by David Young
‘Yes of course, Comrade Major. Its correct chemical name is suxamethonium chloride, but I know what it is. It’s used by anaesthetists in certain circumstances. Also by psychiatrists with mentally ill patients who need electroconvulsive therapy.’
‘So what are its properties?’ Müller knew the answer from both the junior pathologist and from Jäger himself. But it would do no harm to get corroboration from Schmidt.
‘It causes temporary paralysis. It’s what’s known as a neuromuscular blocker. It works by blocking the action of acetylcholine on skeletal muscles. Acetylcholine itself acts as a neurotransmitter – in other words, a chemical message sent by nerve cells telling other cells in the body to act. So by blocking that transmitter, the succinylcholine – to use your preferred term – causes temporary paralysis.’
‘And when you examined the body,’ continued Müller, ‘did you find any evidence of it?’
With his hands in the air in mock surrender, Schmidt pulled a wounded face. ‘Be fair, please, Comrade Major. I simply did a superficial visual check. I could see some of the signs of hypothermia, and so – on the surface – it seemed as though Dr Siegel’s conclusions were correct. But detecting the use of succinylcholine is much more difficult. Even toxicologists might not necessarily spot it.’
Müller lowered her voice, and the two others moved their heads closer to hear. ‘What seems to have happened is that Dr Tritten went behind Siegel’s back and arranged tests with a friend in the toxicology lab. Basically, without permission, she took a biopsy of Richter’s brain—’
‘—which detected elevated levels of succinic acid,’ whispered Schmidt.
‘Exactly, Jonas. She told you that?’
‘No, it’s just self-evident from what you said about the use of succinylcholine. That’s what it breaks down to – its metabolite.’
Tilsner sighed. ‘OK,’ he said, his voice lowered to match theirs. ‘That’s enough of all the science. What did that mean in practice for the fragrant Frau Richter?’
‘She was injected with succinylcholine, then a ring placed on her finger over the injection site,’ said Müller.
‘Why didn’t her body show signs of a struggle?’ asked Tilsner.
‘Whoever did it could have used wide, soft restraints,’ said Schmidt. ‘Webbing, that sort of thing. You wouldn’t necessarily get bruising.’
‘So why,’ asked Tilsner, ‘are the authorities – and the pathologist even – insisting this was a natural death?’
Müller rested her elbows on the table and steepled her hands together. ‘It’s similar to that case a couple of years back in Halle-Neustadt. The missing babies.’ She looked at Tilsner knowingly. He was aware she didn’t mention that previous case lightly, given the horrific personal memories it held for her. ‘The Stasi were determined there should be no adverse publicity. It’s the same here.’
‘Is that why Jäger’s arrived?’
‘I would think so.’
Tilsner stretched, then settled himself. ‘Richter was a nasty piece of work. But in effect what you seem to be saying is she was rendered utterly incapable with this drug, then left out in the snow to slowly freeze to death – unable to do anything to save herself.’
Müller nodded.
‘Would she have been conscious?’
There was a pause. Müller wasn’t sure of the answer. Instead, Schmidt provided it. ‘Without any doubt, Comrade Hauptmann. She would have been aware of exactly what was happening, and unable to even lift so much as a finger to try to prevent it. For her, it would be like suffering the worst forms of torture – but the pain would be almost entirely mental. Until her brain shut down from the cold, she would be sent out of her mind.’
11
Rügen, East Germany
Early December 1978
I couldn’t quite believe it when my ruse with the beer mat worked.
At first, it didn’t look like it would. I waited each evening by the campsite phone, willing it to ring, at the same time making excuses to Laurenz and Sabine why I couldn’t go out. I felt bad about Laurenz – but I realised I didn’t love him any more. As for summoning up the courage to tell him that, well, that was another story. Perhaps I was hedging my bets, but I wanted to see if Dieter would respond first before making any precipitous decisions.
