Thoughts Are Free

by Max Hertzberg

  Re-unification propaganda—mostly sponsored by the West-CDU—had flooded our country even before the Wall opened in November 1989, and that was the start of the rumours of close links between the West-CDU and the far-right.

  “Are you suggesting that the parties, the ones here, in the GDR, could somehow be supporting or encouraging the fascists?”

  “Political groupings may see supporting unrest as a canny move. Oh, it may not be direct support, but they’re not exactly going out of their way to deal with the problem either. It’s always been that way—remember the SPD in 1919, the workers’ own party involved in liquidating the Workers’ Councils? How Minister Noske tolerated, even supported the nationalist Freikorps in order to preserve his position in government.”

  I’d long been uneasy about the way the political parties, particularly the CDU and the SPD, with their close links to the West, had continuously spoken out against the Round Tables and the Works Councils. Now Dmitri was drawing parallels between today’s situation and the bloody suppression of the Workers’ and Soldiers’ Councils at the start of the Weimar Republic.

  “That’s how it will always be,” said Dmitri, thoughtfully tapping ash off his cigarette. “If people are scared they will be susceptible to calls for strong leadership. If people are confused they will demand simple solutions. Just listen to the arguments—every day on the radio, in the newspapers: the central government, all the political parties in the Volkskammer are saying you need strong leadership and clear policies to deal with the problems. Doesn’t matter if they’re talking about the referenda, economic restructuring, or the increasing violence by fascists. But your revolution is in the creative phase: the chaos that follows the usurpation of power. You’re working out new systems, new ways of doing things. Trial and error: a painful, slow, frustrating process. Without this creative chaos you can’t decentralise, you can’t have autonomous districts and neighbourhoods. Such things can’t be decreed from above, only built from below. I need only refer you to Vladimir Ilyich and his abortive attempts at harnessing the revolutionary power of 1918. And just look where that took us …”

  Sometimes Dmitri had these periods of eloquent contemplation, he would look into the middle distance, seeing beyond the walls of his office, beyond his past as a KGB officer and his present role in the FSK. Ever since we first met there had been an instinctive trust between us, allowing him to voice unorthodox thoughts. Yet each time he did so I was taken by surprise. Still I enjoyed his ramblings; they helped me remember that the experiment in our little Republic didn’t only affect us, it wasn’t just for our sake—it represented something much larger for so many people in the world.

  “Dmitri, that’s all very well, you’re as persuasive as ever. But it doesn’t actually help me right now, does it?”

  Dmitri smiled, shaking his head at my short-sightedness.

  “On the contrary, my friend, I rather think it does. I’m telling you that you need to deal with your fascists before they spread too many seeds of doubt. You can’t let them give the centralists the excuse they so badly want. You must defend your revolution—and quickly!”

  “Again, it doesn’t help me, does it? There’s not so much we can do to defend the revolution: there aren’t any Chekists any more, and we wouldn’t want them even if-”

  “Martin!” Dmitri shook his head in bafflement. “How is it, you Germans—a culture that gave us Schiller and Goethe, Heine and Hölderlin—not to mention Kant and Arendt—how is it you need everything clearly spelt out? You must deal with your fascist problem promptly, and in my opinion, you must do so without involving any form of central authority. Work at the grassroots, strengthen the basis, not the centre.”

  “So, we shouldn’t let K1 handle Evelyn—we should do it ourselves, but-”

  “Yes.” Dmitri smiled again, a different smile, pleased that I’d finally cottoned on. “Controlling the operation of a penetration agent could be the first step. But what about the raw intelligence—how will you analyse it, what will you do with it?”

  As always, Dmitri was way ahead of me. My colleagues and I were already thinking about bypassing the Kripo when it came to running Evelyn but we hadn’t thought about what to do with any information she might pass on. I guess we were just going to stay within the remit given to us by the Ministerial Committee: task Evelyn to find evidence that could be used in a criminal case against key individuals—disrupt fascist activities that way. But that’s exactly how they did things in the old days—it hadn’t worked. Sending fascists to prison only made them and their groups stronger. Dmitri on the other hand was talking about acting on intelligence, he hadn’t mentioned prosecuting individuals at all.

