Stasi Winter

by David Young

  ‘Remember that time on the way to the Harz?’ he whispered.

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Werner. It was very forgettable, I assure you. And don’t try anything either. Your groin would make a lovely target for one of my boots and I assure you, I have a fierce kick.’

  ‘Lovely,’ he laughed. ‘I like a bit of spirit in my women.’

  She pulled her head back. ‘From the smell of your breath, you’ve already got too much spirit inside you.’

  As she was planning to end the dance and make her way back to Schmidt, she saw Jäger tap Tilsner on the shoulder.

  ‘My turn, I think,’ said the Stasi colonel. ‘We can’t have you hogging the major to yourself, can we, Comrade Hauptmann?’

  Müller found herself being steered away by Jäger to a quieter part of the dance floor. She shrugged at Tilsner, who looked crestfallen. Jäger tried to pull her close like Tilsner, but once bitten, twice shy. She locked her arms at her elbows as she held his hands in hers, making sure they kept their distance and they moved to the music – some sort of DDR reversioning of a recent hit from the west. Something about love not living here any more. In Müller’s case it was true; love – romantic love – had been absent from her life for too long. She wasn’t about to let Jäger fill that void – but she hoped the coming year might lead to an upturn in her fortunes. Already in her thirty-third year, it was high time she was settled down with a husband she could trust.

  *

  Immediately the New Year celebrations began, and once she’d given her best wishes for the coming twelve months to Tilsner, Schmidt and even Jäger, Müller pretended to go to the ladies – but instead got her coat and made her way back to her neighbouring hotel.

  In her room, she dialled the Strausberger Platz apartment. Helga picked up almost immediately.

  ‘Happy New Year, Oma!’ she yelled down the phone.

  ‘Thank you, Liebling. And a Happy New Year to you too. But don’t call me Oma – it makes me feel old. And another year passing doesn’t help.’

  ‘Nonsense, Helga. You’re still young at heart. Are the children still up?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. They don’t really understand what it’s all about. I put them to bed at their normal bedtime. You know what they’re like the next day if they don’t get enough sleep. I’ve been watching television – the fireworks looked lovely. What about you, and how’s the case going?’

  ‘The case?’ Müller thought about it. The honest answer was ‘slowly’ – they’d made virtually no progress, and now the next steps had been taken out of her hands. Jäger had arranged for her to introduce herself as a new teacher at the Jugendwerkhof the next day. She wasn’t sure what she was qualified to teach. Jäger had made vague mutterings about ‘Citizens’ Education’. But there was no need to give Helga the truth. ‘It’s going fine. Hopefully it will be wrapped up soon.’

  ‘But did you manage to get any time off to celebrate tonight?’

  ‘After a fashion. I don’t think I’d describe it as my most exciting New Year’s Eve, though.’

  ‘Well, if you do get chance, try to ring us tomorrow evening at suppertime. We’ll be in then, even if we go out for a walk and play earlier, so you can wish the twins a Happy New Year.’

  The thought of her children and grandmother seeing in the New Year without her tugged at Müller’s heart. She felt her eyes prickling, but she didn’t want Helga to hear her crying.

  ‘I’ll try to, Oma,’ she said as brightly as possible, pushing her feelings to one side. ‘Love you.’

  When she put the phone down, Müller kicked her boots off and flopped onto the bed. She let the tears fall. The weight of loneliness overwhelmed her. Was this really what she wanted from her life? By herself, marooned in a hotel room, hundreds of kilometres from her family. She knew it wasn’t. Something had to change.

  16

  Ministry for State Security HQ, Bergen auf Rügen

  Mid-December 1978

  ‘Thank you for coming in to see us, Wildcat.’

  I hate him using their code name for me. It makes it seem like a stupid, childish game. In reality, I know it’s deadly serious, and I’m worried. This is the first time I’ve seen Steiger face to face since the meeting on the bus in Sassnitz. In the meantime, I haven’t sent him any reports. I suspect he’s going to read the riot act, although his pasty, moon-like face always looks the same – I can never tell if he’s angry or not.

