Brandenburg

by Henry Porter

‘We’ll fix a rendezvous in Berlin for the Friday afternoon. You’ll call that day using the same system. Don’t forget the code changes next week.’

  Rosenharte turned to face the car. The boys were looking with great interest at the Bird, who was hunched over something in the back.

  ‘I don’t want Else to know anything about this plan,’ said Rosenharte. ‘She needs all her strength to make her new home.’

  Harland nodded. ‘Can you make your own way out of the GDR when this is over? We’re going to have our hands full with your brother.’

  ‘That will be no problem. I’ll take the same route into Hungary.’

  ‘Good.’ He paused and looked at Rosenharte. ‘There’s one more thing I want you to do for us.’

  ‘I have done all you wanted.’

  ‘I know, Rudi, I know.’ He put his hands up in an attitude of surrender. ‘Can you go back to Leipzig and effect contact between Kafka and our people next weekend? I need you to do this to allay any fears Kafka may have. Will you do that for us?’

  Rosenharte nodded. He had to return Ulrike’s car in any case.

  ‘Right, we’ll fix the meeting for Sunday. You’ll find one of the men from the BND whom you met in West Berlin at the main entrance to the park where the Leipzig trade fair is held - the Altes Messegelände. He will be there at five. We want you to walk from the city along Pragerstrasse. That way we will be able to see if you’re being followed before you get there. They’re the best, these guys. They’re already undercover in the city and they will not fail you.’

  ‘Do you need me to bring Kafka there?’

  ‘No. You fix a meeting later. Now that I’m able to give them her name, they can find out exactly who she is and, well, if she’s for real.’

  Rosenharte turned to the car. ‘You still have doubts?’

  ‘Not really, but I am baffled by her.’ He kicked the gravel on the road and looked up at three hooded crows that were trying to rise above the mist. ‘There’s one further thing, Rudi. We’ve got to keep the Stasi off your back, so we’re going to arrange that Annalise makes the final delivery in early November. She will write to you in the usual way and they will intercept the letter. By that time we will have sorted Konrad and the Arab, and we’ll just give them some crap that will foul up their computers for a few months.’

  Rosenharte turned and walked back to the others. The Bird was wiping the pictures on the spanking new joint British passport for Else and the boys. He showed them the Foreign and Commonwealth Office seal before using it to emboss the newly laminated Polaroid pictures. He gathered them round, flipped through the passport and pointed out the large mauve-coloured visa in the back indicating that they had crossed the border from Austria into Hungary ten days before. Another visa proved the family’s legitimate presence in Czechoslovakia.

  ‘You are now indubitably a legal British citizen, madam.’ He held the passport up and began to read. ‘Her Britannic Majesty’s Principle Private Secretary of State for the Foreign and Commonwealth Office requests and requires in the name of Her Majesty . . .’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Cuth,’ cut in Harland. ‘We’ve got a long way to go.’ He turned and offered his ungloved hand to Rosenharte. ‘Good luck, Rudi.’

  ‘Yes, Godspeed old son,’ said the Bird, seizing his hand in an iron grip. ‘We’ll look after this lot for you.’

  Rosenharte went to the boys and crouched down. ‘Look, keep good care of your mother for me and your father, eh?’ They nodded solemnly. ‘And I will see you very soon in the West.’

  Else kissed him and made him promise to bring Konrad to her. Before he had let her go, Idris had fallen on him and was also kissing him. ‘We will see each other again,’ said Rosenharte, holding his shoulders. ‘I have no doubt of it, my friend.’ His eyes watered: he was unused to such a display.

  Idris gave him an address in Khartoum, written in English and Arabic, which he produced from inside his coat with a flourish. Rosenharte shook his hand and palmed the two $100 bills he had ready. With a final kiss to Else, he managed to plant $500 in her coat pocket, which he indicated with a wink.

  It was time to go. He turned and was moving quickly up the slope before they had even thought of settling into the Volvo. By the time he heard its engine start and turned to look, the road had vanished in the mist.