  “You think that Evelyn would deliver useful intelligence? What could we do with that?”

  “I think Evelyn has much experience in this game, and if there is anything to find then she will find it. And she may even give it to you.”

  “Things like supply lines? Money trails, information about support from the West?”

  “Yes, yes.” Dmitri nodded earnestly. “And once you have that information you will have the means to disrupt them. You can involve the local Round Tables, the Works Councils in the Border Police regiments and local Kripo. Let them take responsibility for stopping these supply routes. You could help with co-ordinating and networking the efforts to discover and disrupt new routes. But you should let those involved take the decisions on how to deal with the problem. You provide the information and let the organisations at the local level decide how best to use it.”

  “But Evelyn, I don’t know if we can trust her.”

  “Desperate times, my friend, desperate times,” Dmitri commiserated, his eye twinkling mischievously.

  “I’m not even sure I can brief her. I mean how does one do something like that?” There was silence for a moment while my thoughts wandered on. Then: “Dmitri, would you do it? I could get you access to the files, and-”

  “Martin, Martin, no. I’m flattered.” He held his hands up. “But no. This is not my struggle. I have my own worries.”

  “I’m sorry, it was silly of me-”

  “Yes, but you know Martin, that’s why I like you. You are a breath of fresh air, a refreshing addition to our little clique of spies. When I go to see the French or the Americans, or even my colleagues in the GRU, it is always poker. Here a card, there a bluff. But with you, we can pretend we are still human, and we can talk as friends.”

  He gave one of his little giggles, followed by a heavy sigh, a sigh that made me feel inexperienced and feckless. Dmitri often helped me put my own thoughts in order, see events and problems from an operational perspective, but always at the price of reminding me of my amateur status.

  “Comrade, as I said, I have my own worries. Things can’t continue like this much longer. There’s too much pressure at home, things are falling apart—we’re needed back there, not here. There are already signs of a preparation for withdrawal from Germany: personnel not being replaced, there’s been less servicing of materiel, you know the kind of thing. Things are even more chaotic than usual.

  “But, wait.” Dmitri shuffled through papers on his desk, coming up with a grey-yellow file, a pink stripe splitting its cover from bottom-left to top-right, a long series of Cyrillic characters and numbers handwritten on one corner. “This is for you, my gift, because you are such a naif in our jungle. In the middle of all this chaos there’s a young officer in Dresden, one of ours, FSK/KGB. Keen. Eager to make a splash. Ambitious. You know: the dangerous kind, destined to go far. No, wait!” He held out his hand, preventing me from opening the file. “Don’t open it yet! And be careful who you show this to. The rumours are that our young officer has been buying up all the left-over IMs in the Dresden area. All the informants that have been left without the father figure of the Stasi, all those who feel they need to confess, report and inform. He’s got them. And in there you have a list of previous IMs that we believe he has been in contact with, also the cadre files of
the officer in question—redacted, of course. I don’t know what he plans to do with all these informants, but then, that’s your problem.”

  Normally after meeting Dmitri I would feel reassured—he provided me with a solidity that had become rare in my world—but now I felt less than calm. Certainly not the best mood for a meeting with Evelyn. I sat brooding on the U-Bahn, wondering how best to handle her, but as so often before, I came to the conclusion that I couldn’t handle her. I could only wait to see how she would handle me.

  I reluctantly climbed the steps out of the U-Bahn station and trailed up Magdalenenstrasse. The few tenement blocks soon petered out, replaced by a five metre high wall topped with barbed wire, lights and contact lines. Arriving at the main entrance, I pressed the buzzer, a wicket gate opened and the guard checked my visitor’s papers and RS pass. As a second pair of high steel gates creaked open I walked into the courtyard of the prison, taking in the dozens of blind windows that looked down on me. Behind one of those windows Evelyn had her cell, she’d already been here for several months awaiting trial, or as it might turn out, her chance of restitution.

