Stasi Winter

by David Young

  ‘As you can imagine, it’s an inquiry. On Rügen.’

  ‘A murder inquiry?’

  Müller nodded. ‘And you might be able to help me. It’s useful having a friendly face here.’

  ‘It’s something to do with the Jugendwerkhof?’

  ‘I’m the one who’s asking the questions, Frau Schettler. All I’d ask is that you do nothing and say nothing that might reveal my real identity.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What interests me,’ asked Müller, ‘is why you’re still here. Four years ago, you seemed as horrified as I was about what had been going on. I would have thought you’d have taken the first opportunity to leave for a new job. You seemed about the only person here with any sense of decency.’

  ‘Other than your husband.’

  ‘Ex-husband.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. The relationship had run its course, but yes, he was a decent man.’ As she said this, she found her voice catching. Schettler picked up on the emotion, and laid a hand round Müller’s shoulder, thinking she was mourning the break-up of a treasured union. It was, of course, much worse than that. He was dead – executed by the Stasi. But Müller wasn’t about to enlighten her.

  ‘So tell me, Frau Schettler, why are you still here?’

  The woman didn’t answer for a moment. Then replied with a single word – a surname.

  ‘Richter.’

  ‘Richter. Director Richter? I don’t understand.’

  ‘You’ve met the woman. You know she’s evil. It’s a blessing to have her away for a few days on annual leave.’

  Müller still didn’t reveal what she knew about the woman’s fate.

  ‘And?’

  Another pause, this time a longer one. Eventually, Schettler did speak – but in such a low whisper, Müller struggled to hear.

  ‘She has something on me. If she revealed it, well . . . let’s say my career would be as good as over.’

  Müller weighed up whether it was worth enlightening the woman. It might at least put her out of her misery, knowing that Richter could no longer harm her career prospects. Whatever this mysterious ‘hold’ was that she’d had, she’d never be able to use it against the teacher again.

  ‘OK. I’m going to trade some information,’ she said. ‘I will tell you something about Richter – in return you have to tell me what it is she had on you. Deal?’

  ‘Had?’

  ‘Yes, very much had – in the past tense.’

  Schettler clasped her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh my God!’ she cried through her fingers. ‘It was her, wasn’t it? She’s not on annual leave, is she?’

  ‘No,’ laughed Müller, cruelly. ‘It’s now very much permanent leave.’

  ‘And you’re here, so she was—’

  ‘—murdered? Yes, we think so.’

  Schettler gasped. Then realised which way the conversation was flowing. ‘I hope you don’t think it was me, after what I told you. You know, about her having this hold on me. It was nothing as serious as that.’

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t. And if we had to arrest everyone who had a grudge against Frau Richter, we’d have half of Rügen behind bars. So no, you’re not a suspect. But I do want to know what it was that you were in her debt over.’

  The woman sighed. ‘I suppose that’s only fair. To be honest – and I know it’s a terrible thing to say – but to me, your news is a relief.’

  Only now were Müller’s eyes starting to grow accustomed to the dark in the confined space. She gazed around at dank, dirty walls. Breathed in the smell of stale sweat and other, worse bodily odours that had been faintly masked with disinfectant. She couldn’t believe youths and girls – little more than children – were locked up in here for days at a time. Yet Gottfried had insisted that was what happened – something he had been deeply ashamed of. She waited for the woman to reveal her secret.

  ‘You see,’ Schettler continued, ‘Richter knew all about me, because she was one too.’

  ‘One what?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  Müller probably could by now, but she wanted to hear it from the woman’s lips. She sighed and waited.

  ‘She was a lesbian. I’m a lesbian. Theoretically, of course, that isn’t a problem in the Republic. But we know that’s really not the case, don’t we? And as a teacher, too, well, news like that doesn’t go down so well.’

  ‘And had you two been involved?’

  Schettler seemed to shudder. ‘Goodness. Of course not! But we had, shall we say, a mutual friend. A mutual close friend. Or at least, she was a good friend of mine once.’ The woman sounded wistful all of a sudden. Müller decided to try to fill in the missing information.

