Thoughts Are Free

by Max Hertzberg

  “I wish I knew what to do.” Katrin was crying now. The tears came suddenly, they shocked me. She hadn’t cried last Sunday when we’d talked about this. I hadn’t seen her cry since 1989 when she followed in her mother’s footsteps, leaving the GDR. In that year she’d grown up, our relationship had equalised: no longer a father and a daughter, the adult providing protection, advice and support to the child, but two adults, there for each other. More than that in fact, Katrin had become, in some ways, the stronger of the pair of us. To see her cry was hard for me. I went round the table, stood next to Katrin’s chair and put my arms round her shoulders. She wrapped her arms around me, and we held each other tight.

  A slight cough. “Am I interrupting?”

  I turned my head to see Karo standing at the door of the kitchen, looking even more dishevelled than usual.

  We left Katrin to her breakfast and headed Eastwards. Katrin had insisted that we go, she said she had a lecture, and didn’t I have a job to go to anyway? So we left the flat, making our way down the dingy staircase of Katrin’s tenement block, spent bulbs in the lamps, nicotine yellow gloss paint on the walls, worn lino on the steps. Along the side-street and into Skalitzer Strasse, following the U-Bahn viaduct where the orange trains rumble over the corroded structure. We were walking in silence, I was thinking about my daughter. She had been embarrassed by her crying, I decided. She was like her mother in that way.

  Like her father, too.

  But I was glad we were talking to each other. We weren’t very good at sharing feelings even though we’d learned that we had to use whatever time we had together. There was no knowing when circumstance would divide us again.

  “Martin! Earth calling Martin! Come in all cosmonauts!”

  I’d stopped walking, Karo was shouting at me from in front of the checkpoint at the Wall. Before catching up with her I took a look around me. I decided that Kreuzberg wasn’t all that great, it looked as run-down and unloved as most of East Berlin.

  But Karo was still waiting for me, right next to the Wall that blocked off the western end of the Oberbaum Bridge. A squat guard tower peeked at us, the corrugated iron roof rusting into holes, windows covered by bars. To the right the rail viaduct crossed over the bridge, but the tracks were cut by several fences and a concrete wall.

  We ducked through the gate and walked over the bridge, looking downriver towards the East Side Wagenburg. I couldn’t see it clearly from here, it was just a bit too far away, but I knew it as a stinking place, rubbish piled high between trucks and wagons, people lying around in a drunken or drugged haze. A real contrast to the gardens and washing lines of the Lohmühle.

  But my mind was still turning over the events of last Friday night. If the smugglers’ main delivery was to be downstream of this bridge then the only feasible landing place would be the East Side: all fences already removed, no wall at the water’s edge, no watchtowers between this bridge and the next, the perfect place for smugglers to land.

  “Karo, what do you reckon, the East Side Wagenburg—good place for smugglers to bring their stuff in?”

  Karo stopped and leant against the railing, gazing downriver. “Yeah. Suppose so. Why?”

  Karo

  I was standing with Martin on the Oberbaum Bridge, just enjoying the morning sunlight when he started on at me about smugglers. Before I knew what had happened he’d dragged me along to the East Side as if I was his personal tour guide.

  I don’t go there much—it’s got a bit of a rep as a lunch-out zone. People who just want to sit around on their arses drinking schnapps all day and not giving a flying fuck about the revolution. Some say that it’s because there’s a lot of foreigners there, but you know what, everywhere I look I see foreigners, and they’re all doing their bit. Except here. On the East Side nobody does fuck all.

  We went through the gate and Martin made a bee-line for the edge of the river. It was still really early so none of the locals were up yet, we had the place to ourselves.

  “What you looking for?”

  “I don’t know. Some signs of smuggling. Could be anything.”

  This smuggling thing was really getting old. I remembered our conversation at the Feeling B concert and decided to leave it—I’d promised Katrin I’d keep any eye on Martin, not argue with him the whole time.

