by Henry Porter
He went to the park and read Neues Deutschland, mentally grimacing at its pieties, then turned to an Austrian academic periodical he had brought with him. He was sick of being watched and had just about decided to move on to the gallery, where he would at least find some privacy, when about a dozen punks entered the park from his left. At the same moment, another group materialized from beneath the shade of some poplar trees - skinheads with laced boots reaching to the top of their calves and tight denims held up with braces. Very soon a bottle arced through the air towards the punks and broke on the path in front of them. One of the punks picked up the broken neck and flung it back at them, catching a skinhead on the forearm. The youth looked down and yelled out, ‘Scheisse - Punkscheisse.’ Stones and more bottles started flying and the two groups closed in.
Rosenharte put down his periodical and watched, bemused, then he noted that the Stasi team were consulting each other. One broke cover to use a radio, while the other two moved hesitantly towards the edge of the fray.
‘You’d better stop those louts before someone gets hurt,’ shouted a man in a checked shirt and a cream-coloured cap. ‘Today’s youth!’ he said despairingly to Rosenharte. ‘You’d think they’d got better things to do.’
Rosenharte nodded and then with astonishment saw that the man was winking at him. It was Harp, the British intelligence officer he’d met briefly at the hotel with Harland. With the cane and clothes, he looked fifteen years older. The accent was good too; exactly right for the region.
‘Time to get going, Dr Rosenharte,’ he murmured. ‘Ditch this lot and find your way to the Neustadt Bahnhof by five this afternoon. There’s an old building opposite the station that was a restaurant before the war. You’ll see the sign. To the right of the sign there’s a door, which you can push open. I’ll see you in there after five. Mind how you go. The place is in a terrible state. Got all that? Good. Make sure you’re not followed.’ With this, he strolled away to talk to three or four onlookers who were shaking their heads.
Rosenharte moved quickly to the side of the park and, spotting a bus going to the centre of town, ran to catch it. As the doors closed he saw one of the Stasi men frantically looking round. He rode the bus for two stops, then boarded another bound for the suburb of Weisser Hirsch, across the River Elbe to the east of the city. At the last stop before the bus turned round he got off and set out across the Dresdener Heide, the great heath to the north of Weisser Hirsch. He lay in the sun and ate the meagre lunch that he had kept in his pocket since leaving the apartment. At four, he made for the outskirts and then picked his way through the sleepy streets until he reached an almost entirely ruined block that lay between Königsbrücker Strasse and the railway line. There were very few people about, but Rosenharte moved cautiously, waiting and watching at every turn. When he found the burnt-out restaurant near the station he sidled up to the door, placed his back against it and lit a cigarette. Satisfied that no one was watching, he pushed the door with his backside and slipped through to find he was in a large space that was open to the sky. The roof had fallen in several years before and charred timbers hung down from the floors above. A profusion of shrubs and weeds had taken root in the rubble.
‘Thanks for being so prompt.’ The voice came from the gloom of the rooms further back, which had evidently been untouched by the British incendiary bombs.
Harp was now in blue overalls and was accompanied by a much taller man with a thin face, red complexion and a prominent broken nose.
‘This is my associate Cuth Avocet, known by all as the Bird.’ Both men were grinning inanely.
‘Where’s Harland?’
‘In Berlin,’ said Harp. ‘It’s not possible for him to get away at the moment.’ He paused. ‘So, we picked up your message from the Medium and came across as soon as we could.’
‘The Medium?’
‘Yes - the technology that puts you in touch with the other side.’ He smiled. ‘You see! Like a medium.’
Rosenharte did see and smiled politely.
‘Cuth Avocet,’ said the tall one, stepping forward and offering his hand. Rosenharte thought they had got past the introductions but took his hand. ‘How do you do? I’ve heard a lot about you, but sadly we missed meeting in Italy.’
