Sektion 20

by Paul Dowswell

  Kohl moved the barrel of his gun from one to the other, relishing his power. ‘Take off your clothes,’ he said. They both looked aghast. ‘Quickly,’ he ordered.

  They hurriedly stripped, the girl bravely muttering that he was a pervert. That made Kohl smile. He had completely lost his trust in these people. He wanted to leave the apartment quickly, anonymously and alive and he did not want them following him.

  ‘You.’ He turned to Klaus. ‘Give me your keys and put all of your clothes in that.’ He pointed to a plastic bag on the coffee table.

  ‘What, all of them?’ said Klaus, with a look of terrified disbelief on his face.

  ‘Just the ones you’ve been wearing, you Arschloch,’ said Kohl.

  While they gathered their clothes, Kohl knocked the phone off the table and crushed it into several pieces with his boot.

  He stepped towards the door with the bag. ‘You may tell your organisation I had nothing to do with the arrests of your comrades. And whatever has happened today is, likewise, entirely down to your own stupid bungling.’

  He left, swiftly double-locking the door behind him, then despatched the bag of clothes, the keys, and his gun, down the apartment rubbish chute. He did not want to be carrying a gun if he was stopped by the police. By the time his captives had pulled on a fresh set of clothes and found a spare set of keys, Kohl was halfway down the adjacent street and taking the keys for his Mercedes from his pocket. As he drove off, a man in a plain grey coat and a black patch over his right eye watched the car turn towards the city’s ring road. When the Mercedes moved out of view, he spoke into a small two-way radio transmitter.

  It was dark now and the headlights of Kohl’s Mercedes were picking out flecks of sleet amidst the persistent rain. He rubbed his tired eyes and squinted at the road ahead. If he kept going, and the snow held off, he should be home by midnight.

  Kohl pulled deep on a Marlboro. He liked these American cigarettes, although he would never dream of smoking them in front of his colleagues. He had promised himself a coffee before he crossed over but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being followed.

  Had he had a lucky escape? Had there really been plain-clothes police around the building? Or had his contacts just been smoking too much cannabis and were overcome with paranoia?

  Maybe it was because he was tired, but Kohl could feel himself getting increasingly angry. He felt a real, deep hatred for these young people – hippies all of them – and the ones in East Germany who wanted to be like them. In his day you joined the Hitler-Jugend or the Bund Deutscher Mädel and you did what you were told.

  The young were meant to be the fighting reserve of the Party. If that was the case, then God help them. Even the kids who were in the Free German Youth seemed to want to grow their hair and listen to pop music. That was OK these days, he had been told, although there were limits on what was permissible. They had been infected, all of them. But it was the ones who really let their hair grow and listened to the banned music and never attended youth meetings, they were the ones who were a real cancer in the Republik.

  Chapter 6

  Anton came running up to Alex in the lunch break. ‘Effi’s been arrested. Her parents told me they’d had the Stasi round. She’s in Hohenschönhausen.’

  They’d all heard of that. It was a detention centre in the east of the city.

  ‘And there’s been a shooting at the Wall,’ said Anton. ‘Heard it on the Western news the other day. Didn’t think much about it until I heard Holger had gone missing.’

  Alex went cold. Anton’s excitement was unsettling. And he was being very indiscreet. ‘It’s got to be them,’ Alex whispered. ‘Did you know they were going?’

  Anton shook his head. He held up his fingers to count the options. ‘He’s either dead, injured, in custody, or got away. What do you think?’

  Alex walked away without replying.

  He went to Holger’s apartment as soon as school was over. His mother answered the door again, but only opened it a few centimetres. ‘Don’t come here again, Alex,’ she whispered through the crack in the door. ‘We’ve had the Stasi here. I don’t know what’s happening.’ Then she broke down, and her words came out in breathless sobs. ‘They won’t tell us anything . . .’

  The door shut and Alex walked home, trying to fight back his own tears. It was not surprising he failed to notice the beige Wartburg and the man inside who pointed a camera at him.