  I followed the guard across the narrow courtyard, heading for the administration wing. They gave me the use of an interrogation room. The usual kind of place: one wall lined with Sprelakart cupboards, a desk with telephone, lamp, notepad and a two-reel tape recorder. In front of the desk a plain table, set end on, so that the interviewee couldn’t get too close.

  The interviewee’s chair was in the middle of the floor, and I moved it to the table. For this kind of meeting I should have placed both chairs near to each other, with neither table nor desk between them, but I felt the need to keep my psychological distance to Evelyn so I sat down behind the desk.

  I didn’t have to wait long before there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in!”

  In a repeat of the procedure last week, Evelyn said nothing until her wrists had been freed and the prison guard had withdrawn from the room. She stood there, looking at me, a slight smile playing at the corner of her lips.

  “Martin, I’m glad you’ve come to see me again.” She sat down, angling her head so that she could look up at me, her eyes wide. “It gets so lonely in here-”

  “I’ve been sent by the Ministry,” I interrupted. “If it were down to me there’d be no second chance.”

  But Evelyn had picked up on my uncertainty. She was good at reading me, she was good at reading everyone. And she knew how to use the skill.

  “So the dear old Ministry wants my help now that the house in Weitlingstrasse has been abandoned?” She was doing a damn good job at appearing ingenuous.

  I don’t think I betrayed my surprise that despite being locked up, Evelyn had somehow found out about yesterday’s events.

  “Oh, Martin! Don’t look so shocked. Of course I’ll help! Anything for an old friend.”

  “Why?”

  “Martin, you are a sweetie! This is my country too, no matter what you’ve done to it. What? You think that just because I’m still faithful to my Chekist colleagues that I don’t love our GDR? Listen Martin, those fascists,” and for a moment her voice was vicious, “they’re scum. What they want goes against everything I’ve ever worked for and everything I’ve ever believed in. That’s what gives me the right to fight them.” She sat back in her chair, hands held open, palms towards me. “And I really can’t help if I’m stuck in this shit hole, can I?”

  I reached down to my briefcase, taking out a file and slowly opening it on the desk. I was using the time to try to regain some composure—she’d only been here for a few minutes and already she had me on the back foot. I needed to find a way to exert some control over the situation.

  “I have been instructed by the Ministry to brief you on current events, and request your assistance in this matter-”

  “I’ll do it.” Evelyn’s amiable persona had returned.

  “I haven’t told you what we want you to do yet!”

  “Here, let me have a look, it’ll be quicker that way.” She stood up and reached across the desk to take the file from me, beginning to scan the pages before she’d even sat down again. “After all,” she winked at me, “I am a pro!”

  I was about to take the file back from her when I realised that she was right. Just as with Dmitri a couple of hours ago, I was meeting with someone who had undergone both extensive training and years of operational experience. I on the other hand was a mere amateur, one still in denial of his role.

  It didn’t take Evelyn long to leaf through the whole file. She closed it carefully, pushing it back over the table towards me, then leaned back and let out a sigh.

  “You don’t have much to go on, do you?” she said, more statement than question. “Don’t you have any of the backstory? Haven’t you found the files? Lichtenberg K1 should have some of them. A few of the more senior and short-sighted comrades thought it might be a good idea to train up some of these fascists, teach them some discipline then get them to report back on what was happening. They got the whole package: paratrooper training, combat exercises, conspirative-operational instruction, the lot. But we lost control of them. That would have been about 1987, 1988. They just passed their new skills on to their Nazi chums.

  “No matter,” she tapped her head, “I’ve got the most important stuff in here. I’ll do it.”

  “But I still haven’t told you what we want you to do!” I protested again.

  “Well I’m doing it anyway. Time to clean up the mess my comrades left behind. When do you want me to go in?”