  ‘I’m a little disappointed you haven’t given us any information on your new boyfriend or his colleagues. That’s a very useful contact you’ve made there. We need to know some of their thoughts and actions in their private lives. Construction soldiers can’t always be trusted, you know. You’d be doing him a favour. His friends might be leading him astray. There’s nothing you want to tell me now, is there? Aside from the odd bit of dope smoking. We’re not too bothered about that. But you need to be careful. If soldiers serving the People’s Army are prepared to break the law like that, what else might they do? Anything you want to say?’

  I think back to when he appeared as if by magic on the bus in Sassnitz, immediately after we’d been in the lighthouse. Did he know about that? Had he followed us along the harbour wall? Perhaps that room at the bottom of the lighthouse is bugged. Maybe he already knows about Dieter and his friends’ plans to steal a boat. Perhaps this is all a trap.

  I shake my head. ‘Nothing I can think of. We do the usual girlfriend and boyfriend stuff. I’m sure you don’t want chapter and verse on that.’ But then I remember Steiger’s hand high on my thigh in the bus – maybe he’s another Neumann. Perhaps that’s what he does want.

  ‘We’re always appreciative of any reports,’ he says. ‘After all, you managed to go into elaborate detail about Frau Kästner’s fish-buying habits and Herr Schlender’s coal deliveries.’ I feel myself going red in the face. Maybe they’ve finally rumbled me. ‘Actually, come to think of it, there’s someone here from Berlin for the day who wants to talk to you about your reports, and see if they can perhaps be improved. He’s an old friend of yours.’

  My heart starts beating madly. I know who it will be. I don’t want to see him again. I don’t want any more reminders of what happened. Steiger picks up the single green phone on his desk. ‘Could you show the colonel in, please.’ Colonel? I don’t know any colonel. That wasn’t the rank of the man I’m thinking of. But perhaps he’s been promoted. ‘Oh, and Wildcat, he’ll want to sit on that chair, I expect. There’s a stool over in the corner for you.’

  I’m being humiliated. It’s part of the game Steiger likes to play with me. Really, they shouldn’t have a hold over me any more. I’m too old at twenty to be sent back to Jugendwerkhof now. But my mother’s in one of their hated jails. I know if I don’t co-operate they’ll make life even worse for her, or extend her sentence even further.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  ‘Enter!’ shouts Steiger.

  Another man comes in, and I realise it is him after all. The one who looks like that West German TV newsreader – although of course we shouldn’t know what any of the West German newsreaders look like. Steiger rises, all obsequious now. ‘Good morning, Comrade Oberst.’

  Jäger flicks his hand at him, as though he’s swatting away a fly, although presumably he’s indicating to the man to sit down. He ignores him and turns to me. ‘Why are you sitting on that stool, Irma? Come and sit here.’ He gestures to the chair that Steiger had ordered me to vacate. ‘Would you like a coffee or something, Irma? And don’t look so frightened. This is just a friendly visit.’

  He wants me to drop my guard. Nevertheless, I would like a coffee.

  ‘That would be nice, yes please.’

  Steiger looks affronted when Jäger turns to him, and says: ‘Two coffees, please, Comrade Hauptmann. I’ll have milk and one sugar in mine, please. Irma, how do you take yours?’

  ‘Black, no sugar, thank you,’ I say.

  Steiger shuffles off, his face blushing like a beacon.
I allow myself a little smirk. It’s good to see the bullies being bullied once in a while. As soon as the Stasi captain gets up, Jäger takes the vacated chair for himself.

  ‘So, Irma,’ he says, leaning forward, his arms on the desk. ‘You’ve continued to produce reports for us since we made our deal – what was it? – nearly four years ago now, wasn’t it? However, there hasn’t been much that is of use.’

  ‘I can’t help that,’ I say. ‘I can only tell you what I witness with my own eyes, or what I hear from others.’

  ‘That’s true. But Hauptmann Steiger says you didn’t inform us about your new boyfriend, he had to find out for himself. That’s not following the spirit of our agreement, is it? Also, you’ve been getting a small allowance from us. We can’t continue to pay that if what you’re providing us is useless.’