  The next morning the school secretary summoned Alex from a maths lesson and ordered him to report to the Principal’s office. He was sure this was about Holger, and as he walked the short distance down the corridor he felt grateful to his friend for not telling him about his plans to escape. Now he could go in and claim with transparent honesty that he knew nothing.

  Two middle-aged men, in nondescript suits and severe haircuts, were sitting at the Principal’s desk. They motioned for him to sit and fixed him with piercing stares.

  Alex gave a cautious smile and asked them how he could help. They continued to stare and Alex began to feel the sweat run down his back.

  ‘You are a known accomplice of the border violator, Holger Vogel,’ said one of them.

  So, it was definitely true. Holger had tried to escape.

  ‘Holger is my friend,’ said Alex. ‘I know he has disappeared because his mother told me. But I know nothing about border violations.’

  The questions came rapidly and alternately from the two men.

  ‘You are aware that border violation is one of the most serious crimes?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And do you swear that the border violator never mentioned his intentions before he committed this crime?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You were aware? Do you mean he did mention this?’

  ‘No, sir, he never spoke to me about it.’

  ‘And are you aware that assisting a border violator is a crime almost as serious as border violation itself?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you suspect at any time that Vogel harboured any negative delusions about the DDR?’

  ‘Did he ever voice such delusions to you?’

  Alex was getting confused.

  ‘I am happy to swear to you both that I never heard Holger say anything about his escape plans . . .’

  ‘Escape?’ said one of the men angrily. ‘This is not an escape.’ He spat out the word. ‘It is a betrayal by a traitor to his country. Your usage indicates a harbouring of false opinions. Have you ever considered “an escape”, as you put it?’

  Alex did his best to keep the fear from his voice.

  ‘No, sir. I am a loyal citizen of the DDR.’

  ‘Then why are you no longer a member of the Free German Youth?’

  Alex was lost for words. A pregnant silence hung in the air.

  ‘You may go.’ The younger man paused as he glanced at his file. ‘Master Ostermann, we will call you again if we require any further assistance.’

  Alex got up to leave and was surprised his legs could still carry him out of the room.

  Chapter 7

  A week after his trip into West Germany, Unterleutnant Kohl was called into the office of his senior officer, Colonel Theissen. ‘We have bad news on the Hannover operation,’ he told him. ‘There have been arrests. A man and a woman shot dead. Our contacts with the Red Army Faction are convinced you betrayed them. It’s too much like the Munich operation. They think you’re the kiss of death.’

  Kohl framed his response with care. Theissen could have him down in the basement steaming open envelopes for the rest of his career.

  ‘Colonel, I can assure you I followed procedures exactly as instructed,’ said Kohl. ‘These people are complete bunglers.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. And I’m sure they are,’ said Theissen plainly. ‘But we shall take you off Western operations for now. Wait until everything settles down.’

  Kohl was disappointed. He would miss the chance to buy the goods he liked and the o
nes that fetched such a good price in the East. The perks far outweighed the dangers of trips like those.

  ‘You can go back to domestic work for a while,’ said Theissen, and handed him a file. ‘Put in some time with Sektion 20. These two are in need of attention. I’m sure you’re just the man to sort them out.’

  Sektion 20 dealt with dissidents. Kohl was sent for a short session of retraining. He was instructed on how young people, infected by Western culture, were the greatest threat to the Republik. ‘Adversarial asocials’, ‘negative-decadents’ was how the directives described them. Kohl didn’t need to be told this. He knew exactly what they were talking about.

  Geli and Alex Ostermann fitted that profile snugly, spreading the ideology of the enemy with their music and personal appearance. They were prime candidates for preventative hindrance – no question about it. The boy was transparently under the influence of the class enemy and in thrall to the capitalist lifestyle. And he was an associate of a known border violator. She had had close relationships with adversarial asocials in the past. And now her coursework at college was displaying harmful tendencies.