They moved back to the dark area where there were three collapsible fishing stools, a bottle of wine and a candle. ‘Rather festive, don’t you think?’ said Avocet. ‘Would you like a drop of this lovely stuff before Macy polishes it off?’
Rosenharte accepted, thinking he had entered some bizarre British film. ‘You understood my message?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Macy Harp. ‘Absolutely. We’ve fixed a rendezvous in West Berlin for a few days’ time. It’s flexible. “Annalise” will give you some material. I take it you’ll need your side to witness all that?’
‘They will, whether you want it or not. I was questioned for four days when I came back. This material has to settle all their doubts.’
‘Have you begun to make contact with Kafka yet?’
‘How could I? I’m followed everywhere.’
‘You think this new stuff will get them off your back? Current estimates put Stasi strength at about eighty thousand, which means they have the capacity to watch pretty much anyone that interests them. Maybe we have to face the possibility that this isn’t going to work. Maybe you’re never going to shake them off.’
‘It will work,’ said Rosenharte. ‘They’ve got a lot to occupy them at the moment. People are very restive. They’ll be watching everyone who has ever criticized the Party and there are a lot of those. ’
‘Is it going to spread?’ asked Harp.
‘Difficult to say. People understand that nothing’s working and the economy is in trouble. They’re tired of queuing for everything.’
‘I don’t know how you’ve all stood it for so long,’ said Avocet. ‘Nearly forty years.’
‘Überwintern,’ said Rosenharte. ‘We are hibernating.’ That was exactly it. Everyone was waiting for spring but had no idea whether they would live to enjoy it. Rosenharte always understood he was better off than most because of his job at the Gemäldegalerie. The quiet of the galleries, the peace he found there and the experience of his daily contact with the pictures allowed him to lead a completely fulfilled intellectual life. He poured his energy into the contemplation of great works of art and to some extent regarded the paintings - the Rembrandts and Van Eycks and Vermeers - as his companions in the long dark winter, each of them as estranged in spirit from East German society as he was.
Harp smiled. ‘But maybe the thaw will come one day ’ soon.’
Rosenharte shook his head. ‘Maybe,’ he said. He didn’t particularly like the pleasure they took in their own amateurism, their ignorance of German life, their insouciance. But they were all he had. ‘I’ve told the Stasi that I will continue to work with Annalise on condition that they release Else and the children. I think they’ll go along with this, because the envelope you gave me in Trieste contains things that clearly interest them. Once Else has been freed, I want to get all of them out.’
‘And leave your brother at their mercy?’
‘Konrad would want this. I know it. He won’t be able to stand the idea that the boys have been taken away from Else. You can be sure the Stasi have told him that she’s in custody and they are in a home because it will add to his sense of powerlessness. That’s what they do in Hohenschönhausen.’
‘It’s not going to be easy to get him out,’ said Harp. ‘I don’t want you to go away with any false hopes.’
‘I understand. We’ll concentrate on Else first.’
‘How quickly will they release them?’
‘Soon after I come back from the meeting with Annalise,’ said Rosenharte. ‘Then we need to move them as soon as possible.’
Harp’s face did not change, but his tone did. ‘I’m afraid we won’t be able to move them until there has been some progress on contact with Kafka. You must understand that this is
very important to us.’
‘You don’t trust me?’
‘No, it’s just the way it is, old chap. Besides, if Else and the kids just disappear to the West, they’re hardly going to let you alone, are they? We need Else to sit tight at home until the Bird is ready to take them out and we’re firmly in contact with Kafka.’
‘And when they get to the West they will be looked after?’
‘You have Bobby Harland’s word on that, which means it will happen,’ said Harp.
‘How will you get them out?’
‘What do you think, Cuth?’
‘I’m inclined to a crossing of the Czech border, a swift journey by car to Hungary, which they will enter on false passports as my family, and then Bob’s your uncle: two large cream buns for the lads in Vienna and a double brandy for your brother’s missus.’
‘How will I contact you?’
