Brandenburg

by Henry Porter

  The calculation was visible behind the Russian’s eyes. ‘Abu Jamal is not in the GDR, but we understand that he is returning for consultations at a villa in Leipzig. Is that any help to you?’

  ‘A villa? Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because I expect an exchange of information. I want you to tell me everything that you pass to your friends in the West.’

  ‘What is the villa’s name?’

  Vladimir approached one of his men and whispered to him. The man left the room.

  ‘Are you a reformer?’ Rosenharte asked him after a few moments’ silence.

  ‘Everyone is a reformer today. It is the only way. But the Party in East Germany hasn’t understood this and won’t implement the necessary modernization programme. The writing’s on the wall. Isn’t that the way the Bible puts it?’

  ‘Not on the Berlin Wall. Honecker says it will last another hundred years.’

  Vladimir turned to him. ‘Yes, and the president of the Volkskammer, he agrees with him; the secretaries of the Central Committee, the Minister for State Security and the first secretaries of all the districts, including Dresden, all say the Wall will last for ever. We must take their word for it.’ When a Russian spoke with this sarcastic tone, one could only conclude that the KGB understood that things were changing or had to change. It made him wonder how much of the KGB’s time was spent watching the leaders of the GDR.

  The other man came back with a folder. Vladimir spent a few moments leafing through it before flourishing a map, spreading it on a table in the corner and summoning Rosenharte to look him squarely in the face. ‘I am a loyal communist, Rosenharte, and a loyal citizen of the Soviet Union. Understand that. You should know also that I value loyalty in all my associations.’

  Rosenharte nodded and looked down at the city map of Leipzig. It was covered with about sixty round black stickers. Some were accompanied by notes in Cyrillic handwriting, others by blank labels. ‘These are the Stasi safe houses in Leipzig. There are seventy-eight in all.’

  ‘Seventy-eight!’

  ‘They increase every year. But we no longer have access to the latest information. We have three addresses.’ He pointed to dots around the city centre. Then he turned and gripped Rosenharte’s shoulder with one hand. He was much smaller than Rosenharte and had to look up into his eyes. ‘No matter what complications and intrigues you experience, our help must be kept secret. I will not tolerate you keeping anything back from us. I want to know everything. That is the price of my help.’

  ‘I understood the first time you said it,’ said Rosenharte amenably. ‘I’m here only to help you any way that I can. I will keep to my side of the bargain.’

  ‘Good. The girl you were with earlier this evening, have nothing more to do with her. She’s working for the Stasi. I don’t want the slightest hint that you and I are collaborating.’

  ‘I work with her.’

  ‘Then keep your distance. And no more episodes like this evening.’

  ‘There wasn’t an episode this evening.’

  ‘Good.’ He paused. ‘Make love to that woman again and you’ll regret it.’

  Rosenharte nodded.

  ‘I’m glad we’ve got these things straight. I will find out about your brother, if I can.’

  Rosenharte stood for a moment. ‘Sometimes I feel this is like a novel by Kafka.’ He watched Vladimir’s face for a reaction.

  ‘I don’t read Kafka,’ he said indifferently.

  ‘So Kafka means nothing to you?’

  ‘I read him when I was a young man. It seemed juvenile stuff to me even then.’

  Rosenharte tried another tack. ‘Have you had me followed? Did you send someone to meet me in Trieste?’

  ‘Herr Doktor! I didn’t hear your name before last week. How could I send someone to Trieste to watch you?’

  ‘And you didn’t send anyone to the gallery where I work?’

  ‘Of course not. Why would I do such a thing? We don’t operate like that.’

  The interview was coming to an end. ‘How will I contact you?’

  ‘You won’t. We will make contact with you in a week or so.’ He paused. ‘If you want to free your family, you must make sure that you keep everything that has passed between us secret. Now go off and read some good Russian authors. Forget the Czechs; they’re too dark for these times of light.’

  ‘Times of light?’

  ‘Oh yes, times of light, Herr Doktor, times of light.’ He appraised Rosenharte openly then put out his hand. ‘I will see what I can do for you. Goodbye.’