  It was important, Kohl realised, to make a good job of this assignment. His actions in Hannover had been criticised. The Red Army Faction had made it plain they considered him a class enemy and that relations with the Stasi were now extremely strained. Herr Kohl knew he was under suspicion. He had to prove he was one of them.

  Kohl had re-read his Stasi training documents – especially the Dictionary of Political Operative Work. It was not enough to merely monitor and chastise asocials like the Ostermann brats; the instruction manual put great store in reforming them – or, as the instruction manual had it, ‘shaking and changing the perspectives of oppositional negative elements and even forcing a differentiated, political-ideological recovery’.

  That would be the desired outcome in this case. The Ostermann children seemed lost to the Party, but they came from good stock and their parents’ loyalty had never been questioned. Kohl decided he would pull out all the stops and do whatever he could to bring them back to the straight and narrow path of the Party.

  He inserted a blank sheet of paper into his typewriter and began to peck at the keys with his index fingers.

  Operational transaction

  • Container to be opened on Geli Ostermann with immediate effect.

  • Container to be opened on Alex Ostermann with immediate effect.

  • Request VSH index cards to be created for operationally substantive information on aforementioned subjects. Institute for Technical Investigations to be informed and radio counter-surveillance and clothing and vehicle technology prepared.

  • Variable base B 1000 Swallow to be made available for surveillance.

  • Incriminating materials and visual and aural evidence to be collected.

  • Specialists to carry out non-violent conspirative opening of Ostermann household to facilitate inspection and fulfilment of task.

  • Key to be obtained via school search for reprehensible literature. All bags to be checked and suspect keys copied.

  CC: ZAIG Central Evaluation

  Dept.14 Detention

  Dept.M Postal Surveillance

  Directorate 7 Observation

  ZKG Illegal Emigration

  Dept.26 Telephone Surveillance

  Chapter 8

  Alex took a deep breath and knocked on the door of Sophie’s apartment. He’d only seen her once or twice since they’d walked home from school with Geli. Everyone knew about Holger at school. Maybe she was anxious about being friends with someone who was so closely associated with a ‘border violator’. Then Alex had begun to worry that she’d asked him out to annoy her parents. He really liked Sophie, and hoped she wasn’t toying with him, but didn’t want to meet her parents.

  The first thing Alex noticed when he approached her fifth floor apartment was the mat outside the door. It was red, with a black outline of the interlocking handshake that was the centre symbol of the SED party logo.

  Sophie answered the door and gave him such a big smile his anxiety vanished in an instant. She ushered him in to the living room where her parents were standing by the window, Frau Kirsch with hands clasped tightly before her, Herr Kirsch with hands behind his back.

  A wall-hanging celebrating the industrial achievements of East Germany sat above the fireplace and even the tray on which Frau Kirsch brought the coffee and cakes had a marquetry inlay of electric locomotives and chemistry works above the DDR’s flag. On the mantelpiece were ornaments of Lenin and the Red Flag. Alex wondered if Herr and Frau Kirsch had a bedspread with Lenin on it and tried not to laugh.

  ‘And what do you want to do in life?’ said Herr Kirsch, who was wondering what Alex was smirking at.

  ‘I think I shall follow my mother into teaching,’ he said. ‘Perhaps music, perhaps German, I can’t decide. I go to a school in Schöneweide for my work experience.’ Everyone in his year at school had to go one day a week. Most of his fellow students had been sent to power stations or factories. Alex had landed a cushy number in a school two stops down on the train. He enjoyed it though. He was a good teacher and the younger kids all liked him.

  ‘Well, you need to make up your mind soon. And you will have to have a haircut if you are to be accepted into higher education.’

  The conversation flagged. Herr Kirsch asked if Alex was keen on sport. He wasn’t. What had he done recently with the Free German Youth? He wasn’t a member. Had he heard General Secretary Honecker’s recent speech on the importance of factor utilisation on economic growth? He hadn’t.