‘You’ve got the number of the Medium and they can’t trace that. It’s a relay system - phone to phone to phone which transfers to the West by a secret means. They may be jolly good at beating people up in jail, but when it comes to electronics your chaps are positively Neolithic.’
‘That’s not true. Phones are tapped at my end and the calls I make can easily be traced. I need another means.’
‘We’ll try to sort out something.’
‘How’s Annalise going to contact me?’
‘By mail, naturally. The letter was posted yesterday and the Stasi should intercept it tomorrow. Of course, you don’t know anything about the trip to Berlin.’
Rosenharte couldn’t subdue his impatience. ‘They suspect that method of communication. They think it’s been used to attract their attention.’
‘Don’t worry. What we’re giving them is good enough for them to ignore any minor doubts they’ve got.’
‘Can you tell me what it is?’
‘No, because I don’t know. But we’ve had some help from the Americans so it’s going to be good and very much up to date. Once we’ve got Else out, things may become difficult for you and we have got to come up with something to deal with that.’
Rosenharte looked up through the ceiling to the sky. The questioning by Schwarzmeer’s people had exposed so many flaws and false assumptions in the British planning that he had no confidence whatsoever. ‘Do you have any ideas?’
‘We’ll have to wait and see how things turn out,’ said Avocet. ‘There’s no point in planning anything now.’
‘I’m afraid I agree with the Bird,’ said Harp. ‘Now, I think we’d all better bugger off, don’t you? We’ll see you in Berlin. All the instructions will be in the letters. You can make your way out the back,’ he said, gesturing behind him. ‘It’s a bit more discreet. We’ll follow in a few minutes.’
Rosenharte said goodbye and groped his way into a yard, which had served a number of buildings at the back of the restaurant. A few minutes later he was heading for Augustus Bridge, wondering how long it would be before the Stasi picked up his trail.
8
By the Elbe
The afternoon was still warm when he reached the Augustus Bridge, which crossed the sluggish waters of the Elbe. It was only when he had passed the figure standing midway across that he recognized Sonja. She had her back to a group of young men wearing the blue shirts of the Free German Youth Movement and was looking downstream.
He hesitated, wondering whether to disturb her, then called out. She didn’t turn so he crossed over to her side of the bridge. ‘Sonja? Is there something the matter?’
She shook her head.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ He placed a hand lightly on her shoulder.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I . . .’
‘Sonja . . . ?’ At this point he felt he’d done the wrong thing. He was also uncomfortably aware of a squeak of desire for her. ‘Can I take you for a drink?’
‘Where would we go in this Godforsaken shit heap? Where?’
‘I know places. Look, you’ll be doing me a favour. I could really use the company myself.’
She turned to him for the first time. ‘They arrested Sebastian. This morning.’ She stopped. ‘You don’t look that good yourself.’
‘Difficult times,’ he said. ‘Look, maybe they’ve only taken him for a short spell. They arrest a lot of people, hold them for questioning then let them go. They take people out of circulation when they think there’s going to be a demonstration. You said yourself that you thought something was going to happen. If you knew that, they did too. He’ll be back with you next week.’
‘How can I be sure?’
‘Because it happened to me last week. I wasn’t in Italy all that time: I was being questioned.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Come on, tell me all about it over a drink.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t talk about this in public. It’s too sensitive. It’s really private . . . there are things . . .’ She took out a handkerchief to dab her eyes and wipe her sunglasses.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ll buy some beers and go and see an old friend of mine. We can talk there.’
‘I’m not going back to your place.’
He looked down into a tear-stained, freckled face and brushed the hair away from her eyes. Sonja was in her late twenties, but she seemed like a child now. The desire left him.
‘Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, it would be impossible. Come along.’
