The Puzzle People
A Berlin Mystery
To Michael and Jason, the best of sons
In memory of Hilde Peterson, my beloved Austrian sister
The Puzzle People
A Berlin Mystery
by
DOUG PETERSON
Copyright © 2012
Doug Peterson
Cover Illustration by DogEared Design
Interior Design by Bookmasters
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.
Published by Bay Forest Books
An Imprint of Kingstone Media Group
P.O. Box 491600
Leesburg, FL 34749-1600
www.bayforestbooks.com
Printed in the United States of America by
Bay Forest Books
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication information is on file.
ISBN 978-1-61328-011-9
Acknowledgments
A puzzle wouldn’t be much of a puzzle without a lot of pieces. And a book wouldn’t be much of a book without a lot of help from other people—the pieces to this literary puzzle.
So I would like to thank my wife, Nancy, for being incredibly patient in reading multiple drafts of The Puzzle People, and for letting me drag her all around the city of Berlin, checking out sites until we got blisters on our feet. I would also like to thank my sons, Michael and Jason (and my new daughter-in-law, Kristen), for being a source of constant support, and for encouraging me to do something about Rant Number 45.
Thanks also go to Art Ayris and Steve Blount at Bay Forest Books—for their vision, energy, and willingness to take a chance on a writer who spent so many years with talking vegetables. I am so happy that I met Art at the Gideon Media Arts Conference in North Carolina, where I not only made a boatload of creative friends, but I also found my wonderful agent, Jonathan Clements, of Wheelhouse Literary Group. Thank you, Jonathan, for looking out for me.
So many other people played important roles. My thanks go to the following:
Tom Hanlon, who provided invaluable editorial feedback as he helped me fix plot holes and develop characters.
My loyal team of readers who saw early versions of The Puzzle People: Heath Morber, Dave Evensen, Kathy and Rick Gullang, Doug Gullang, Ric Peterson, Maria Lennon, Leanne Lucas, and my mother, Irene. (Also, an added thanks to Doug Gullang and Maria Lennon, for giving me special insights into the German culture.)
Scott Irwin, my prayer partner, for talking to me about history and everything else under the sun.
Dave Lucas, whose craftsmanship helps me bring these historical stories to schools and museums.
Pat East, for his web design and patience in providing computer-related help of any sort.
Bluepen Publishing Solutions, for their excellence in editing.
DogEared Design and Bookmasters, for their outstanding design work.
Beth and Arthur Domig, for being such generous hosts in Austria and helping with our trip to Berlin.
Eva Staikos, our delightful tour guide who took us through the history of Berlin.
Finally, I only wish that my sister-in-law, Hilde Peterson, could have been here to see the release of The Puzzle People because, as a native Austrian, she brought the Austrian and German cultures to life for me (and even taught me how to make authentic strudel). But I’m hoping she can download The Puzzle People as an e-book in heaven. Enjoy it, Hilde.
Some of the scenes in The Puzzle People are based on events that actually happened in 1961 when the Berlin Wall went up, and in 1989, when the Wall came down.
All of the characters in the novel, however, are entirely fictional.
The puzzlers existed in real life, but the scenes taking place in 2003 are fictional.
The Wall will be standing in 50, and even in 100 years.
—Erich Honecker, General Secretary,
German Democratic Republic (East Germany), 1989
Brother, how we must atone
Before we turn to stone.
—Ingrid Michaelson, “Turn to Stone”
1
East Berlin
December 1961
Katarina Siemens settled in behind the wheel of the Austin-Healey Sprite, a two-door British roadster. With the car in idle and her cousin Hilde sitting beside her, Katarina ran her hands across the red steering wheel and admired the sleek dashboard. There was only one disadvantage to the small sports car: It was a convertible, and that would make her an easier target for the border guards.
But it had to be a convertible. Her plan would not work any other way. In fact, her plan would not work with any other car that she knew of. It had to be a low-slung sports car, and the Sprite lived up to its name. It was tiny. But equally important, it had a detachable windscreen. The roadster was bright red, and it had two perfectly round headlights perched on the front hood like frog eyes.
“It will be wonderful having you on our side of the Wall,” said Hilde as the early evening gloom settled on East Berlin. “Just be safe.”
“Thanks for renting this car,” Katarina said with a grin. “I’ll try to return it without too many bullet holes.”
Hilde’s smile evaporated, and she stared back at her cousin hard. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“It’s safer than swimming the Spree. You know that Udo drowned when the Vopos opened fire and he had to dive deep in the cold water.”
“Just because it’s safer than swimming the river doesn’t make this a smart choice. There are other options. Are you sure the car is small enough to make it?”
“I think so. If I’m wrong, I’ll lose my head.”
“Don’t joke about that.”
Katarina reached out and took her cousin’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“You better be.”
“And when I arrive in the West, maybe I’ll own a car like this.”
“It’s not the Garden of Eden, you know. If being a West German guaranteed riches, I’d own two of these cars. In truth, I can barely afford to rent this one.”
