by Alex Cugia
He got up, limped over and started pounding weakly on the metal door but he might as well have tried to push down the Berlin Wall on his own for all the effect it had. He tried to shout but again there was only a harsh croak, the effort tearing painfully at his throat. He felt immensely tired, groped his way back and sank on the bed in despair and exhaustion, falling deeply asleep in seconds.
Woken later by the grating noise made by the opening cell door, Thomas struggled into consciousness and turned on his elbow, blinking in the strong light from the unshaded fitting in the ceiling. He saw in front of him dark brown shoes and matching socks, a pair of dark brown trousers surmounted by a light brown sweater covering a white shirt. The man looked about fifty, ramrod straight with closely cropped grizzled hair, neatly trimmed, and with penetrating blue eyes which stared hard at Thomas for a long moment. He seemed to be waiting. Thomas felt impelled to struggle off the bed and stand up half upright, his left hand on the wall for support, although he dearly longed to be left alone to sleep off his pain and his injuries.
“Mr Wundart, I expect you realise why you are here and what you will be charged with.” The man’s deep voice had a slight edge, but the tone was friendly. There was almost no trace of an East German accent. “You and your colleague, Mark Schmidt, were caught with drugs and with an excessive amount of West German currency. You tried to escape arrest. Your companion is dead. You may have survived but you face a substantial prison sentence.”
Thomas stared at him. The loose memories fitted together better and he remembered Mark’s invitation to smuggle drugs into East Berlin. But he’d refused, surely? He’d had nothing to do with that.
“Drugs? What drugs? What are you talking about?”
“Your car had more than two kilos of heroin and cocaine packed in the wheel well of the boot. We have reliable witnesses to its discovery and we have pictures of the cargo in place. I see you have not earlier come to our attention for infractions and so you may be unaware of how efficient justice is in East Berlin. You will be tried in two days’ time. Given the clear evidence against you the trial will be swift, an hour or two at most. We will provide you with a lawyer, of course.”
“I had nothing to do with any of that. That wasn’t my car. Who are you? And why are you telling me all this?”
“My name is Colonel Dieter but you’re in no position to ask questions, Mr Wundart. You are in serious trouble. Do not think that your West German passport will allow you to escape the consequences of your criminal behaviour.”
His voice took on a sharper, more aggressive tone. “However, we don’t particularly enjoy sending young people like you to jail. I see that you’re a student and you appear to be well educated and from a good family. This, uh, escapade, will certainly destroy whatever career you had in mind. No doubt you’ve already taken risks - the question now is what are you ready to risk in return for getting out of here?”
“I’m ready to pay a fine. I had four thou ... ”
"Pffftt!" Dieter stared at Thomas with contempt and shook his head slightly. “You Westerners think that any problem can be fixed with the right amount of money! You think anyone can be bought. Not here. In any case, the money you smuggled has been impounded.”
He paused, letting his words sink in, staring at Thomas. He leaned closer, and Thomas could feel his breath on his face and picked up the faint scent of a cigar. His voice became friendlier, avuncular. “You have your whole life ahead of you.” Dieter said softly. “Don’t throw it away.” He seemed saddened at the idea that anyone should make such a foolish mistake. "Don't throw your life away." For an eerie moment Thomas saw his father standing in front of him using just those phrases when he’d pressed Thomas to give up the idea of becoming a professional musician.
He stepped back, straightened, jabbed his forefinger as he spoke. “The world is changing, political relationships are much more fluid, they change daily. We need to keep in the flow, keep up to date, but the most important bits of history are never written down. And politicians are very well versed in the arts of deceit. Therefore we believe that using people who keep their ears and eyes open, reporters you could call them, is the best way to gain information.”
There was silence and Thomas thought over what Dieter had said and what he seemed to want.
“I don’t see how I can help you. Why would you think I’m close to any information like that? I’m only a student, for Christ’s sake.”
“It’s our business to know a great deal of trivial information about many different matters which could become useful. For instance, you will remember that your first visit to East Berlin occurred on 14 November 1988. You crossed in the morning, just before 11am, and returned to West Berlin almost exactly twelve hours later. You have made fifteen visits since that first one – I’m pleased to know that you enjoy so much visiting our city.”
“Yes.” thought Thomas. “But that’s hardly impressive, that’s just collating standard immigration information.” If he was careful he could get out of this more easily than he'd feared.
Dieter smiled thinly, waiting until Thomas had begun to relax, and continued gently. “It’s a shame you don’t get on better with your widowed mother, though, isn’t it? Your brother Will seems to – or maybe that’s because he doesn’t have your independence and arrogance, do you think? But then it was your father you were particularly close to wasn't it? Perhaps more to the point, your father was a senior director of the Bundesbank. He would probably have become the next Governor had he lived. You undoubtedly have access to many very influential people there, perhaps old friends or colleagues of your well-respected father, people like Hans Schacht, for instance, or Joachim Zimmerman, would you say?, people who may already know you or who would be happy to talk to his son, people whose information could be useful to us.”
Thomas stared at Dieter in horror, then looked away, unable to stand the penetrating examination, so much at variance with the calm and reasonable voice.