He took her by the arm and led her back over the bridge towards Neustadt. Half an hour later, having got hold of some beer, they walked on a deserted path along the riverbank. Tiny insects swarmed in clouds above the water; a few swallows and house martins dived and stalled around them. Sonja remained silent. At length they came to a Schrebergartenkolonie, an area of small allotments where Dresdeners were allowed to grow their own produce and set up sheds. The gardens were well established and some included two or three fruit trees now weighed down by plums and ripening pears and apples. The people fortunate enough to acquire one of these gardens gained privacy and some small sense that they were masters of their own environment. In the summer, many decamped to the gardens more or less permanently, sleeping in the huts and cooking their meals in the open. Down here, away from the impersonal apartment blocks and the demands of the state, people could be themselves.
Rosenharte noticed Idris’s old Diamant bicycle roped to the fence and called out softly over a clump of bamboo. A rustle was followed by a black face appearing between the canes. ‘Rudi, my friend, what pleasure is this! It has been many months since we have seen each other. Too long for good friends.’
The head disappeared, then popped out a few feet away above a little white gate. Before opening it he reached out, clasped Rosenharte’s neck and kissed him three times. Rosenharte introduced Sonja and watched the conjecture and awe dance in Idris’s eyes. It must have been a long time since he had had any real contact with a woman. Like all foreign workers, he suffered terribly from the racism of the GDR, and had been beaten up and knocked off his bicycle more than a few times. It was during one of these incidents that they had met, Rosenharte having intervened to stop a gang of youths wrenching the bicycle from under him.
Idris Muzaffar Muhammad, part Arab and part Dinka, had then invited him to his plot by the river. He told Rosenharte that he was the son of a wealthy Sudanese landowner who had come to the GDR in some kind of exchange programme and was then stranded after his family fell from grace in Khartoum. Idris now lectured about irrigation and water conservation at the Technical University, but he was also a highly cultivated man and over many hours sitting by the Elbe had told Rosenharte about the early kingdoms of the Nile. He was now in his early forties.
Idris didn’t know what to say to Sonja and he hopped from one bare foot to the other in his white robe, clapping his hands gently. ‘Is this to be Frau Rosenharte?’
‘She can speak for herself,’ said Rosenharte, grinning, ‘but I think you’ll find that marrying me is the very last thing on her mind
.’
This made Sonja smile.
‘I’m so sad,’ said Idris. ‘This man is the very, very best man. It is pity.’
He led them into the little garden, divided into three vegetable patches and a larger piece of ground, which was spilling over with flowers. Between these ran immaculate paths made from stones and pebbles taken from the riverbank. Idris was a dedicated scavenger: anything of use that was borne down the Elbe or thrown out at the university was strapped to the Diamant and wheeled back to his garden where it was pressed into service.
‘We’ve brought beer for you,’ said Rosenharte.
Idris flashed his white and gold teeth, showed them to a table made from salvaged planks and found stools for them. They sat down and opened the beer and looked at the river. Idris told them that sometimes he fooled himself that he was sitting by the Nile, surrounded by the noises and smells of his childhood.
‘Her boyfriend has been arrested,’ said Rosenharte when there was a lull in the conversation. ‘Can we have a few moments alone?’
‘I shall cook a meal for us,’ said Idris. He went off to busy himself with a little iron stove in the shed and soon a stream of smoke appeared from a pipe that protruded from the roof.
‘So, what happened?’ asked Rosenharte.
‘They took him this morning. Early. I was there. They told him that he was under suspicion of “rowdyism and incitement hostile to the state”. They mentioned something to do with anti-state propaganda.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He made some posters calling for freedom of expression and stuck them up at night. Someone ratted him to the Stasi.’
‘Do you know why?’
She shrugged. ‘No. Have you got another cigarette?’
He handed her the packet and his lighter.
‘Rudi, Sebastian’s crazy - he’s got no sense of danger. He needs someone to watch out for him.’
An idea occurred to him. ‘Did they have you in and ask you to work for them in exchange for letting him go?’
‘Yes, they implied it would be better for Sebastian if I started helping them.’