  One of the men gave him a piece of paper and he memorized the three addresses in Leipzig. Then they took him to within a kilometre of his apartment and left him in a wasteland between three huge blocks. It was past four o’clock when he turned the corner into Lotzenstrasse and saw a car waiting for him. He ignored it and kept moving towards his building with the unsteady purpose of a drunk. Before he reached the door, two Stasi leapt from the car and approached him.

  ‘Identity card please,’ shouted one.

  As the man examined it, the other asked where he had been.

  ‘Trying to get laid,’ Rosenharte mumbled.

  ‘You should be in bed, old man. No woman would look at you in your state.’

  Rosenharte asked if he could go. They returned the card and he shuffled to his door.

  He slept much of Sunday and read through his lecture in the evening, making one or two cuts. Very early on Monday he packed a case and made his way to the Hauptbahnhof to catch the first service to Leipzig. As far as he could tell, there was no one following him. The train was late and he drank several cups of coffee while he watched a group of disconsolate Volkspolizei standing round a stack of riot shields. An officer came over to buy coffee.

  ‘Why are you here?’ asked Rosenharte pleasantly.

  ‘Negative hostile elements have threatened to disrupt the order of the station.’

  ‘Don’t negative hostile elements ever sleep?’

  ‘We have to be vigilant at all times,’ said the officer disagreeably. ‘Anyway, what’s it to you?’

  ‘Nothing. I am just pleased we are in such safe hands.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said the man without a trace of irony. ‘Good day to you.’

  Rosenharte climbed up to one of the elevated platforms where trains passing through the city stopped. About a dozen people boarded the train. Having secured a seat, he went straight to the lavatory where he washed his face in a trickle of cold water and stared at his reflection. The mirror was scratched with some words which he had to stoop to read: Glasnost in Staat und Kirche. Keine Gewalt! - Freedom in church and state. No violence! On the wall the same hand had etched: Wir sind das VOLK! - We are the PEOPLE!

  Noble sentiments for a piece of vandalism. It was interesting how more graffiti was appearing everywhere.

  Dawn came with a chilly, autumnal light that picked out patches of mist lingering over the rivers and lakes. Everywhere summer was in retreat: the trees were on the turn and weeds along the rail track were dead and broken, ready to collapse into the winter earth. Oddly, the coming of autumn always made Rosenharte feel invigorated and full of possibility and, as he looked out on the cows grazing in the heavily dewed pastures of Saxony, a sudden optimism surged in him. Somehow he would free Konnie, Else and the boys.

  They reached Leipzig just after nine, having been delayed twice by unspecified engineering problems. At the station there were scores of Vopos in summer uniform and the familiar huddles of men in civilian clothes with no obvious purpose to hand. But no one seemed to be interested in him, and he was able to walk unobserved from the entrance and head towards Karl-Marx-Platz, the place where he had once watched First Secretary Honecker preside over a festival by the Freie Deutsche Jugend - the Free German Youth. He had recoiled from the sight of the dapper little old man in a grey suit, blue tie and red rosette feeding on the youth beneath him, leaching their energy and creativity.

  He went to a newspaper sta
nd and bought a copy of Das Magazin. Holding it in his free hand, he walked a couple of hundred yards to the Nikolaikirche and entered by a side door, the main door being blocked by construction work. He stood for a few moments in the back row of pews, gazing up at the plaster palm fronds that sprouted from the columns, then moved to a small office at the back of the church where a few religious books and postcards were for sale. As instructed by Harland and the American in their last hour together in Trieste, he bought three cards, all views of the church, signed a visitors’ book with the name Gehlert and wrote, ‘Mine eyes have seen the coming of the glory.’

  The first postcard was posted in the door of Number Thirty-four Burgstrasse, bearing the same quotation; the second was left blank between two pilasters under the clock of the old town hall; and the third, inscribed with the words ‘To Martha with love’, was deposited with an unwelcoming manageress at a cafe nearby.

