“Perhaps. Perhaps you’re right, Dmitri Alexandrovich.”
We turned away from the lake and walked on through the woods in silence, only the cracking of the twigs underfoot measured time.
20:24
It was dark by the time we drove back into Berlin, and I was glad that we didn’t take the route through the woods—Dmitri must have thought I was adequately disguised in the gloom, and they dropped me off a few hundred metres from the S‑Bahn station in Grünau. I got off the train at Ostkreuz and wandered home, wondering what my next move should be. Dmitri was uncanny, the way he never smiled and seemed to know me and my feelings far better than I did myself. Then there was the way that Dmitri told me so much, yet somehow so little of it seemed concrete or useful. Nor had he given me any actual advice, any indicators as to how I should proceed. Except to be careful, and to trust no-one.
“Thanks a bunch, Dmitri Alexandrovich,” I muttered to myself, walking down the street. As I passed the bakery I glanced into the darkened window, using it as a mirror, looking to see if I was being followed. I couldn’t see anyone, but that didn’t have to mean much—they knew where I lived, they didn’t have to accompany me to my door.
Trust no-one. Only the people closest to you, and do not trust even them with anything—Dmitri’s words swirled around my head, but I had to trust someone, it would be good to talk through the events of the last few days, throw ideas around, try to get some perspective on what was happening, and what we should do about it.
Right now, though, I needed a drink and an early night. Too much had happened today, and I needed a bit of down-time. I stumbled up the stairs, and was stood outside my flat door, fumbling with the key when I noticed I had a new message on the notepad: In the bar, come and find me when you get in, Nik.
The idea of sitting in Jen’s smoky bar, having a conversation with Nik didn’t exactly re-energise me, but at least he was someone I could trust. Probably. At least he’d be a start.
I pushed open the heavy door of the bar, and parted the curtain, looking for Nik. He was sat at the same table as last time. I went over, he didn’t notice me coming until I was at his shoulder, holding my hand out for him to shake.
“Christ, I was expecting you hours ago! How was it?” he asked me.
“He’s a bit cryptic, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, he is too. But he’s an interesting fellow,” Nik laughed.
I nodded, thinking that interesting didn’t do Dmitri justice, he was much more than that.
“What did he tell you? Or shouldn’t I ask, just say if I should shut up,” Nik was looking into his beer, waiting for me to tell him to mind his own business.
“You know, honestly, I don’t know. I’m knackered—it’s been the longest day I’ve had since 1989. I need to think about what he told me, try and get it straight in my head. He was telling me about what’s happening in Moscow, and how it might affect us. He talked about some very scary things.” Nik was nodding, encouraging me to carry on. “But he was very clear that I needed to be careful about who I talk to about the Maier case.”
“Yes, you mentioned you’d been down to Weisswasser, to see the body. But are you still involved?”
“Officially, not really. We arrested the suspect today, but I’m not actually working on it—we’re not the police after all.”
“You make it sound like you still want to be involved?” He watched me nod before continuing. “It’s good if you’re looking into it: somebody needs to. One of us—not an apparatchik—it should be somebody who cares. Are you by yourself? You shouldn’t be—it’s complicated. Why don’t you involve your work team?”
“Dunno, I don’t really know them that well, I guess. Plus, I’m really not sure I’m going to do anything about it.”
“Look, they’re good people. They’re like you and me, they care. If I were you, I’d start with them. Talk to them. And Martin? You can rely on me. Whenever you need me—just shout.”
He looked very earnest, pretty much the same as on Sunday night, but livelier, more animated. I nodded agreement and made my excuses, heading back out into the dark street. A quick look both ways, nobody in sight. Back into my own house, up the stairs and into my armchair.
Just as I was making myself comfortable the phone rang. I was beginning to regret having a phone at home, it only ever seemed to ring when I wanted to have a bit of peace and quiet, and if felt like these days there often wasn’t even anyone on the other end. I picked up, and sure enough, a couple of clicks and a vague hissing came down the line. I was just about to hang up again when finally a voice came from the receiver.