  He was mooching about, looking under the wagons, kicking at the piles of tat that were lying around.

  “Martin, you can’t just poke around like that! People live here.”

  “Yeah? And what about this,” he said, a triumphant grin plastered over his coupon. He’d lifted the corner of a tarp and was staring into a nest of blankets. “You usually expect to find a stash of antique Meissen porcelain somewhere like this?”

  “The bastards didn’t give me my fix.” I looked up from the crate of pottery.

  This hippy was watching us. Thin, spotty. Track marks up her bare arms. I thought she was just ranting about something in her own head so I ignored her, but Martin wanted to know what she was blethering on about.

  “Every Friday, about a quarter to ten. We get a fix. Good shit. They come and give us good shit.” She sat down on the edge of the crate with the Meissen in it. “But I was late last week. I’d gone out, hadn’t I, into town. So I didn’t get any shit, did I? Bastards.”

  “Who? Who gives you shit?” Martin didn’t have a clue what she was going on about.

  “The guys. The men. The suits, y’know?” the hippy looked at Martin as if he was the one who’d lost it.

  “So these guys.” I decided to help Martin out—we’d be here all day otherwise. “They come and give you dope, good stuff. Always on Friday.” The hippy was dead pleased that somebody understood her, she was nodding away like a member of the Politbüro. “And they give it to you for free?” She was still nodding.

  “Quarter to ten, Likasay. Good shit. Bastards.”

  A quick look at the ground and I spotted the wheel tracks and the scratches on the concrete edge of the quay. I walked over to an old army tarp covering something big, taller than me, but not too wide. I peered through a rip in the canvas.

  “Martin, check this out—fork lift truck!” I pointed at the tracks in the dust. “Every Friday they dole out smack to this lot so they don’t notice anything and nobody’s gonna believe them even if they do grass them up. Sweet. Then they bring a boat in, use the fork lift truck to shift this lot.” I pointed at the pretty pots in the crate. “And you reckon they’re delivering stuff as well?”

  I thought Martin was going to object about the boat bit—I thought he’d just tell me they couldn’t just bring a boat in under the border guards’ noses, but he was stroking his chin and nodding slowly. In fact, I reckon he was well impressed with my reasoning.

  “Oi!”

  Oh fuck. This wasn’t good. The hippy had vanished, and two skinheads were standing next to the fork lift truck, each holding a wooden chair leg.

  “Martin! Run!”

  We legged it. Dodging between the trucks and builder’s wagons, trying to give the skins the slip. If I’d been by myself I’d have been straight out of there, but I had Martin in tow. I couldn’t leave him behind. I jumped up onto an old flatbed and looked to see where Martin was. He was lagging well behind.

  “Martin! Move it! Come on!”

  He ran along the side of the trailer, below me, with one of the skins just behind him.

  “Fuck you!” I jumped at the skin, landing on his back. He stumbled, dropping to the floor and letting go of his bit of wood.

  “Martin—run!” I was on my feet before the skin. I grabbed his stick and without even thinking about it just twatted him on the nose. The skin screamed and dropped down again, landing on his knees, hands to his face. Blood fucking everywhere. I got out of there fast.

  I was just behind Martin and the gate in the Wall was dead ahead of us, get to that gate and we’d be on the busy road, we’d be safe. Martin was breathing heavily, clutching his side.

  “Come on Martin, come
on!”

  Just then the other skin darted out from behind a truck. He grabbed Martin by his bag, using it to swing Martin round, down on to the sand. I ran up behind the skin and whacked him, hard as I could. Chair leg to the back of the skin’s head. I got hold of Martin’s hand and dragged him up, towards the gate. He looked like he was going to argue, but I just pulled him along.

  I got us out of there.

  That was well close—if I hadn’t dealt with those two skins then Martin wouldn’t have made it. I don’t know whether he got that, he was kind of dazed, and I don’t think he would have liked the fact that I’d just twatted those two fuckers. I don’t know how I felt about it, you know, after Saturday. That lad, the one on the floor, having the shit kicked out of him by my mates. Just couldn’t forget about it. The Antifa group had been on a real high after that, we’d gone to a social centre and everyone had to hear about how fucking heroic we’d been.