  He re-crossed the border feeling more bereft than he had for a long time, but a part of him also noted his relief at having one less responsibility. If he could get news of their successful flight to Konrad through the Russian, it would certainly do his morale some good as well. He walked slowly, keeping all his senses attuned to the forest around him.

  Having climbed over the border at a different point, just in case the damage to the fence had been discovered, he spent some time fighting his way through a dense area of the forest. It was noon before he hit the path, just at the spot where the backpack hung in the trees. Every twenty feet or so he stopped and listened. About one hundred yards up from the stream he realized that while the car could not be seen from the road, it was clearly visible from this side of the valley. The border guards might easily have spotted it from this point.

  Heart pounding, he abandoned all caution and raced down to cross the bridge, then crept through the trees. Having checked that the Wartburg hadn’t been immobilized in any way, he went to retrieve the licence plates, screwed them on and pushed the car to a dirt track so he could freewheel down. He jump-started the engine just before the bottom and slipped quietly from the track into the road.

  Life was a hell of a lot simpler now. His only purpose was to get Konrad out.

  PART THREE

  23

  Termination

  Sonja sat down on the bench beside him. ‘You should look after yourself, Rudi. One sandwich and a piece of old sausage. No fruit, no protein to speak of. You look shit. What’s the matter with you?’

  Rosenharte gazed across to the Opera House. It was a beautiful day and he could do without an ambush from Sonja.

  ‘When did you get back?’ she asked.

  ‘Wednesday.’ He turned to her. ‘What the hell have you done to yourself?’

  ‘Oh, this?’ she said, fingering a small silver stud that had been inserted just under her lower lip. ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘No.’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, it’s not meant for a man of your generation.’

  ‘My generation doesn’t come into it, Sonja. You have a beautiful face. It’s a shame to fill it with bits of scrap iron.’

  ‘It’s silver. My boyfriend gave it to me.’

  ‘Sebastian?’

  ‘No. Rikki. Rikki’s my boyfriend now.’

  ‘What happened to Sebastian? I thought he was the love of your life.’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘He was too busy for me. I haven’t seen him since they let him go and he vanished to Leipzig. He’s obsessed with the events.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  She shrugged again. ‘Yes . . . of course I am.’ She hooked one leg under her bottom. She was dressed artlessly - a short denim skirt, scuffed calf-length boots worn against bare legs, and a grey round-neck sweater that he had given her.

  ‘So you got back the evening of the big riot at the Hauptbahnhof?’

  ‘Yes.’ He had seen the trains carrying the East Germans from Prague to the West. God knows how many people had tried to board at the station and on the approaches to Dresden. They had been moving at a tantalizingly slow speed, and from the side of the lines, Dresdeners had been able to see the happiness on every face that was bound for the West and freedom. It was too much for them. Some tried to cling to the outside of the carriages, and in one case a man attempted to scramble through the open door of the driver’s cab. At the station thousands had been arrested and taken away in trucks. The police used their batons without mercy, but those with serious head injuries declined to receive hospital treatment because they didn’t want to be turned in to the authorities.

  ‘You saw it all?
Why were you at the Hauptbahnhof? Where were you coming back from?’

  ‘Nowhere. I just happened to be there.’

  After the journey from the border he had parked the Wartburg in an old goods yard and paid the man to open up at any time of day or night. He wanted to keep the car out of sight so the Stasi wouldn’t make any connections with Ulrike, but he also thought that the Hauptbahnhof was still the best place to lose surveillance when he needed to leave the city.

  ‘You just happened to be there,’ she said after examining his face. ‘You’re a mystery man, Rudi.’

  He ate the remains of his sandwich. ‘Talking of mystery men,’ he said casually, ‘do you remember the man who came to see me? You described him as a yokel - a country boy.’

  A flicker of worry crossed her eyes. ‘Sure. I remember him. He was a Czech or a Pole, I forget which.’