  This done, he walked to the Thomaskirche, the imposing church where J.S. Bach once led the choir, and repeated his remarks in a second visitors’ book, signing as Harry Schmidt. Outside, in the thin autumn sunshine, he lit up and read Das Magazin. A young couple came up to him wanting cigarettes and the price of a beer. He gave them cigarettes but told them he was broke, which was true.

  Harland had told him not to expect Kafka to make contact immediately because this initial procedure was simply a way of announcing himself, and more important, a sign that he had been briefed by MI6. Kafka would make his move only when he was sure it was safe. After about an hour, Rosenharte made his way to the university canteen, for which he’d been sent a meal ticket by the organizers of the lecture series, and ate an early lunch of stew and dumplings. It transpired that he had hit the place at the same time as various university sports teams, all on high-protein diets. He sat among the rowers and their trainers and got himself a second helping, some cheese and a cup of coffee.

  By two thirty he was standing at the front of a full lecture hall, with students and university staff crowding the aisles, slightly regretting the meal. He was always nervous before speaking, which was why he took such pains, rewriting and rereading his papers so often that when he came to give them he had memorized the entire text. A long introduction by a professor of philosophy did little to calm him, but then the lights dimmed and an image of a bull from the prehistoric caves of Lascaux in Central France appeared on the screen. Rosenharte let his audience gaze at the bull for a few moments then began to speak, the words that had seemed so stale on the page now coming to life. He talked of the technique, the limited palette of prehistoric man, the conditions in which he painted and the use of such modern ideas as composition, perspective and foreshortening. He felt invigorated, totally in charge of his material and his audience.

  ‘This was probably painted by a young man some eighteen thousand years ago. In the same cave there are other animals, which we know from radiocarbon dating were painted by other people much later. To us they seem all of a piece, the same period, but in fact two thousand years separate the artists. They probably didn’t even speak the same language.’ He looked up from his paper. ‘Those two men were as far apart as Karl Marx and Jesus Christ.’ There was a nervous shifting among the staff and some of the students smirked. ‘Not in their nature, I hasten to add, but in time.’

  He couldn’t think what had got into him to make this aside, which would only weaken the message of his text. He asked for the next slide, which was of galloping bison from the Altamira caves in northern Spain. He sensed the effect it was having on his audience. Someone in the front clapped his hands in delight. ‘If the bull was a great work of art,’ he continued, ‘this one, painted about seventeen thousand years ago, is a masterpiece without parallel. Through the subtle application of tones and shading, and the skilful use of colour, the image reaches a perfection unequalled by any modern artist. There is volume, mass and energy in this creature and it emerges alive and concrete from the rough surface of the rock, almost as if the rock has given birth to the bull. The hair, beard and fur of the animal have an almost tangible reality. This beast lives, my friends, and it is as great a work of art as any of you will see during your lifetimes.’

  The foundations had been laid. Rosenharte now moved to his theory. If the height of art had been 7,000 years before man planted seeds, millennia before he mounted a horse or invented the wheel, how was it possible to think of art in terms of evolution? Evolution implied a gradual improvement over time, an accumulation of qualities and a discarding of flaws. ‘But in no area,’ he said, turning from the bison to the audience, ‘has this painting been equalled in all the history of art - not in the simplicity of technique, the overall harmony of design or the expressive animation of form. This man observed and analysed with all the speed and confidence of modern man. In fact he was better at it than us.’

  He continued on this theme for twenty minutes, showing paintings from different eras, but before he could move to the final section of the lecture, a voice boomed from the middle of the auditorium. Rosenharte shaded his eyes and looked up to see a large man on his feet, plucking at his chin with hopeful authority. ‘But what purpose did these paintings serve society, Dr Rosenharte?’

  ‘None, because there was no society,’ Rosenharte shot back.

  ‘That’s my point,’ said the man. ‘That’s exactly my point. We must all agree that the principal function of art is to serve society by expressing that society’s aspirations and reflecting its qualities and achievements. If these primitive decorations, these doodles and daubs, bear no relation to any recognizable society, then they must be disqualified from the realm of art.’