When he did ring, he was quite cool about it. He pretended he couldn’t remember whose number it was or why he had it written on a beer mat in his pocket. I saw through that straight away. He knew I liked going to the cinema, so invited me to see a film. I agreed, but to make sure I didn’t bump into Laurenz, I suggested we meet in Bergen rather than Binz, or even Sellin itself.
*
That was the start of a low-level relationship. We only saw each other about once a week, and didn’t get beyond a bit of kissing and cuddling. I wasn’t sure how keen he was about me – and I didn’t want to show how madly I was in love with him for fear of frightening him off.
I finally summoned up the courage to tell Laurenz about everything.
I said I wanted to meet at the café halfway along Wilhelm-Pieck-Straße in Sellin – the one I kept watch on a few years back when my mother met her ‘contact’. It seemed appropriate somehow for something that was equally furtive, underhand and disloyal. In any case, winter was closing in, and I knew it had an open fire, albeit a smoky one because of the shitty brown coal we produce in this country – the reason why our atmosphere is so badly polluted.
Almost before I opened my mouth, it seemed as though Laurenz knew what I was going to say. In fact, in the way boys do to try to make sure their pride isn’t hurt, he attempted to twist things round and make out it was he dumping me, rather than vice versa. So he was the one who spoke first after we’d been served our coffees.
‘I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you, Irma,’ he began. ‘We don’t seem to be having as much fun as before – I’m not sure we’re really suited.’
I felt affronted. How dare he steal my lines? ‘That’s why I wanted to m—’
‘—so I’ve decided we ought to end it.’
There it was. He’d said the words for me. I felt cheated even though it was what I wanted. ‘Are you sure?’ I found myself asking, despite the fact that I was the one who was sure.
He leant across the table and took my hand even though I wanted to grab it and hide it behind my back. I didn’t want any physical contact with him any more. I’d found Dieter. All I could think about when I was mooning around the campsite, when I was in bed alone at night, was Dieter, his olive skin, rake-thin figure, and black hair.
‘I’m sorry, Irma,’ he said, stroking my hand. ‘You’ll find someone else. You’re a good sort.’
I already have, I wanted to shout. I already have and he’s far more handsome and far more exciting than you are, Laurenz. But the words died in my mouth before I could form them. I’d let him have his moment of triumph. In the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter. What really mattered was that I was free now – free to be with whoever I wanted.
And the person I wanted was Dieter.
*
Dieter meets me in the bar at the entrance to Sassnitz old harbour – the one where the harbour wall they’re repairing is. There are two of the other construction soldiers there – his friends. I think I recognise them from that night outside the cinema in Binz, when they were teasing Laurenz and me for kissing.
I’ve started to get a clearer idea of what construction soldiers are now. They’re not really soldiers at all. They’re young men who’ve refused to join fighting units of the People’s Army – in the West I know they’re called conscientious objectors. Those who – on principle – will not kill another man. Pacifists, I guess you could say – but in no way passive. I can see the light of rebellion in their eyes. I recognise it from looking at myself in the mirror when I was incarcerated in the Jugendwerkhof. When the need to escape this hateful country burned fiercely inside me too. I don’t know whether these young men want to take their chance
s in trying to cross the border – what I do know is they must be brave to make a stand against the Republic’s authorities. I feel a real thrill course through me that Dieter is one of them. He looks like a revolutionary, someone who won’t kowtow. My personal Che Guevara, and just as good-looking.
Dieter’s decided we’re going for a walk – all four of us – back along the harbour wall towards where they’ve been working each day. Their shift’s ended, so the guard has given up – there’s no one to stop us walking right to the end, where the lighthouse is. As we walk along, Dieter takes my hand. It feels exciting, dangerous, and as the waves crash against the sea wall, I playfully try to drag him towards them. We lag behind the other two, and when he’s sure they’re not looking, he spins me round and grabs a quick kiss. I sense him looking over my shoulder at the others, as though he doesn’t want to be seen doing anything soppy with a girl – as though he doesn’t want his ultra-cool image undermined.