  I feel a thickness in my throat, as though I’ll struggle to say anything in reply. I pull my arms into my body. There it is in black and white, laid bare by this Stasi colonel: I’ve taken money to betray people, even my own mother.

  ‘I have written several reports for Hauptmann Steiger.’

  Jäger bangs his file on the desk. I flinch. ‘I don’t expect our own agents to have to find out you have a new boyfriend. I expect you to report that to us, and tell us all about him. What’s his name?’

  ‘It’s . . . ’ I hesitate. I don’t want to be disloyal.

  Jäger jabs his finger on the file. ‘Let me help you, it’s Dieter Schwarz. Why is Schwarz on Rügen?’

  ‘He’s a . . . ’

  ‘Come on, Irma. Spit it out. He’s a construction soldier. You know what they are, don’t you?’

  ‘Y-y-yes.’

  ‘Y-y-yes,’ he mocks. ‘They’re people who refuse to fight to defend the Republic. What sort of a person is that to be mixing with? Anyway, it’s not up to me to decide who you choose to have as a boyfriend.’ He looks up as Steiger returns with the coffees. The man puts the mugs down on the table, shuffles from one foot to another, put out that Jäger is in his seat, but not daring to say anything about it. ‘Thank you, Hauptmann Steiger. I’ll deal with Irma here. I’m sure you’ve got other work to be getting on with.’ It’s a dismissal. Steiger reddens again and withdraws from the room. He won’t meet my eyes, clearly uncomfortable about being humiliated in front of me.

  Jäger’s gaze fixes on me again. ‘Before he became a construction soldier, what did he do?’

  ‘He was hoping to become a university student.’

  Jäger snorts. ‘Well, that won’t be happening now. What did he want to study?’

  ‘He hasn’t told me.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Irma. Do you think I was born yesterday?’ He shuffles through his file, peering at the contents. ‘Ah yes. Well, that figures. Both his parents were hospital doctors, and received highly specialised training at our expense. Their son initially wants to follow their example, gets some basic work experience in his school holidays, and then throws it back in our faces. You know what I’m talking about, Irma, don’t you?’

  I don’t reply. But my silence is enough of an answer.

  17

  Binz, Island of Rügen, East Germany

  New Year’s Day 1979

  Müller was grateful she’d turned down Jäger’s exhortations to see in the New Year in a fug of alcohol. Other than a glass of Sekt when the clocks struck twelve, and a beer earlier in the evening, she’d stuck to colas and fruit juice. Over the breakfast table, it was clear Jonas Schmidt had followed her lead – he was as bright as ever. Tilsner, on the other hand, looked like death warmed up. Although given the still freezing temperatures outside, perhaps that warming wouldn’t last long.

  ‘You’re not hungry, then, Werner?’ she asked.

  He looked at her, hangdog, through heavy lids. ‘We can’t all be Miss Goody Two-Shoes. Although Jonas makes a good fist of it. Has Jäger told you? He wants us to start after breakfast.’

  ‘Start what?’ asked Müller.

  ‘Our missions. You at the Jugendwerkhof, me at the construction soldiers’ barracks, and Jonas attached to the Fallschirmjäger medical team. Why are you letting him order us around again? You’re supposed to be the boss, aren’t you?’

  Müller glared at him, even though the criticism was justified.

  Schmidt came to her aid. ‘The Comrade Major had already made those decisions, Comrade Hauptmann. She told me about them last night.’

  It wasn’t true, of course. Jäger had indeed taken control, and Müller had let him. It wasn’t something she was proud of, but at least Jonas Schmidt had allowed her to save some face.

  *

  Müller’s attempts to hitch a ride on army transport to the reform school fell flat. She wasn’t – ostensibly – a murder squad detective, but a lowly stand-in teacher. She would have to strike out on skis to the Jugendwerkhof alone. It was about the first thing that had transformed Tilsner’s hung-over expression into something approaching a smile. He was playing the part of a newly drafted-in People’s Army captain. It trumped a teacher in the emergency pecking order by some distance. Schmidt, too, seemed to be getting a lift. Müller’s deputy gave a sarcastic wave as their troop truck exited the hotel car park, while she was struggling with her ski bindings.