  ‘And did this friend . . . did she end your friendship . . . and begin one with Richter?’

  She felt Schettler give a silent nod. Müller wondered if another jealous lesbian love rival could be the one responsible for this murder – someone they hadn’t yet found.

  ‘Where does this other woman live?’

  ‘Lived. She’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Not only that, Richter inherited their love nest. It’s a summer cottage, bang on the coast at Rügen, right by the former Seebrücke. In the West, it would be worth a fortune. There must have been some underhand dealing to let her get away with it.’

  ‘Get away with it?’ Müller’s thoughts were beginning to race. Had Richter been guilty of some sort of crime? Had she killed this other woman in order to inherit what sounded like a desirable house? One that, in Sellin, would be coveted even by the great and good in the Republic, never mind the director of a questionable Jugendwerkhof that in reality was little more than a youth prison.

  ‘No, I don’t mean anything like that,’ said Schettler, as though she could guess the way the detective’s mind was working. ‘It’s that the property should have gone to the state, or her blood relatives, yet Richter seemed to manage to snaffle it. That’s where she was over Christmas.’

  ‘Yet her body was found not far from here, on the edge of Binz,’ said Müller.

  ‘Ah,’ said Schettler, seeming to understand. ‘So, she was the woman on the news? This mysterious shopper. Walking out in the snow with a shopping bag. That doesn’t sound very like her at all.’

  ‘What doesn’t?’

  ‘The walking bit. She was a lazy bitch, she wouldn’t walk anywhere if she could avoid it.’ Schettler’s voice was full of menace and hatred, so much so that Müller was revising her opinion that the woman was incapable of murder.

  Her own training told her that, in the right circumstances, with the right provocation, anyone had the capability to kill.

  And kill in a premeditated fashion.

  Even Frau Schettler.

  And from her own mouth, the woman had expounded what sounded like a plausible motive.

  22

  Sellin, Rügen, East Germany

  28 December 1978

  They’ve left me alone with her, and I couldn’t get the words out to tell them not to. I tried to use my eyes to plead with Dieter, but he seems distracted. Almost mesmerised by Richter. They are worried about themselves. If they don’t get back to their barracks, and quickly, they will have some explaining to do. They were supposed to be clearing roads here. Surely, by now someone will have discovered they’ve sneaked off? For a moment, Dieter looks as though he will stay with me, but the other two try to drag him off.

  ‘Don’t worry about your girlfriend,’ Richter coos, as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She’s worked out the signals and can tell Dieter and I are an item. ‘I’ll look after Irma. She can have a hot bath to warm herself up, and when she’s ready I can walk her back to her grandmother’s campsite.’ It freaks me out that Richter has been spending time here, a few hundred metres along the coast, and I never knew. I wonder if she’s been spying on me. I wonder, but I don’t voice the thought aloud because – prob
ably because of the shock – my mouth won’t allow me to speak.

  Dieter starts zipping up his camouflage suit. I try to speak. Don’t leave me with her. She’s evil. That’s what I’m trying to tell him. But all that comes out is a gargling sound.

  ‘But don’t go back out on the ice, boys,’ she laughs. ‘Goodness knows what you were trying to do. Irma’s very lucky. You could have all been killed.’

  This is said with uncharacteristic jollity. I’m the only one who seems to be able to hear the subtext under the words. And that subtext is: I know very well what you were trying to do. And unless you let me get my own way, I will report you to the authorities and you’ll all be facing a nice long stretch in jail.

  That’s what I hear. But they see the friendliness. The faux concern. It’s what Dieter wants to hear – and the other two want to get back to barracks as soon as possible to try to avoid any scandal.

  The door closes behind them.

  At that point, Richter drops her mask. She locks the door. I look round frantically to see if there is another way out. Even if there was, I know my legs are like jelly. I’m still traumatised by whole body shivers. There’s no way I’d be able to run. And nowhere to run to.