  It was almost as if Evelyn could no longer surprise me—she knew what we wanted from her, and she knew that I wasn’t happy about the plan. But she also knew it wasn’t up to me, I’d had my orders from the Ministry.

  “I have a release order. Once it’s been signed you can leave here. But we’ll need to prepare you first: a full briefing, set up your team, contact procedures-”

  “Martin,” quiet, but determined, almost exasperated, “once again: I’m a pro. Give me the use of that phone now, and I’ll be ready by tomorrow midday. Just give me whatever files you have. What, this is all you have, isn’t it?”

  “The cops have more, but we haven’t got copies yet-”

  “What about related crime reports, who they’ve been beating up, intimidating? Good, get copies of those to me, I need to know what they’ll be gossiping about, sick bastards. Right.” She walked around the desk, dragging her chair behind her. Sitting down next to me she pulled the phone over. “I have work to do. As you said: preparations. If I’m going to do this then I’ll be doing it my way: I’ll arrange my own conspirative meetings, my own cut-outs, my own fall-backs and safety procedures. What?” She pulled a face at me, trying to make me laugh. “Did you think I’d trust those clowns at K1 to set things up?”

  She picked up the phone and dialled. “It’s Gärtnter. Get me Daedalus.” She gave me a business-like look, gesturing with her thumb towards the door.

  I picked up my briefcase, and left the room, leaving Evelyn in charge of phone and file.

  “Operation Withered Vine—it’s on again,” I heard as I closed the door behind me.

  Karo

  It was a bit of a gamble, calling a Squatters’ Council. There hadn’t been one since last year when it split in two—the Wessis on the one side and the Ossis on the other. But this was something we could all agree on: we were all against the fash.

  It felt like we had to think bigger. Yesterday’s argument with Bert had shown me that we can’t just rely on the Antifa groups to do everything. But right now the meeting was just about boys telling war stories. The usual crap: late night run-ins with skins, near escapes, standing guard outside refugee hostels …

  “Look, we can spend all day yacking about what’s been happening. That’s not why we’re here,” I told them. “So let’s just stop with the stories! The fash are preparing to take over our country. It’s not just the referenda, it’s not just about the Volkskammer elections, it�
��s about more and more people getting beaten up, injured. It’s about hate and fear spreading. It’s got to stop. And the question is: how are we going to stop it?”

  Martin

  Part of me was relieved that Evelyn was ready for her task but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d been out-manoeuvred. Apart from anything else there were serious trust issues. Evelyn had shown herself to be an active opponent of the changes happening in our country; she wasn’t in favour of all this freedom and participation—as far as I could tell she wanted the autocratic rule of the Party back. I only had her word for it that she wanted rid of the fascists as much as we did. But once we let her off the leash who knew what she’d get up to?

  When I got back to the office I knocked on Erika’s open door. She looked up from her typewriter and gestured me in.

  “Martin, you’re back. How did it go? Want some tea?”

  I shook my head and sat down on the visitor’s chair in front of her desk.

  “How was it? You don’t look too happy.”

  “Oh, the usual. How did we get into this situation?”

  “Look, Martin, we’re doing the stuff that nobody else wants to do. It’s never going to be easy, and it’s good that we ask ourselves difficult questions.” She patted my hand. “That’s what you’re doing right now, isn’t it? Asking yourself difficult questions?”

  Erika and I had worked together for a few years now, we got on well, we understood each other. She was cautious, sometimes even timid, but when she decided that she could trust someone then she trusted them; she didn’t try to second guess them, she was there for them, no matter what.

  “What did Evelyn say?” she asked eventually.

  “She jumped at the chance. In fact, she completely took over and sent me away. Right now she’s arranging it all with some of her old friends in the Firm.”

  It was obvious that many of those who worked for the Stasi still had some kind of network going, but it was unclear just how far it went, or what they were prepared to do. It was yet another threat that we had no kind of handle on.