  ‘A Pole,’ said Rosenharte. ‘I believe he left something for me: a letter?’

  ‘I don’t remember. Maybe he left it with one of the other girls.’ Her cheeks betrayed a slight flush and she looked away.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he continued gently. ‘I know the pressures. Did you give the letter to the Stasi?’

  She nodded. ‘They told me that if the man showed his face again that I should call a special number.’

  ‘Do you know what was in the note?’

  ‘Yes, something about your family. It wasn’t clear. There was an address and a telephone number at the bottom. Oh yes, I remember now. The man wanted to know something which he could only ask you personally, face to face. That’s how he put it.’

  ‘What was the name of the officer you gave it to?’

  ‘Someone from Berlin - a cold bastard called Zank. A real Nazi.’

  Rosenharte put his hand on hers. ‘Thank you. It’s good you told me.’

  ‘I didn’t tell them about the phone call you made from the professor’s office,’ she said, her eyes pleading forgiveness.

  ‘Good, let’s keep it that way. And don’t tell them that you have spoken to me about this. Act ignorant.’ He saw she wanted to say something else. ‘What is it?’

  ‘They’re going to fire you at the end of today. They had a meeting of the committee on Monday. They decided then. I’ve already been told to tell you that you should report to the director’s office at five.’

  He was only surprised because Biermeier said everything had been squared with the gallery. ‘Why? What’s their reason?’

  She tipped her head to one shoulder. ‘You’re never here. They say you come and go as you please. They say you drink.’

  ‘Yes, but they know I’ve been doing something important that I can’t talk about. They were warned that I would be away a lot.’

  ‘Zank told the director that you were an undesirable. I heard part of the phone call.’

  He got up. ‘Well, I’d better make use of this afternoon.’

  ‘What are you going to do with your life?’

  ‘When certain things in my life are resolved, I will write a book I’ve had in mind for some time. It’s come to me very clearly this past week.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  He looked up at the side of the Zwinger. ‘The pictures that were saved in the war - in other words the collection here and how it has affected the way I see things.’ He saw her expression glaze. ‘It’s not an academic book. It’s about the war, and culture in the GDR.’

  ‘Sounds really exciting,’ she said unenthusiastically.

  He gave her a sideways look, then returned to the gallery where he went to the restoration room in the basement and began to make notes. He could see these works as a private visitor to the gallery, but he would never again have contact with them - the freedom to pore over the paint surface with his magnifying glass and examine the back of the paintings.

  At five he presented himself in the committee room to find Professor Lichtenberg at a table, stroking his little grey goatee beard and peering over his glasses. He had always reminded Rosenharte of Walter Ulbricht, the first secretary ousted by Erich Honecker. Three other members of the gallery’s committee were also there. Rosenharte smiled pleasantly and sat down on the chair in front of them.

  ‘Certain things have come to our notice, Dr Rosenharte,’ said Lichtenberg after clearing his throat.

  ‘Oh? What things?’

  ‘Your repeated absences.’

  ‘But you know that I have been doing work for the Ministry of State Security. It has required me to travel to Berlin and to the West.’

  ‘We were aware of that,’ said Lichtenberg, who was evidently rather enjoying the solemnity of the occasion. ‘But there are other matters that affect the reputation of this institution and the people who work here. They cannot be overlooked.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Your lectures, in particular the talk you gave at the University of Leipzig ten days ago. Professor Böhme has written to us to complain about your attitude. He said it was very surprising that you had not come to the notice of the authorities given your negative decadent views.’

  ‘It was an aside that caused the offence, one which he wilfully misunderstood. It was nothing to do with the main body of the lecture.’

  ‘Dr Rosenharte, we have quotations! He took notes during the lecture. Are we to believe that such a distinguished man invented the whole incident?’

  ‘Believe what you like, but it was a serious lecture that seemed to be received well and was applauded.’