  I’d left soon after.

  And now I’d done it again. It felt kind of different because it was self-defence. But so was Saturday, except we got to them before they could do any damage to any of us.

  “You OK?” I asked Martin. He was bending over, trying to catch his breath. We were at the Hauptbahnhof station now, we’d run all the way from the hole in the Wall that leads to the East Side. I had an eye open for the skins, in case they were still coming after us.

  “OK. You win. I’m going to take you seriously about this smuggling stuff,” I told Martin.

  Martin wobbled over to one of the benches. “You want to give me a hand with the smuggling stuff?”

  I hadn’t said that, I’d just said I was going to take him seriously. Then again, I’d also promised myself I was going to take the whole fascist threat thing seriously too. So, yeah, I could help Martin out.

  “You see, the next thing on my list is to have a chat with the people at the Lohmühle Wagenburg.”

  “Martin, what is your problem? What’s the Lohmühle got to do with smuggling?” Maybe I was still wigged by what had just happened at the East Side, but I could hear myself getting louder and louder. “How many fucking times do I have to say it? It’s like you’re not taking me seriously!”

  Martin looked a bit shocked, like he hadn’t been expecting my reaction, but he should have done cos I’ve already told him what I think.

  “Look, I know what you’re saying, but sometimes there are bigger things going on, we have to look at the bigger picture,” he started, but then he backed off a bit. “Like we have to consider how to make it harder for the fascists to smuggle stuff into our country.”

  “And why are you telling me this?”

  “Well, about talking to the Lohmühle people about jumping the Wall … I was thinking that it might be better if it came from someone a bit more, you know, a bit more like them.”

  “Like me, you mean?” Now I was really wicked off, I’d expected better from Martin! “Dream on! You can do your own dirty work.”

  Martin slouched back and looked down. It was like somebody had stuck a pin in him and all the air had come out.

  He started rubbing the side of his leg and pulling a face. That’s where he must have fallen when the second skinhead grabbed him.

  “My bag, damn!”

  I laughed at him, we’d just escaped with our lives and Martin was more worried about his bag.

  “My shoulder bag, Katrin gave it to me.”

  Could have been worse, if you ask me. But then I thought about last night, coming through the checkpoint.

  “Martin, what was in your bag?”

  “Just a hanky, paper, some pens, junk.” He scratched his head and thought a bit more, then groaned. “My identity papers.”

  He didn’t seem too bothered, he hadn’t cottoned on to it yet, was probably thinking about the hassle of getting new ID.

  “That skinhead has got your Ausweis,” I told him. “That skin has got your name and address!”

  I watched his expression change from irritation to fear.

  Martin

  When I finally got to the RS2 office a burly, middle aged fellow passed me on the stairs. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but he was a cop if ever I saw one. Going into the offices I was greeted by unusual levels of activity. Laura was giving Grit a list of things to do, she sounded even more brusque than usual.

  “Draft a memo to that effect for the Ministerial Committee, carbon copy to Police Headquarters. Then ring the district police—VPI Lichtenberg. Tell them we want copies of the medical reports, an up to date briefing on what’s going on—yes, demand that someone comes down here to give us a full report in person. Then phone the General State Prosecutor’s office, I want to know who is going to be in charge tomorrow, and I want to be briefed about what they hope to achieve. Inform them that one of us will be present.”

  I stood by Laura’s elbow, watching our unfortunate secretary make shorthand notes, waiting for Laura to run out of steam. She finally turned to me, frowning.

  “Martin, come with me.” We made our way over to Erika’s office. “Lichtenberg police have finally told us what’s going on.”

  I waved a greeting at Erika, who just blinked in response. She had a police interview record in front of her.

  “You’ve seen the newspapers?”

