the lower brain stem, the medulla oblongata.
The sounds of the shot echoed around the monument grounds, and off the remaining wall of the death barn.
Winkler’s cries were strangled in his throat as he slumped to the ground. It was then that Müller noticed two other guns on the floor by his side, presumably from disarming Tilsner and Jäger.
Jäger moved to check Winkler’s body for life.
Tilsner locked eyes with Müller, as Verbier helped him up from his kneeling position. She could see her deputy’s whole body shaking from the fear and shock. ‘Thank you,’ he mouthed. Müller didn’t respond.
Then – from the corner of her eye – Müller saw Jäger make a move for his own gun.
‘Freeze!’ shouted Müller. ‘All three of you. Put your hands above your heads.’
She knew she still had seven of the Makarov’s eight bullets left. She was prepared to use them if necessary.
*
Someone must have heard the gunshot. The sound of police sirens was growing closer – probably from Hauptmann Janson’s team, alerted to the shooting by a member of the public. Either that, or Janson had worked things out for himself.
‘We need to sort this mess out, Karin,’ said Jäger. ‘The police will be here in a moment. There’s not much time.’
She still had her gun trained on the three of them.
‘I don’t trust you. Or him.’ She waved her gun towards Tilsner. ‘And I saw you threatening Verbier. Both of you. I have those photographs. Tilsner had him in an armlock.’
The Frenchman intervened now in a calm voice. ‘You’re mistaken, officer, I’m afraid. Yes, we all met here the other night. But it was partly an explanation on my behalf – partly a reunion. What you interpreted as aggression from Günther and Harald . . . well, I should say Werner and Klaus, wasn’t that at all. We were hugging each other, after I’d told them what had been going on. It was the first time we’d seen each other since that day. The day they saved my life. But we were scared, yes. I’d heard about Lothar by then. They told me about the other murders – and I realised for the first time that I would be the prime suspect, because I had sent those three threatening notes, other than the note to Lothar. If you thought you saw us arguing, it was probably heated discussions because we all feared we might be the next one to be killed.’
If Jäger or Tilsner had tried to make a fine speech, Müller knew she would have ignored it and arrested them. But with Verbier, this was something different. She knew there was no fingerprint match. Perhaps she had misinterpreted the photographs, and seen what she wanted to see.
She lowered the Makarov, slid the safety catch back into place, and started to return it to her shoulder holster.
‘No,’ said Jäger. ‘Give me your gun. I can sort this out. You know I can.’
The sound of the police sirens were getting even nearer. They had only seconds left.
If Müller was going to do this, she wanted things to be as safe as possible. She emptied the remaining bullets, and then handed the weapon to the Stasi colonel.
‘You go and stand on the lane and head off the police. Make sure they don’t come too near. Tell them there has been one casualty and ask them to call for an ambulance. But tell them the Ministry for State Security is dealing with the incident.’
Before she turned towards the lane, Müller watched Jäger wipe her prints from the Makarov, and then saw him curling Winkler’s lifeless fingers around the grip and trigger, pressing the flesh firmly against the metal to create a new set of fingerprints. Then he arranged Winkler’s dead arm so to appear as if he had fired Müller’s gun at himself.
Somehow, he had disarmed a police officer, and then used her gun to commit suicide.
It ensured Müller and the Kriminalpolizei were kept completely out of the equation. If you thought about it, it didn’t make any sense.
Of course, no one would have the chance to think about it, to question it, to find out what had really happened.
Because this was the Stasi at work, constructing a lie.
Müller knew it was what they did best.
*
After Jäger’s work was done, and he’d handed over to the local Stasi, he invited Müller and Tilsner for a drink. Jäger said that Verbier had been allowed to return to his hotel, to his fire prevention work, and eventually back to France. There would be no action taken against him in relation to the threatening notes, confirmed the Stasi colonel.
She didn’t want to go drinking with former Nazis. Especially in the town where they lived. But that apparently wasn’t what the Stasi colonel meant – the drink would be once they had arrived back in the Hauptstadt. Müller agreed – but only because she wanted to spell out a few home truths to them.
*
She waited in the bar for the chance to speak to each of them alone. When Jäger went off to make a phone call, that presented the first opportunity.
She stared hard at her deputy. ‘You realise I can’t just sweep this all under the carpet and carry on.’
‘I’d warn you against trying to expose us. Jäger could turn very nasty.’
‘I’m not worried about him.’ And Müller realised that this was true, probably for the first time since meeting him at the start of the graveyard girl case. She no longer felt that frisson of fear in his presence. ‘And I’m not worried about you. I won’t be working with you ever again.’ Then she lowered her voice. ‘I refuse to have a Nazi for my deputy, but that won’t be an issue anyway.’