“Martin! Martin? Is that you?” It was Evelyn.
“Evelyn, yes, it’s me—sorry I couldn’t speak to you yesterday, I was in a bit of a state.”
“Oh, poor you! I hope you’re OK? But Martin, I’m so glad I’ve finally caught up with you! I’m so excited, a friend who works in the Ministry of the Interior gave me your number, I hope you don’t mind, but it’s been so long!”
“Evelyn, it’s good to hear from you, where have you been all these years? What are you doing these days?”
“Oh, you know, just scraping by, doing the usual—I’m working at the Kosmos cinema at the moment, so let me know if you need free tickets! What are you up to? Oh, listen, talking on the phone isn’t any fun—why don’t we meet up? I mean right now—we could go to the cinema right now! That would be so much fun, do say yes, dear Martin, it’s been so long!”
I was completely knackered, and wanted nothing more than to doze off in my own chair in my own flat. But Evelyn’s enthusiasm was infectious, and she was right—it had been so long. Why not? A film didn’t sound too strenuous, and I was curious about what had happened to Evelyn since I last saw her.
21:37
Half an hour later I was stood on the Karl-Marx-Allee, in front of the Kosmos, waiting for Evelyn. Behind me lights beckoned warmly through the glass façade of the cinema, but it was getting cold standing in the late September evening without a jacket on. After twenty minutes I was ready to give up and go back to the tram stop. I turned to gaze ruefully at the glow of the foyer when I saw Evelyn, just inside the entrance, waving at me.
“Silly you! I thought you’d never see me,” she grinned at me, not at all bothered about being late. “We’ll have to go straight in, it’s about to start.” Evelyn was dressed simply and elegantly, as ever, and looked exactly the same as I remembered her—the years had taken no toll from her.
We went through the foyer, and past the ticket collector—Evelyn just beamed at him as we went by into the auditorium. The trailers were playing, and we slid into the back row, the ranks of white seats before us a dusky grey in the gloom.
“It’s Paul and Paula—have you seen it before?” Evelyn whispered in my ear, her breath tickling me and making me twitch. I hadn’t seen The Legend of Paul and Paula for years, I probably saw it last with Katrin sitting between her mum and me on the couch at home. Because of its fairy tale escapism and its rejection of the cultural demands of Socialist Realism it had been a popular film in the 1970s. But then it had been banished to late night television and finally dropped after the main actors both went into exile in the West. Since the revolution the film had become popular again, a trend for nostalgia and an appreciation of the film’s celebration of love made it a favourite among young people.
It’s an enjoyable film, not demanding much attention or thought from its viewers, and the easy pace of the unfolding story suited my mood perfectly. We’d already got to the bit when Paul unexpectedly comes to Paula in the middle of the night, and is surprised that she has prepared a feast for him. The scene, playing on her prescience and his confusion, is touching, and I smiled at the memories it brought back.
It was at this point that Evelyn decided to slip her hand into mine. I froze, caught between the two-dimensional memories of a long dead past, and the heat making its way up my arm. I slowly melted into the warmth from the body close beside me, and my finge
rs slipped through Evelyn’s as we tightened our clasp. We explored each other’s hands, tracing outlines of fingers and palms, our heads moved towards each other until they were resting together. Things didn’t go any further, we just sat in a warm fuzziness as the story played towards its tragic conclusion on the screen before us.
After the film we sat in the foyer, Evelyn sipping a glass of Rotkäppchen sparkling wine while I confined myself to water. I was tired, and the memory of yesterday’s hangover was still too fresh to ignore. We chatted about the film and the cinema, and how Katrin’s Jugendweihe ceremony had been held here at the Kosmos.
“Do you remember: Are you ready?” laughed Evelyn.
“Yes, and then they had to swear to defend socialism, and to be led by the revolutionary Party!” I added, but Evelyn didn’t find that bit nearly as funny as I did.
She looked away, and there was silence for a second or two until suddenly she turned back to me, her eyes fixed on mine. “Martin, let’s go, right now! Let’s just go to mine,” she laid a hand on my knee, and tipped her face down so that she could look up at me through her eyelashes. “Martin, it’s been too long, say you’ll come!”