  Sophie drank her coffee so fast it scalded her throat and announced they were going to be late for the party.

  ‘But it’s about to rain, Mein Schätzchen,’ said her mother.

  ‘I have a headache,’ Sophie said. ‘I need some fresh air.’

  ‘How d’you think that went?’ asked Alex as they walked to the tram stop.

  Sophie sniggered. ‘Marvellous.’ Then she paused and said, ‘It could have been worse. They let me go, didn’t they?’ She hooked her arm round his. ‘I think they think you’re all right.’ She didn’t sound very convincing. Then she perked up. ‘I told them you were friends with Lili Weber. That impressed them, at least! She’s a fine role model for East German youth.’

  She leaned closer and whispered, ‘Have you heard any more about Holger?’

  ‘It doesn’t sound good,’ he said. ‘Holger’s sister told me they’ve been going to the police station every day to try to find out what’s happened to him. Now they’re being told they’ll be prosecuted for slandering the State if they carry on making a fuss. Holger’s sister says they don’t know whether he escaped or is in prison somewhere. No one will tell them.’

  ‘Let’s hope they find out soon,’ said Sophie. ‘It must be horrible not knowing.’ They both shrugged. There was nothing more to say.

  Their tram took them down Karl-Marx-Allee. Looking out of the window at the shops, cafés and workers’ apartments, all built after the war, Alex thought its creators had lost the plot. The buildings were too hefty and the avenue too wide and empty.

  Sophie instinctively shared his thoughts. ‘I always feel like an ant down here.’

  The tram trundled towards Alexanderplatz and the TV Tower. They got off to walk to the café bar where the party was being held. Alex shivered in the dark winter night. He was glad he had brought his pullover – the black one his mother had knitted for his birthday.

  Away from the grand architecture of Karl-Marx-Allee and Alexanderplatz the buildings looked more dilapidated. Many were caked with soot or had cracked plaster peeling away to reveal the brick and timber beneath. Three cars sat in an almost empty car park – huddled together as if for protection or company. Two were ubiquitous Trabis, the other a black sedan from before the war. Alex looked at its lovely curves and sleek aerodynamic design and wondered why they didn’t make cars as beautiful as that any more.

  Alex and Sophie passe
d a tall, distinguished-looking man who was busy cleaning the street with a sturdy wicker broom. When he saw Alex, he looked away. It was only when they were some way down the road that Alex realised the man was Geli’s old photography tutor, Herr Lang.

  The venue was called Café Wolfgang and you reached it by climbing a flight of stairs above a furniture shop to a large first-floor room. Several of their friends were already there, sitting in the corner with Emmy, the birthday girl. The plan was to have a meal and then a dance.

  The waiter looked very dapper with a smart black suit and blue spotted bow tie. Alex wondered why he’d bothered. Perhaps he was trying to make up for the rest of the café. It was so dreary. Shabby carpet, wallpaper that hadn’t been changed since 1950, and a bar counter that was so worn the pattern had faded to a grey scuzz.

  Emmy’s friends were OK but there was too much talk of the Free German Youth for Alex’s liking.

  They were about to order a meal when Nadel arrived with Beate, another girl from their class. Alex didn’t like Nadel and noticed at once he was wearing the green and yellow enamel badge of the Free German Youth group leaders on his jacket. Much to Alex’s discomfort they sat immediately opposite him and Sophie.

  Beate was wearing a polyester fabric design that was everywhere that winter – a violent zigzag pattern, like a regular longitudinal wave on an oscilloscope, in bright reds and blues. Everything from trouser suits to mini, midi and maxi skirts were made out of that material. Beate had made a pair of trousers and a matching waistcoat from hers. She and Sophie fell into conversation about the difficulties of making your own clothes, leaving Alex and Nadel to make polite conversation.

  They were all drinking bottles of Radeberger Pilsner. By the time the Jägerschnitzels and noodles arrived they were getting rowdy.