  ‘Applauded by impressionable young people who saw an important member of the Party humiliated while defending the ideals of Marxism. That is not a state of affairs that any of us will condone.’ They all nodded.

  ‘I don’t care if you condone it or not. These are my views and I have a right to express them whether they offend a pompous fool like Böhme or not. I invited him to debate the matter, but he was incapable of uttering anything but Party slogans.’

  ‘Better than the decadent nonsense that rots the brains of our youth,’ said the woman. Rosenharte seemed to remember that she had something to do with one of Dresden’s cultural committees. She was still only in her thirties but had already acquired the prim, desiccated look of the apparatchik. This was the third such woman that he had faced across a table in the last month.

  ‘Free and open discussion of intellectual matters does not rot anyone’s brain,’ he said, aiming his rage at her. ‘Genuine debate is what young people of the GDR have been starved of these past forty years.’

  The woman recoiled as though she had been slapped across the face.

  ‘It is not as if this was the only occasion that we’ve been informed about,’ said Lichtenberg, leaning forward and dispatching a sympathetic look in her direction. ‘We have a report about the lecture you gave in Trieste. It is said to contain a hidden meaning, an oblique but nonetheless corrosive attack on the criminal justice system of the GDR.’

  ‘You read that paper yourself and approved it.’

  Lichtenberg looked flustered. ‘I was, perhaps, unaware of your motive . . . blind to the coded message that lay beneath the surface.’ He again looked at the woman who was furiously scribbling a note to herself.

  ‘There was no coded message. It is a fact that artists in the late Renaissance looked about them and recorded the heartlessness of their age in their private drawings.’

  ‘That may be so,’ said Lichtenberg, plainly not wishing to be drawn into a debate about art history. ‘But these things cannot be ignored. The offence you gave was far too great. We have our reputation to think of. When you give these lectures you represent all of us. You must understand that, Doktor.’

  Rosenharte rose and approached the table. Lichtenberg retreated in his chair. ‘I represent no one but myself.’

  ‘Exactly - an individualist through and through,’ said the woman triumphantly.

  ‘Not an individualist, but an individual. Maybe you don’t know the difference.’

  Lichtenberg had raised a hand. ‘The
re’s little point in continuing this discussion further. The Gemäldegalerie no longer requires your service, Dr Rosenharte. Is that clear enough for you? You will leave at the end of this hearing and remove your personal possessions from your desk.’

  ‘You’re throwing me out?’

  ‘Yes, if you want to put it that way, Rosenharte. You must remember that I’ve the whole gallery to think of. You have done immeasurable damage to its reputation.’

  Rosenharte moved to the door, then stopped and turned to them. ‘Look around you. Barely a day goes by without a demonstration. People have had enough. The world is changing.’

  Lichtenberg put on a hurt expression. ‘Why this sudden defiance? These are the views of a rebellious teenager!’

  ‘Why? My brother is in Hohenschönhausen. Maybe you have heard of the place where the Party crushes its opponents. He is being held without trial there and he may be dying. In his life he has never expressed anything remotely as controversial as I have just uttered in this room. That explains my change of attitude.’

  The woman shot up. ‘I will not listen to this. If he’s anything like you, your brother deserves to be in prison.’

  ‘What you need, madam, is a damned good screw,’ said Rosenharte. He regretted the profanity, but the effect was truly worth it. It was as though an electric current had passed through her. She sat down and rose again; her hands clenched and unclenched and the blood drained from her face.

  He closed the door behind him and went to collect the books from his office and say a few goodbyes to his staff on his way.

  There was usually a thin crack of daylight under Rosenharte’s office door. In the days when Sonja waited for him he could always tell when she was there by a smudge of shadow on the left. Now as he approached, he saw that his office was occupied. He paused outside the heavy wooden door, then opened it to find Colonel Zank standing at the window with the two men he’d seen with him in Berlin.

  ‘What are you doing in my office?’ he demanded.

  ‘Your office?’ said Zank. ‘Surely it’s no longer yours?’