I sat there stiffly, looking at her, not knowing what to say or do. I could still feel the outline of her hand in mine, and that had awakened a need for human warmth that I had all but forgotten. The idea of holding Evelyn in my arms, sharing her bed, feeling close to her, to anyone—it was almost overwhelming. But I was tired, so tired. I could feel every muscle in my arm as I lifted Evelyn’s hand, sliding it off my knee, and putting it on the armrest of her chair.
“I’m sorry Evelyn, you’ve no idea how much I’d like to, but I think it would be better if I just went.”
Evelyn lifted her chin, and looked at me directly again. As an equal this time, not attempting to pull me in with her charm. Her eyes flickered, and I couldn’t tell whether what I read there was hurt, scorn or cold indifference.
Day 8
Wednesday
29th September 1993
Moscow: Hostilities continued on the streets of Moscow last night as Interior Ministry and KGB forces clashed. So far, the conflict has been focussed on the centre of the city, but there are fears that it may spread to residential areas.
Görlitz: Further marches in support of the regional Round Table were held in many towns in West Silesia last night. An estimated ten thousand people participated in the latest protest in the capital, Görlitz. The marchers have called for a full re-integration of the Round Tables at all levels of government in the Region. The West Silesian League condemned the marches, denouncing what they described as: ‘incendiary attempts by foreign agents to interfere in the internal affairs of West Silesia’.
08:15
It was good to be sitting in the office, surrounded by the team. I’d had a crap start to the morning—I felt guilty about Evelyn, the alarm clock went off an hour early, and I was clean out of coffee, even though I’m pretty sure I bought a packet last week. In the end I’d settled for a cup of Presto instant coffee, it didn’t taste particularly good, and it certainly didn’t give me the jolt I needed to start the day. But I was in the office now. Outside, the sun was shining, and in here I had a steaming mug in hand and my colleagues were with me. They all looked pretty sympathetic—I assumed Klaus had told them about the squat raid yesterday morning—nevertheless, when we got started Laura had a go at me about not sticking to agreements.
“I know we agreed on Friday that I’d write the report, hand it in, then walk away from it. But we got some more information from Saxony, and I think it’s fair to say we all had doubts, even last week.” I picked up the envelope from the Saxon police, passing it to Laura, who was sitting to my right. “I was going to tell you at the meeting on Monday but the wasp thing happened.”
Laura subsided visibly at the mention of the wasp, but rallied again. “What are you saying, Martin?” she asked.
“Well, I did a report for the Minister, but I left out the new information from Saxony. I wasn’t sure whether that was the right thing to do, and to be honest I’m not sure why I didn’t put it in either. In the end it didn’t matter, he knew about it anyway. Basically, the whole thing is weird, it doesn’t add up at all.” I starting listing all the things that had happened this last week that I was unhappy about, ticking the points off on my fingers as I went. When I got to the last finger I tapped it on the table, pausing for a moment: “Finally, he sends me to witness an arrest and he looks like some fat cat, satisfied that he’s tied up all the loose ends, and gives me a promotion. It’s all very odd, but I got the distinct feeling he was trying to buy me off. And if that’s the case, maybe we should ask ourselves, why?”
There was silence in the room, everyone looking at me, weighing up my words. For some reason I hadn't told them about Dmitri. I didn’t have any good reasons not to, in fact I should have told them—we were a team, we were meant to be working together. But it just didn’t feel like the right moment.
“Martin’s been under a lot of strain this last week, maybe he didn’t handle it as well as he could, but I think we might have done more to support him too. And if Martin’s got a strong feeling about this then we should listen to what he has to say.”
I was thankful for Klaus’s contribution, and was ready for his question.
“What do you think we should be doing, Martin?”
“I think we should be careful not to rock the boat too much at this stage: if I’m wrong then there’s no need for all of us to be making trouble for ourselves. But I’d like to go and interview Fremdiswalde. I don’t think he murdered Maier.”