*
We get to the end of the harbour wall, and the taller of the other two – Holger, his name is – reaches into his pocket and pulls out a large rusting key. He jiggles it in the lock of the lighthouse door until finally, with the effort etched on his face, it turns and the door creaks open, the screech of metal audible even over the noise of the wind and waves.
Inside the lighthouse has a dank, eerie feel. Now darkness has fallen, every few seconds the boys’ faces are weakly illuminated by the automatically rotating light high above us.
‘Aren’t we going to switch this room’s light on?’ I whisper to Dieter.
‘It’s too dangerous. As you can probably guess, we’re not really supposed to be here. But it’s a good place to talk without any danger of being overheard.’ He takes a small candle from his jacket pocket, and then tries to light the end with a match. But the atmosphere in here is too damp – the matches just skid off the striking surface, no matter how quickly or sharply he flicks the matchsticks. Perhaps some sea spray has got into his pockets.
The shorter of the other two tugs back his anorak hood to reveal a shock of blond hair, then pulls a disposable lighter from his pocket. You rarely see them in the Republic – a relative in the West must have sent him it. Either that, or he bought it from an Intershop. ‘Here,’ he says, proffering it to Dieter. ‘Try this.’
With the lighter, Dieter succeeds in lighting the candle. He tips it so the wax falls onto a table in the centre of the room, then turns it upright and presses the bottom end into the molten wax, holding it in place until it’s set. The blond guy – Joachim – pulls a chair from a stack in the corner and sets it up for me by the table. Then he does the same for the others. Dieter sits next to me, then Holger pulls some cigarette papers from his pocket, and starts rolling a cigarette. At the same time, Joachim is heating the corner of a block of dark resin above the candle flame. Once he’s satisfied, he starts crumbling it into Holger’s half-open cigarette – spreading it out over the tobacco. I feel slightly disappointed. With all the subterfuge, the walk to the end of the harbour, I thought they were about to discuss something exciting. Instead, it just seems to be a jaunt to get stoned on dope.
Once Joachim’s finished, Holger rolls up the home-made spliff and lights it with the candle. After a few sucks, he passes it to Joachim who takes his turn, then gives it to Dieter. He takes a long drag, lets his head fall back as he savours the smoke, then offers it to me. I shake my head. They don’t seem bothered that I don’t want to take part. What they don’t know is the reason why. Since all the trouble a few years ago, I don’t want my tongue loosened. I’m not proud of the way I’ve agreed to work with the Stasi – and I don’t want to reveal what I do in an unguarded moment, even though – in reality – all the information I provide is deliberately useless. If Dieter found out, I can tell he would dump me straight away and the other two would have nothing to do with me either. They’re refuseniks – the nearest thing this Republic has to out-and-out rebels. Co-operating with the Stasi is the last thing they’d agree to do. It’s the last thing I’d have agreed to do, if they’d left me with any choice. They didn’t.
*
By the time I catch the bus back to Sellin via Bergen, I feel slightly cheated. Why did Dieter take me with him, if all he was going to do was get off his face? Maybe I’ve been a bit too gung-ho in getting rid of Laurenz. That’s what my grandmother always says about me – that I’m always thinking the cherries in the neighbour’s garden taste sweeter.
My heart sinks as I see a round-faced, bespectacled man walking down the aisle towards me. I look out of the window, hoping he hasn’t seen me. But he has. Not only that but he sits in the seat next to me, widening his legs so that his right thigh is pressed hard up against mine. I try to shuffle to the side, but I’m squashed against the window – I can’t.
‘Hello, Irma. Fancy meeting you here.’ There’s a smarmy note in his voice. We both know this is no coincidental meeting. I wonder if he was following me at the harbour. I wonder if he followed me all the way from Sellin earlier in the day without me spotting. I need to be more careful.
‘Hauptmann Steiger.’ I nod slightly, but don’t turn to meet his eyes.
Suddenly, his mouth is up against my ear. ‘You know the drill, Wildcat.’ The use of my code name is dripping with sarcasm. ‘Don’t ever call me Hauptmann in public. To you, I’m just Herr Steiger, an old family friend.’