  Rosenharte shifted to his right so he could see the man. ‘Why must we all agree? Do you really believe that all art, no matter from what period, is dependent on our views about what is and what is not a society? I have to tell you that it is a very old-fashioned view.’

  There was a murmur of approval among the students, who were clearly excited by this rare exchange of convictions. The man was having none of it. ‘Is it old-fashioned to favour works of art produced by an advanced state like the German Democratic Republic - perhaps the most sophisticated society ever known on earth - over the graffiti of primitive tribesmen?’

  Rosenharte’s blood began to rise. He went to the front of the stage and addressed the man personally. ‘The problem in the GDR is that we don’t know what art this society has produced. Why is that? Because most of the artists who have anything to say are banned. They have been gagged and, ironically enough, work in conditions similar to the primitive tribesmen you disdain - alone, in the dark and without a public. They paint for themselves and for the future because our society cannot or will not hear its own voice, will not listen to its own heart.’

  The man could stand it no longer and started pushing along the row towards the aisle.

  ‘Oh come on, why don’t you stay and argue this one out?’ said Rosenharte.

  ‘I will not listen to any more nonsense, and if people know what’s good for them they will follow me from this hall.’ One or two made to move, but the majority cried for them to stay and began a slow handclap. This was not at all what Rosenharte wanted. He put his hands in the air and appealed for silence. ‘I did not come here to embarrass the university authorities, but merely to talk about the destructive idea that all art must be seen in terms of evolutionary progress.’

  ‘The only person you have embarrassed is yourself,’ cried the man from the door.

  He resumed his lecture, which was heard respectfully but without enthusiasm because it was clear that all anyone wanted to talk about was the exchange between him and the anonymous academic. When he reached the end there was silence, then a deafening round of applause. The philosophy professor who had introduced him did not get up to the platform to offer formal thanks, as was the custom, but slunk away with a colleague, shaking his head. Rosenharte busied himself with his papers and reluctantly accepted the congratulations of the students, then stepped down from the
platform and joined the crowd filing through the door.

  ‘Well, Doktor, I guess that’s the last time we’ll hear one of your stimulating talks here.’ He glanced to his left. A woman in her mid to late thirties was looking ahead of them, smiling. ‘I’m glad I came. It was easily the best so far.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, wishing she would turn her face to him. ‘But I screwed up with that crack about Marx and Jesus Christ. I think that’s what annoyed my critic. Do you know who he was?’

  ‘Manfred Böhme, professor of political science and a senior figure in the local Party.’

  ‘Böhme! Yes, I’ve heard of him. What was he doing here?’

  ‘Checking up on you. Your last lecture - the one about the drawing by . . .’

  ‘Carracci.’

  ‘Yes, Carracci. It was excellent. However, one or two people suspected that you were criticizing the Party in a sly way. No one had a text, so it couldn’t be checked.’

  They reached the corridor. He lit a cigarette and looked around. ‘I always feel a sense of anti-climax after these things. Would you like to go for a drink somewhere?’ He noticed a very confident face, full lips and an acute but well-defended expression in her eyes.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What do you mean, why?’ he said.

  ‘I mean what is your motive?’

  ‘I haven’t known you long enough to form a motive.’

  ‘You will soon.’

  ‘Know you, or form a motive?’

  ‘The second,’ she said.

  ‘Do you want a drink, or not?’

  She gave him a long-suffering look. ‘Okay, I will take you to a place I know. We can talk there. My name is Ulrike. Ulrike Klaar.’

  He hooked his bag over one arm and they walked a little self-consciously to a place on a quiet street not far from the station, where they sat across from each other at a small round table. Rosenharte was able to study her properly. The arch of her eyebrows made him think he should watch what he said but there was also a humorous glint in her eyes. He noticed that she was pale for the time of year, that she was slightly built despite her height and had a habit of smiling at the end of a sentence. He had the sense that she was the opposite of Sonja; that she underplayed her looks and wasn’t particularly interested in appearing attractive. He liked this about her, too.