“Martin! Why can’t you leave that to the police? Surely that’s their job!” Laura was running out of patience.
“What are we here for if we’re not trying to spot dangers to our society? So, strictly speaking, interviewing Fremdiswalde isn’t part of our job, but it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t take an interest! We didn’t ask ourselves whether it was our job when we shut down the Stasi! That was the police’s job too, and they weren’t doing it, so we turned up mob handed and took over the Stasi offices. Remember that? You were there too!”
“OK, OK, you two! Play nicely!” interrupted Klaus, leaning forward to attract Laura’s and my attention, “I know that last Thursday I was all for following it up, but I think Laura’s made a really good point: it’s just not our job. Martin—those were different times, we can’t work in those ways now.”
“I’m not sure. I think Martin may have a point,” Erika spoke up, edging into the conversation for the first time. “We can’t just sit back and let the state expand again, taking over responsibility for all areas of our lives. Yes, we’re RS, and criminal investigation is outside our remit, but we’re also citizens, and we have a responsibility towards our country. I think we should support Martin, give him another couple of days, and if he doesn’t come up with anything by then we can just try to keep it unofficial—try to minimise any fallout.”
I smiled a ‘thank you’ at her, while Klaus and Laura shared a glance before nodding a reluctant agreement.
We ran through the rest of the meeting, no surprises, nothing particularly exciting. I told them that the Minister had asked me to prepare the security report for the Wall debate. We agreed to leave it a couple of days before deciding who should take that task on, give me a bit of space to carry on nosing around the Maier case.
The others filed out of my office, and I pulled the telephone towards me, poking around on my desk for the letter from the Saxon police. Finding it, I punched in the number and asked for Unterleutnant Schadowski. A couple of minutes’ conversation, and I had all I needed: Schadowski confirmed that the theory was that Maier had been having an affair with the much younger Fremdiswalde, who was now the chief suspect. Maier had broken off the affair, and Fremdiswalde had lost it, killing Maier during a final liaison at the edge of the coal mine, then dragging the body down to where work was taking place. The Saxon police had prepared a report, and were
sending someone up to interview Fremdiswalde tomorrow morning. I asked Schadowski to send me a copy.
“One other thing, Comrade Hauptmann,” continued Schadowski, “I thought you should know: I’ve been ordered to report to the Ministry of the Interior if I have any contact with RS.”
I thanked Schadowski, and hung up. His final words were hardly reassuring. Why the hell should I not be talking to Schadowski, and who exactly at the Ministry was keeping tabs on me?
12:37
Sitting on the S‑Bahn on the way to the Ministry I thought about last night. On the way home after the cinema I’d felt physical regret: it would have been so nice to cuddle up to someone in bed, to lie spooning another warm body. And there was a feeling that after all these years—years of being aware of that flirtatious tingle whenever we saw each other—something was inevitable. A feeling that by avoiding that inevitability I had somehow cheated fate, and fate would come back for revenge.
But this morning I just had a sense of vague guilt. I felt guilty that I’d refused Evelyn, even though it wasn’t something that I’d actually wanted; guilty that I hadn’t thought once about Annette last night, even though what was developing between us was something that didn’t just feel good—it felt like it had a future.
I swept my thoughts to one side as I got off the train at Friedrichsstrasse, and my mind turned to work matters. I’d had a phone call, been asked to report to the Ministry by some minor civil servant, so here I was. As I turned into the Mauerstrasse I saw the same goons that were there yesterday, but today they were in a dark blue Lada. Feeling their stares I pointedly ignored them, and went up the steps into the building.
I reported to the Minister’s secretary, expecting to be directed to Frau Demnitz again, but instead of which I was told to go upstairs to one of the tiny offices where the worker bees administered their paperwork. I was seen by a young man in a brown suit, no tie, just an open collar. He sat behind a desk that filled the space between the walls, and I wondered how he got out from behind it—did he crawl underneath, or climb over the top? His window looked over the courtyard below, but faced south, so I couldn’t see much more of him than a dark shape silhouetted against the bright window.
Stealing the Future Page 16