“And I’m going to pay you back.”
“Just arrive safely, and that’ll be payment enough.”
The cousins leaned back in the car seats and listened to the sounds of the city. East Berlin was quiet compared to its western counterpart, with very little traffic on the streets, especially in the evening hours. A truck roared in the distance, in dire need of a new muffler, but it had little competition from any other sounds.
“Does Stefan know?” Hilde suddenly asked.
Katarina felt a stab of guilt. “No. You’re the only one who knows.”
“Why not ask him to join you?”
“He’d try to talk me out of escaping.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. Stefan plays it safe.”
Hilde wiggled the radio knob, trying to locate a West Berlin station but failing. She flicked it off, preferring silence over East German radio.
“You’ll meet another cute guy in West Berlin,” Hilde said. “I’ll take you to some dance halls, and they’ll flock to you. They always do.”
“No, but thanks. I’m counting on Stefan to cross the border and come after me. I’ll be the lure to draw him across.”
“Ah.”
Katarina took a deep breath, ran a hand through her short black hair, and revved the engine. She had a striking resemblance to the popular actress Audrey Hepburn—luminous large eyes, thick arching eyebrows, and an almost-elfin face. She denied any sim
ilarities whenever people made the comparison, but that didn’t stop her from styling her short hair in the Audrey style. Tonight, she even wore a black turtleneck sweater, another Hepburn flair.
Dim lights cast a meager glow on the rubble-strewn gray lot. Earlier in the day, Katarina had set up a makeshift obstacle course of sorts—piles of bricks and other debris. It was time to put the car through its paces.
“You want to go along for the test run?” she asked.
Hilde leaned back and laughed. “Floor it, cousin.”
Katarina put her foot to the accelerator, and the Austin-Healey Sprite took off like a rabbit, screeching across the pavement. Hilde screamed in delight. When Katarina reached the first obstacle that she had laid out in front of her—a circular pile of bricks—she swung the steering wheel to the left and the car responded instantly, tires squealing. Laughing out loud, she leaned into the next turn, taking the car to the right, and the Sprite weaved around another obstacle. It was slalom skiing on wheels. Hilde was thrown to the left, hurled against Katarina, and letting out a continuous “Woooooah!”
At the end of the obstacle course, Katarina slammed on the brakes, and the car fishtailed to a stop. She took a breath, savoring the moment.
“I think I can do this,” she told Hilde. “The escape might even be a bit of a lark. That is, assuming the guards have a hard time hitting a swerving target.”
It had been a gray day, and as night set in, the weather turned drizzly. Peter Hermann and Elsa Krauss stood face-to-face on the train platform in Oranienburg, a city north of Berlin. After an excruciating weekend with Elsa’s parents, Peter was happy to be heading back to Berlin a day ahead of his fiancée. Elsa’s mother maintained a cold assessment of him, the son of an auto factory worker, so spending time with the Krauss family was never easy. The German Democratic Republic—communist East Germany—had not erased class distinctions.
A light rain whipped sideways, and even though the passengers stood under a roof while waiting for the train, the slanting sprays still struck them. Peter, a tall blond twenty-two-year-old student, loomed over his petite fiancée. He was not pleased.
“How could you be so foolish?” he said under his breath.
“They couldn’t know it was me.”
Peter shook his head and scowled. How could Elsa think he’d be pleased? He leaned over and whispered in her ear. His lips brushed against her long blonde hair, which spilled past her shoulders. Her perfume was strong. “This is not some child’s game. This is real.”
Taking a step away from him, Elsa dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. She began to sob quietly, and Peter felt like cursing. It was always the tears with Elsa. He looked around the station platform, embarrassed by the scene she was creating. An older woman carrying a small suitcase cast him a sympathetic glance. Peter felt his face flush.
He knew he should try to comfort Elsa, put an arm around her shoulder. But he couldn’t prod himself to do anything but just stand there. How could she think that a few leaflets would have any impact? Posting leaflets near Humboldt University to protest the Wall was a foolish stunt in a country that kept a tight rein on all forms of communication. You even had to have a license just to own a typewriter in the German Democratic Republic—the GDR. Elsa actually told him she thought he would be happy with what she had done. Armed with a tub of paste, she had run through the night, posting the crude, handmade leaflets in telephone booths and at tram stops, where people couldn’t miss them. Using a crayon, of all things, she had scrawled out these words on leaflet after leaflet: “When justice is turned into injustice, resistance becomes an obligation!” Peter was afraid that the East German secret police, the Stasi, could trace the leaflets back to her.
Elsa took a step closer to him, and he knew she was expecting him to envelop her in his arms, say some comforting words to assure her it would be all right. But it might not be all right.
This wasn’t the way that Peter wanted to say good-bye. He hated leaving his fiancée like this. He liked order, and tears were messy.
“I wish you didn’t have to go,” she said.