I nod again slightly, to acknowledge the whispered admonishment.
He leans back in the bus seat and starts to talk aloud again.
‘I thought I saw you with a new boyfriend, Irma. Is that correct?’ There’s a syrupy, insincere note to his apparently friendly tone.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘He lives in an apartment block in Binz, doesn’t he? Well, not Binz, exactly. A little to the west.’ We both know what he’s driving at. The ‘apartment block’ he’s referring to is the construction soldiers’ barracks at the far end of Prora. ‘I wouldn’t have thought a girl from a good family like yours would be wanting to mix with someone like that.’ Good family! Ha! Thanks to my mother we’re a targeted family – always have been, always will be. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying, Irma?’ Then he drops his voice to a whisper again and leans in close, squeezing my thigh far too close to my groin and far too fiercely, like he wants to hurt me. Like he wants me to remember my place, my shame. ‘On second thoughts,’ he hisses, ‘having someone like you watch over those sorts and get inside their heads might be useful. Make sure you ring me soon with a full report. And I’d get some stronger deodorant if I were you, or perhaps start sucking mints. You stink of marijuana, Wildcat.’
With that he gives one final jab of his finger into my thigh, then gets up to leave. The driver has just started the engine and is about to pull away. ‘I seem to be on the wrong bus, Irma,’ he says, out loud again. ‘But I look forward to bumping into you again, soon. Give my regards to your mother.’
When he mentions her and turns away, marching up the bus as though he has important business elsewhere, I feel my eyes prickling. But I fight back the tears. They may have broken my mother, sent her to the worst women’s prison possible in Hoheneck, so far south that Oma and I can only visit very rarely. But Steiger and his kind will not break me.
I will never allow that to happen.
12
Binz, Island of Rügen, East Germany
31 December 1978
It wasn’t how Müller had expected to be spending New Year’s Eve. Instead of going out for a walk in Berlin with Helga and the twins, she and Tilsner were off for a spot of skiing. But this wasn’t the winter sport she was used to in Oberhof. The People’s Army Fallschirmjäger – the paratroop unit, also based at Prora – had visited their hotel to kit the two detectives out with cross-country ski equipment to facilitate the house-to-house inquiries they planned. In order not to raise suspicions, the two detectives would be using their old Volkspolizei IDs. To all intents and purposes, they were two uniform police officers looking int
o how a middle-aged woman came to be stranded out in the driving snow after a shopping trip – leading to her demise. Their uniforms would be a pair of winter suits provided by the army.
Tilsner couldn’t help guffawing with laughter when he saw Müller’s.
‘You look like the abominable snowman. It’s much too big for you.’
‘Equality only goes so far in this Republic. They didn’t have any women’s sizes – this was the smallest suit available.’
Some strategically placed shoelaces managed to make the suit just about useable. They kept the suit legs from dragging on the ground, and the arms from overwhelming her gloves. Using her ski poles to propel her, Müller set off in a skating motion down the road towards where Richter’s body had been discovered at the western edge of the town, behind the pedestrian promenade. She didn’t need Tilsner to remind her that the last time they’d been on skis together, they’d both nearly been killed on the slopes of the Brocken – the Republic’s second-highest mountain. Tilsner had saved her – but in doing so had been severely wounded. Nearly four years later, there were no visible signs of his former injuries – but he’d been in hospital for months. At one point, it was touch and go whether he’d survive.
*
The idea of house-to-house inquiries, searching for witnesses to what had happened, soon became almost redundant. Frau Richter had perished on a forested track a few hundred metres outside Binz’s town boundary – it seemed as though she’d been heading back to Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost. But there were few – if any – residential homes in the vicinity.
Both detectives found the going tough, their skis sinking into the soft snow rather than gliding on top. So much of it was windblown, they seemed to be travelling from drift to drift, making painfully slow progress.
Müller was soon out of breath. ‘How much further?’ she panted, as Tilsner brushed snow away from his cellophane-covered map.
‘By my reckoning, only a hundred metres or so. Just along here.’