“Unconsidered trifles can be valuable when connected to other information we have. We’re skilled at making these connections. You can become our Autolycus, snapping up careless morsels from the West. All this unpleasantness will vanish." Dieter clicked his fingers. "Your life will continue much as before.”
Dieter’s voice suddenly lost its soothing tone, became brisk as if he’d suddenly become bored talking to someone who couldn’t see where his best interests clearly lay. He glanced at this watch. “But the choice is yours. You have two days before the trial. Think about your future. Remember, the choice is yours.”
He turned on his heel and slammed the door shut, the dull clang overlaid, Thomas noticed despite himself, with dying harmonics. The switch outside clicked and and the steps echoed down the corridor leaving Thomas in darkness. A faint glow came through the flap in the door but as the footsteps finally faded even that vanished and Thomas was left with the absolute darkness again singing in his ears.
Chapter 7
Friday September 15 1989
DIETER’S footsteps had died away and the now total silence made the darkness heavy and oppressive. Thomas glanced by habit at his wrist then remembered that his watch had gone. He felt for the bed and sat down. The darkness waved and swirled in front of his eyes and took on a solidity, seeming to press down on him, force him back against the wall. He suddenly relived the terror when, as a child, he'd dived at high tide deep into an underwater cave in a cliff and became disorientated, unable to sense the way to the surface, desperate to breathe, scrabbling deeper and panicking as he struggled to escape. He clutched and pulled up with all his strength on the hard, sharp edge of the bed frame, searing pain into his hands but returning him to reality and halting for the moment the mad drumming in his ears and the feelings of nausea. He heard his heart hammering as Dieter’s words, insisting that it was up to him to choose, kept pace in his head.
Whether Thomas faced trial or not was entirely under Dieter's control, he realised. Dieter could certainly also influen
ce the trial as he wished, ensuring a long sentence of perhaps twenty years or more, if he felt so inclined. Lawyer there might be for him but that was mere gloss and would make no difference to the result.
He’d already been stitched up on a drugs-related charge, Thomas thought, and although he was innocent of that he knew that getting off would be almost impossible if Dieter chose to press his case. Conditions might be better than what he was enduring now but whatever the improvement he just couldn't face twenty years in a Stasi jail.
He remembered the contempt Dieter had shown when he'd offered to pay a fine. Money worked in the West but here it didn’t, or at least not in the same way. He thought back to how often money had bought him out of trouble. That new housemaid when he got back from university at Christmas; their child would have been about three now. He remembered how exasperated his father had been as he’d paid for the clinic and given the girl a generous amount to forget the careless indiscretion and to start again in another town. But here it was a matter of principle, not price. This was unfamiliar to him and Thomas was unsure how to handle it. The mantra started up again loudly in his head. It was his choice, certainly, but even that freedom to choose, he realised, was illusory.
But what was Dieter seeking to achieve? Yes, Thomas knew, even if only casually, many important people in Frankfurt through his family’s connections. Frankfurt was Germany’s financial powerhouse but all the political power was in Bonn and it was Bonn that called the shots. He knew very few people there and certainly no one of high political status or power. Why was Frankfurt so important? Why was the Stasi so interested in him? Why him?
Thomas heard steps outside and then a harsh screech ripped his ears as the panel in the door opened. In the rectangle of light which followed he saw a tray and at the same time, out of the corner of his eye, he sensed the rapid scurry of something small along the floor by the far wall. He reached for the tray and the panel snapped shut, the footsteps dying away and leaving the darkness as oppressive as before. He felt for a fork or a spoon but there was nothing of that kind, merely some hard bread, a bowl of mushy mixture that might have been old potato salad and a tin mug of flat water.
His anger flared up but he stopped himself in time from hurling the tray into the darkness. That would disturb no one other than himself. He laughed suddenly, remembering the care with which he and Stephan had examined the menu and the expensive wine list when they’d last met. Well, nor was he now at the Ephraim Palais but he was hungry and had no way of knowing when his next meal would come. He'd better accept what was offered.
He dozed fitfully, waking with a start, his limbs and chest still painful, fully alert and again conscious of the decision he had to make although still refusing to acknowledge that the choice offered was no choice at all. Perhaps Dieter wasn’t so powerful as he seemed. Perhaps he could get a fair trial after all. Perhaps he could get friends in the West to pull strings to get him out. He tried to sleep but as this list of hopeful possibilities churned in his mind, growing wilder as time passed, he realised that he was trudging down a corridor with only one exit. “But if I don’t do it, someone else will. If I don’t collaborate, they’ll find other ways to get what they need anyway.” he thought. “And it’s not as if I’ll have access to any important secrets." He looked into the blackness. "I just need my life back. Is that so bad?”
The tray and the mug were each too flimsy to make much noise on the door but he found that by hitting the panel with the side of his clenched hand at a certain spot he could make it flex slightly and generate an additional faint booming which faded down the corridor. The slight scrabbling in the far corner that occasionally he heard and which he linked to the scurrying flash he’d caught earlier when the tray arrived gave him strength and after many minutes he head footsteps dragging towards his cell. The panel scraped open once more and Thomas briefly basked in the light.
“I need to speak to Colonel Dieter!”