  I try to cower from her, shrinking to one side of the sofa. I’m still half-undressed, with only my soaking underwear and Richter’s winter coat covering me. In other circumstances, I’d want to luxuriate into its fur.

  But here, as it rubs against my still damp skin, it’s like the caress of a rat.

  ‘Don’t be frightened, Irma. I want to help you.’ She’s coming close. Looming over me. Her breath warm on my trembling face. She starts to open the fur coat. ‘You need a bath to get the warmth back into your bones. It’ll work wonders. Trust me. You’re still numb from the cold and shock. Let’s get you out of those wet things.’

  I try to shrink back further, but I’m powerless as she eases her arms behind my back and unclips my bra.

  She draws the material away slowly. I realise I’ve stopped shivering. Instead, I seem frozen to the spot. Petrified – like a reclining statue for her to admire.

  She looks at me for a few short seconds.

  ‘You’ve grown into a beautiful woman, Irma,’ she says, then she closes the coat again, as though she doesn’t have an ulterior motive after all. All of a sudden, I think I’ve misread the situation. Perhaps it was the shock, the cold, playing tricks on my mind. Perhaps she really does want to help me, to help us, to make sure none of us get into trouble.

  She strokes my cheek.

  ‘There. That’s good. You’ve stopped shivering. You stay here and I’ll run the bath. Then I’ll make you a nice hot drink. You’ll be feeling better in no time.’

  I find my voice. And I don’t shout for help, I don’t tell her: No, I want to go home immediately. I don’t because my addled brain tells me not to. She’s got a duvet from somewhere and draws it over me. Some warmth starts to get back into my body.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say instead. ‘Thank you for being so kind.’

  She smiles at me. It seems like a genuine smile. ‘It’s a pleasure, Irma. You’re not in the Jugendwerkhof now. You’re an independent young woman with your whole life in front of you. And I’d very much like us to be friends.’

  *

  I think I doze off for a moment, then she’s back in the room. Something is different though. She’s changed into a dressing gown and pulled her dyed black hair up into a bun. She’s not an attractive woman – but here, in her home environment, she no longer seems as fearsome as she did in her reform school role.

  ‘Come along, sleepy head,’ she laughs, grabbing the duvet off me. Then she’s pulling me to my feet. I stagger, uncertain on my legs, trying to stand for the first time since falling into the ice. She helps to hold me up, her arm under the coat, rubbing my back gently almost in a motherly way. I realise how much I miss my own mother. Whether it’s still the shock or what, I find myself trembling again, then sobbing into her chest. Big heaving sobs, like the shivers before, and I can’t seem to stop them. And I can’t stop the tears either.

  ‘Oh, Irma,’ she purrs, her hand gently stroking my back. With her other hand, she lifts my chin, and looks into my eyes. I close them to avoid the intensity of her stare. It seems full of love. It’s confusing. ‘Don’t cry, silly girl. You’re safe now. You miss your Mutti, don’t you?’ she says, kissing me lightly on each of my closed eyelids.

  I nod, my head against her towelling robe-covered chest.

  She strokes my back, her hand moving lower. I make no move to stop her. I wonder what’s happening, get frightened for a moment again, then everything becomes clear. She’s feeling the dampness of the outside of my knickers, plastered as the fabric is against my bum.

  ‘Goodness,’ she laughs. ‘No wonder you’re still shivering.’

  She opens the fur coat, exposing my skin to the warm air of the room. Then her fingers are inside the elastic waistband, easing the sodden material down my legs, until they puddle to the floor.

  She doesn’t close the coat, but instead looks at me for a second or two. I feel myself reddening, the blood coursing around my body again.

  ‘There’s no need to be ashamed, Irma. No need at all.’

  *

  I luxuriate in the almost too-hot bathwater, stretching on my back, and ducking my head under. I feel glad to be alive. Maybe I’ve had a lucky escape not just from the ice, but from a stupid decision. It was reckless. Ill thought out. And I’d allowed Dieter to drag me along with him. Now, someone I’d always hated as a teenager seems to be showing me kindness.