  The going was slightly easier than when the two detectives had set out on their aborted house-to-house search. By following the army vehicles’ tracks through the snow, the route towards Prora approximated a pisted langlauf track. Towering pines lay between her and the sea, their branches loaded and drooping from the ubiquitous blanket of white. It felt to Müller much like a winter expedition through the forested hills of Thuringia, where she’d grown up. The difference was the lack of any significant inclines, and the fact that every few minutes she had to sidestep on her skis out of the way as a personnel carrier roared by.

  The shape of Prora gradually took form through the morning mist, rising like a huge dark wall, casting its menace between her and the frozen Ostsee coastline. Hitler’s holiday camp built for Nazi workers, but never finished, and never used by them. Almost four years since she’d last seen it – other than when they’d arrived from Greifswald in the helicopter. That was to the other – western – end, where Tilsner and Schmidt had gone, some four kilometres distant from here: the blocks given over to Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost. An involuntary shiver pulsed down her neck. She knew the evil that had gone on here. Irma Behrendt had told her during those long nights of captivity in the Harz mountains what she’d had to suffer. She’d seen first hand the evidence of the attempt to frame her ex-husband Gottfried – God rest his soul – for something he hadn’t done, the way that the Stasi had used that to break him for something he had unwisely become involved in: the fraternisation with dissidents linked to the Church. But nothing, surely, warranted the fate he’d been dealt in that forest near Berlin? Learning about that had almost broken her faith in this small socialist republic. Certainly, she had started to wonder if the West really was the root of all evil. This side of the Anti-Fascist Protection Barrier it was apparent that – at times – the forces of darkness held sway.

  She choked back her tears. If she was to play her part of a teacher on secondment at the reform school effectively, it wouldn’t help to arrive with smudged eyeliner and a tear-blotched face. But that – she knew – would be how most of the female pupils of this institution would look on their first day.

  *

  After unclipping her skis, she picked them up, slapping them together to rid them of excess snow. Then, holding them upright by her side like a soldier on parade, she rang the buzzer at the front entrance. This part of Prora – unlike the rest of the monolithic building – had a high-walled forecourt. Inside, she knew, lay the exercise yard where Irma Behrendt had nearly fallen to her death.

  Entryphones were something of a luxury in the Republic, but for security reasons the Jugendwerkhof had one. No doubt, thought Müller, it would also have spy cameras checking who was outside. She looked up and around but failed to
identify them.

  ‘Please wait. Someone will be there to let you in in a moment,’ a disembodied voice announced amid crackles of static.

  Müller started jogging on the spot to try to keep the warmth of her blood circulating around her frozen body. At some point, surely, the weather would have to break.

  The clang of the spyhole in the metal door being slammed open made her jump. She heard a key turning in the lock.

  A serious-looking middle-aged man appeared before her once the door was opened, his gaunt features swamped by what looked like an oversized winter coat.

  ‘Frau Herz, welcome,’ the man said, unsmiling, as though an actual welcome was the last thing on his mind. For a second, Müller was thrown by the use of her fake surname. Then she gathered herself.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  The man closed the huge metal door behind her, then relocked it. Müller suddenly felt herself a prisoner. Images of her time – albeit brief – in Bautzen II jumped into her mind. For the young inmates here, the regime was likely to be remarkably similar.

  The man inspected her and her skis curiously. ‘You skied here?’ His tone was incredulous. ‘If you’d have telephoned, we could have arranged transport quite easily.’

  In her mind, Müller cursed Jäger. The Stasi colonel had insisted she would have to get to the reform school under her own steam. It was another example of him toying with her. It was happening too often.

  She tried not to betray her thoughts. ‘It’s fine. The fresh air and exercise did me good. Especially on New Year’s Day morning.’

  ‘Aha,’ said the man, pushing his spectacles up his nose. ‘I trust you weren’t partying too hard last night.’

  ‘No,’ said Müller, giving a weak laugh. ‘You?’ She realised the man had failed to introduce himself, as though she ought already to know who he was. It was a failing of Jäger’s plan – she’d been too thinly briefed.