The man laughed. “Go back to sleep. It’s the middle of the night! He gets in later at weekends and doesn't stay long. When he gets here in a few hours we’ll tell him you want an audience. Perhaps he’ll be able to fit you in today. If not, you'll have to wait till Monday.”
It must already be Saturday morning, he thought. His flatmate, John, wouldn’t be concerned because they each would go off suddenly if something came up. But then he remembered Stephan and the planned visit to the opera. Shit! There was Bettina as well. They’d agreed to meet on Friday evening outside the opera house. After their difficult start standing her up was the last thing he needed. Well, being locked up in a Stasi dungeon was a pretty good excuse, he thought bitterly as he again fell asleep.
The light being switched on from outside and then the noise made by the door opening woke Thomas. His neck and his arm felt stiff and cramped, his leg ached, and he shivered slightly in the cell’s dampness. Dieter, this time in uniform, stood in the doorway his face in shadow so that it took Thomas a moment to realize that it was the man he’d met earlier.
“What have you decided?”
Some of Thomas’s earlier confidence drained away as he looked at Dieter, the crisp, full military uniform reinforcing his stern bearing and reminding Thomas of the vast difference in the power of each of them.
“I’ll do what you want – but only on certain conditions.”
Dieter smiled coldly.
“Do you really think you’re in any position to dictate anything?" He made a small gesture with his fingers. "But, well, go on.”
“I’ll help, but you need to let me get on with my life. I’m a student. I’ve got a life ahead of me. I can’t give that up.”
“We want you to be successful. We will even help you because that will make your job easier. All we need is that you get for us information from certain people. Provided you do that to our satisfaction we’ll make sure that your life continues pretty much as before.”
“Who do I have to inform on? Are you going to tell me that just now?” Thomas felt some of his earlier confidence returning. How would they know that he reported things correctly and completely. If anything was too secret or too dangerous to West Germany he could easily forget about it or subtly misrepresent what he'd learned.
“Let’s see.” said Dieter. “Frankfurt. We know your family is well connected, particularly in banking circles through your late father. Who do you know who might interest us?”
“I have an uncle in Essen who heads a major pharmaceutical plant and who obviously knows many important industrialists. I’m sure he could be someone worth following more closely, also as ... ”
The slap of Dieter’s gloves on Thomas’s face echoed in the cell. It had been more done out of irritation and warning than real anger but his cheek stung and he sensed again the menace behind Dieter’s urbane and sophisticated manner.
“Why would we care about industrial espionage when our factories produce all that the DDR needs? I’m interested only in anyone close to the levers of power. Who do you know, or who can you contact, high up in the Bundesbank or maybe one of the important ministries such as Finance?”
A guard entered and handed a note to Dieter who scanned it quickly.
“Good!” he said “You haven’t been missed. I had one of our female agents call up your apartment to say you were spending a couple of nights with her. Your flatmate, John he said his name was, took that as quite normal. He said there were several calls from a Stephan Fischer, calling from Frankfurt – I have his number here so you can call him back. Who is Fischer? Tell me about him.”
Thomas’s mind raced, wondering what he could say and hold back about Stephan. What did Dieter already know? Would he guess if Thomas lied?
“I’m waiting, Mr Wundart. Who is Fischer? Why has he called you frequently? I want to know all about him.”
“He’s an old friend. We’re the same age. We were at school together, grew up together. We meet every few months either here or in Frankfurt. He and his girlfriend were coming to visit this weeke
nd.”
“And what does he do? The office number is in the Deutsche Bank headquarters. Where does he work? What is his position? What other friends of his do you know?”
“He’s an assistant in Deutsche Bankthere. He’s been there for perhaps a year but I’m not sure exactly what he does. I’ve met some of his friends but apart from his girlfriend, Camille, I don’t really know them.”
This was dangerous ground, Thomas realised, but he hoped that his feigned candour and apparent willingness to cooperate would satisfy Dieter. The slap of the gloves, harder this time, jolted him.
“He’s an old friend, you say. My patience is limited. You will know exactly what he does! You said he’s an assistant, not a trainee. Which department? Who does he work for? You know, Mr Wundart, we expect far more cooperation from our agents. I’m not a dentist, I shouldn’t have to pull stuff out bit by bit!”
Thomas looked down and as he again glanced up saw that Dieter was staring steadily at him, waiting, dominating Thomas.
“I, I believe he’s Alfred Herren’s personal assistant.”
Dieter’s eyes gleamed and opened slightly and a flicker of excitement lit his face before he resumed his usual manner and tone of voice.
“Ah! The CEO of Deutsche Bank. You say he was due to visit you for the weekend … ”
“And now I’ve missed him through being stuck here. We shan’t get a chance again for a month or two, I expect.” This was a small victory, he thought.
Dieter ignored the comment.
“Where were you going to meet them? And when?”
“Stephan had booked a room in a West Berlin hotel near my apartment but we thought it best to meet at the Opera House here. On Friday evening, yesterday evening, maybe half past seven. He was going to telephone to let me know when he could get away. We were going to see Fidelio. He’ll be concerned about why I didn’t appear, about what’s happened to me.”