“I’ll see you at school in two days.” Peter knew there was coldness in his tone. But lately, he couldn’t keep the ice out of his voice when he spoke to her.
As the train pulled into the station, Elsa buried herself in his long gray coat and laid her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her. He had no choice.
“Don’t be angry.” She spoke in a girlish tone that irritated him even more.
Looking around the platform again, Peter noticed a middle-aged man glancing at them from behind his newspaper, which was becoming damp in the drizzle. Another man stood nearby with an unopened umbrella.
“Don’t speak of it anymore,” he whispered to Elsa, much harsher than he intended. “They’re letting people on. Time for me to board.” He pulled away from her.
“A kiss?” Elsa, only five feet three inches, looked up at Peter and waited. She was an attractive blue-eyed twenty-year-old, with a dimpled smile and long straight hair, but her figure had not yet matured, and she dressed so young that some people could mistake her as Peter’s younger sister. He pecked her on the forehead and then turned and climbed aboard the 7:33 train to Albrechtshof, where he was scheduled to meet a friend. He paused on the steps, turned to face her, and worked up a smile. He knew this would please her, and it did. She smiled and waved back.
Duty done, Peter found his way into the train car. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed that following right behind him was the man with the newspaper.
Katarina pulled over to the curb, a few blocks from the border crossing at Heinrich-Heine-Strasse, where West Germans like Hilde could cross. Hilde reached for the door handle, then paused and looked her cousin in the eyes. “I’m afraid for you.”
Katarina was scared too, but she wouldn’t let on—for Hilde’s sake and for her own. False bravado had its benefits.
“Don’t worry,” Katarina said. “I’ll see you tonight safe and sound. I can’t promise there won’t be a few bullet holes in the car though.”
Hilde leaned over from the passenger seat and grabbed her cousin in a hug. A long hug, as though she didn’t want to let go. Katarina could feel Hilde’s body tremble from crying.
Hilde pulled back and wiped away the tears. “Isn’t there any easier way than this? Maybe you should put this off. I can return the car and—”
“I will see you tonight. I promise.”
Katarina wished her cousin would stop tempting her to ditch this plan. It was going to be hard enough without the doubts. She was close to her cousin, always had been since they were young, being almost the same age. Hilde’s family lived in the West German city of Hamburg, but they would travel by rail to West Berlin several times a year; there they would meet Katarina’s family, because East Berliners had free access to West Berlin—at least they did until this year. Hilde and Katarina had the time of their lives during these special visits. But then came last August . . .
It made Katarina furious just thinking about it. She had gone to bed, the same time as she normally did, on that hot, sticky August night. When she woke on Sunday morning, the border between East and West Berlin had been sealed, and construction brigades were putting up barbed-wire fences, severing the city into two parts. In one day, Katarina was cut off from Hilde and other members of her family in the West. The barbed-wire fences sprouted up like some twisted Frankenstein vine, and a couple of days later, the Wall began to go up. An entire country was being bricked in.
It made Katarina sick with anger.
“We will see each other this very evening,” she told Hilde once again.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Hilde gave her a kiss on the cheek and then stepped out of the car. Katarina watched her cousin disappear into the dark and head for the border, where she would cross back by foot. With her visa for a day trip, allowed for West Germans, Hilde would have no problem crossing back. But for Katarina,
an Easterner, that was a different story entirely.
After Hilde had disappeared around the corner, Katarina drove for the border crossing at Friedrichstrasse—Checkpoint C, or Checkpoint Charlie as the Americans called it. Temperatures were in the midfifties, and by this time, a cold mist had begun to fall. Katarina was worried that she would look suspicious driving a convertible with the top down on such a night, especially if the rain started coming down harder. The slick pavement would also make her plan much more dangerous, but she had only one night to pull this off. Rain or not, it had to be tonight. She was wearing a black scarf and a black raincoat to blend into the night, as well as have some protection from the elements.
Checkpoint Charlie was a crossing for foreigners and Allied soldiers leaving or entering the GDR. Some East Germans had found ways of obtaining fake passports and passing themselves off as foreigners departing East Berlin for the West. Katarina’s car was clearly Western, and that would be enough to reduce any initial suspicions. But a fake passport was not part of her plan. She had another, bolder idea.
The border guard waved her toward the two-lane inspection bay. All cars had to be checked thoroughly because people had tried smuggling human cargo in their trunks. So Katarina started to pull toward the inspection bay. The guard, clearly bored by the routine, looked away for just a moment, and that’s when she made her move. Flooring the accelerator, she swung the steering wheel hard to the left, and the Austin-Healey Sprite took off with a squeal that jolted the guard out of his stupor.
“Halt!”
Katarina took a quick glance at the startled guard in her rearview mirror and saw him point a gun in her direction. She ducked a split second before the guard fired a shot, but she didn’t hear the bullet find a target and figured that it must have gone flying by, into the night. Straightening back up, she headed directly for the first of a series of barriers—four-foot-high walls designed to slow down cars by forcing them to weave around the barriers.
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