  There’s a soft knock on the door. With my ears full of water from my head ducking, I almost don’t hear it.

  ‘Come in,’ I say.

  Frau Richter is there in her nightgown, carrying a hot mug of something.

  ‘I thought I’d make you a cup of hot chocolate,’ she says. ‘I hope it’s not too sweet but I thought an extra couple of spoonfuls would help with the shock.’

  She crouches by the side of the bath and offers it to me. But I’ve got both my hands over my breasts, and she can see that I don’t want to move them.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she coaxes, pulling one of my hands towards her to take the drink. I slide my other hand over to make sure I’m still covered, and bring the mug up to my mouth.

  The sweetness hits the back of my mouth, but there’s a slightly bitter aftertaste too. I can’t help give a little grimace, then feel ashamed that I’m seemingly throwing her kindness back in her face.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s dark hot chocolate, which I prefer. You youngsters are probably used to the milk chocolate version.’

  I take another, bigger gulp. It’s not so bad really. ‘No, it’s lovely,’ I lie. ‘I was worried it was a bit too hot and that I might scald my mouth. But it’s perfect, honestly.’ I lick my lips, then place the mug down on the bathside table.

  ‘I’ll help you wash your hair,’ she says. Her voice is all echoey. Louder, commanding.

  ‘There’s no need,’ I try to say. But it comes out as a slur. I feel sleepy all of a sudden. I try to stand, but nearly fall back. Frau Richter kneels alongside the bath, and coaxes me into the water again. Her hands feel so strong as she begins to massage the shampoo into my wetted hair. It brings back memories of Mutti doing the same for me all those years ago. I feel safe, warm, wanted . . . but so very sleepy.

  She squirts some more liquid into my hair, and begins to rub it into a lather with one hand, while the fingers of her other hand lightly brush the hairs on my arm, so gently it’s almost like the delicate touch of a butterfly’s wings.

  I feel myself drifting off on a cloud of pleasure.

  Then she’s whispering in my ear.

  ‘Did you used to have baths like this with Mutti, Irma?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I murmur.

  ‘But she was taken away from you, wasn’t she? That wasn’t very fair, was it? But if you want, I can be your new Mutti. You’ll like that,
Irma, I’m sure you will.’

  *

  I fall into a semi-conscious sleep feeling loved, feeling happy, still with a woozy buzz – the sort of feeling you get when you’ve been out on a winter’s night, you’ve had too much to drink, and then you get back to the warmth of home.

  The next thing I’m conscious of I’m lying on a bed. I feel all tingly, almost like a need to go to wee. But it isn’t that. I must have been dreaming of Dieter – what our life might have been like if our futile escape bid had succeeded.

  I must be in his bed. I see a dark head of hair between my legs.

  Then, the head rises up. The eyes meet mine.

  Immediately, the shame, the hatred comes crashing in.

  It isn’t Dieter’s face.

  It’s Richter.

  I start screaming and try to wrench myself away, but she’s tied my hands.

  The tears stream down my face as I try to prise myself free, and I let out an animalistic howl of hatred.

  I hate her.

  I have always hated her.

  There is no way back from this. I will have to kill her.

  She will have to be my third victim.

  And all of them – each and every one of them – have deserved it.

  23

  Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost, Rügen, East Germany

  Later on New Year’s Day 1979

  Müller went through the motions for the rest of her induction day. Her instinct told her Schettler’s information should be acted on immediately. But what if it came to nothing? What if Richter’s secret house and her sexual inclinations, her takeover of Schettler’s lover, were nothing to do with why she’d been killed? She couldn’t immediately wreck Jäger’s undercover plans – not without something stronger.

  Two things changed her mind – both of them telephone calls, conducted from the payphone in the Jugendwerkhof when she was sure no one was eavesdropping.

  The first was to Tilsner, who sounded from his whisper like he was having to be equally discreet, although he insisted he was squirrelled away alone in the officers’ quarters.

  ‘I overheard something Dieter and his crew were talking about.’

  ‘Irma’s boyfriend?’