  I shook my head, and took the copy of Die Andere that Erika passed over to me. Before I could scan the headlines Laura was talking again.

  “Page four, bottom right.” Then, exhaling loudly, “It doesn’t matter, listen: the IKM we asked about, the informant in the Weitlingstrasse scene. He’s dead. When Erika saw the article about a police informer dying in a West Berlin hospital we put two and two together. Lichtenberg K1 has finally condescended to bring us up to speed.”

  Laura paused for breath, her foot was tapping the lino, making me nervous. I hadn’t seen her this way since 1989. I looked at Erika, but she had gone back to the interview record she’d been reading when we came in. She seemed absorbed by her task, and she was bothered by what she was reading.

  “Yesterday the informant turned up half-dead on the street outside the squat,” Laura carried on. She’d taken the newspaper off me and had rolled it up tightly. “He was taken to the hospital in Friedrichshain, in a coma, trauma injuries to the head, severe internal bleeding, collapsed lung—the lot. They moved him to a hospital in West Berlin late last night so that he could get better treatment, but he was found dead this morning. Somebody had turned off his life-support machine-”

  “Laura,” Erika suddenly broke in. She was looking up from her report, her face drained of colour. One finger was pressed against the paper, marking a paragraph. But Laura wasn’t to be stopped.

  “The West Berlin police haven’t any leads, and they seem determined to treat it as a cock-up by the hospital-”

  “Laura! Martin!” Erika tried again, louder.

  She was holding out the transcript, trying to get our attention. I took it from her, checking the title at the top. It was the record of the interview with the fascist that had been arrested at the demo last Monday: Andreas Hermann—the interview I had been present at.

  “What about it, Erika, what?” asked Laura, annoyed at being cut off.

  “This guy, he threatened the informant last Monday.” Erika was looking at me now.

  “Yeah, so what? What would you expect him to do?” I asked.

  “No, Martin, look: not only did Hermann know about the informant a whole week ago, but he actually threatened the informant. And now he’s dead. But Hermann also recognised you, and he threatened you. He said he knew who you were—that you’d be next!”

  I looked at Erika, then at Laura who had taken the transcript off me and was scanning through it, trying to find the relevant part. At first, I was a bit taken aback, but I put that down to the chase at the East Side, and I got a hold on reality again. I’d been vaguely aware of the threat at the time, but hadn’t taken it seriously. By itself it seemed to be just an empty threat, there wasn’t really anything to be
scared of.

  “You’ll be next. No worries, you’ll be next,” read Laura from the transcript. “That’s you he’s threatening. Why you?”

  “I doubt it’s anything, just bluster from a violent young man. Bravado, he probably wasn’t even involved in the IKM situation. Coincidence.” I was trying to calm them down, but the fact that my colleagues were taking it seriously meant that I was re-evaluating the situation too. After all, that threat to the mole had turned out to be far from empty. Maybe it wasn’t mere coincidence.

  And now I was on some list, and the skinheads we ran into this morning had my home address.

  “Look Martin, we need to take this seriously. Since the Silesian Crisis you’ve pretty much become the public face of RS—if they think we’re investigating them then it stands to reason that you’d be a target—you’d be the first target.”

  Erika nodded agreement at Laura’s words, but I wanted a bit more time to think about it.

  “So what’s next?” I tried to deflect the conversation back to what the cops were doing. “Presumably K1 or whoever from Kripo told you what their next steps will be? They can’t just leave things as they are.” My ploy seemed to work, at least with Laura.

  “They’re going to raid the Weitlingstrasse house tomorrow, see if there’s any evidence of involvement in the murder of the informant. One of us should be present.”

  “I’ll do it,” I offered.

  “Well that’s going to make you even more of a target—they’re sure to recognise you!”

  “Yes, but on the other hand, why should we risk anyone else? Right now I’m probably the only person they know in RS.” I decided, for the moment, not to tell them about losing my Ausweis. “Best limit the faces they know—otherwise they may target you two or Nik as well.”