by Alex Cugia
Dieter’s face was immobile.
“OK!” he said “I think we have a deal. I’ll get the charge against you dropped and your trial cancelled. In return you’ll intensify your contacts with Mr Fischer, see him more frequently in Frankfurt, find interesting things to bring him to Berlin. You’ll find out from him all you can about Herren and what’s going on in his office. There are other people in Deutsche Bank we’ll want to know about as well and we’ll tell you about these. Perhaps we’ll even transfer you back to Frankfurt for a while. I’ll have someone bring you to my office one hour from now.”
“What time is it now?”
Dieter smiled as he closed the door and the darkness returned.
Approaching forty minutes later Thomas stepped into sunlight and a fresh breeze, a welcome change to his dank and gloomy cell. He looked back at the featureless block of concrete, a single storey high with no windows and only the heavily fortified door at the side. There was no one around. No signs or writing identified the building, apparently abandoned in a field. From a casual glance it looked like a partially derelict industrial or agricultural unit. Kai had once told Thomas that there were a dozen such buildings scattered around the perimeter of the city and in out of the way places. Officially they didn’t exist.
The young escorting officer led him to a grey Trabant. As he settled in his seat Thomas discreetly tried to open the door but found the handle had no effect. He tried to talk to the driver who ignored him and drove precisely and with care. In about fifteen minutes Thomas began to recognise where they were and realised they’d entered from the north and were approaching the city centre. The sun broke from the clouds on to his face through the windows and he basked in the warmth, closing his eyes and listening to the drumming of the tyres.
He woke with a start. This must be Saturday, he thought again, judging by the daylight and the slope of the sun's rays. Yet that was difficult to understand. How could he have slept, or been unconscious, for so long? Then he remembered recently reading of an experiment where volunteers had been kept deep underground in limestone caves to check the effect on circadian rhythms and how initially the absolute blackness and lack of ordinary sensation had disorientated them.
His own experience made no real sense but then the time in the cell had seemed to have had a life of its own, stretching and contracting without properly matching what he’d felt of time passing. He felt weak, unsure of what he wanted, unsure even ... and with an effort he decided not to follow where his thoughts seemed to be leading.
I am Thomas Wundart, West German citizen, economics student in West Berlin but going to become an opera singer, he told himself at speed, over and over. He closed his eyes and breathed deliberately and slowly.
As he was repeating the mantra they stopped by a solid door beside which was a metal plaque on which Thomas read Ministerium für Staatssicherheit, the Ministry for State Security and the most feared address in East Berlin. The Stasi HQ was where regime opponents, and too often ordinary citizens picked up in the wrong place, often vanished without trace, held in what was almost a state within a state. Senior Stasi members largely made their own rules, acted with extreme secrecy and ignored the law with impunity when necessary. With its capillary network of agents spread throughout the country and abroad, it was a formidable power base.
The officer led Thomas through a network of corridors into a large room with spacious windows overlooking Normannenstrasse. A huge and ornate desk dominated the well furnished room with, behind it, a large nineteenth century oil painting of a battle scene, apparently commemorating a victory in the Franco Prussian War. A marble statue of Dzerzhinsky, the founder of the Cheka, precursor of the KGB, stood on the right. Dieter entered and sat down at his desk, ignoring the two standing in front of him. Pulling out a file from a drawer, he placed a series of papers on the desk and gestured to the officer to leave.
“You will sign these documents. You needn’t read them. However, the first paper says that you are collaborating with us of your own free will. If you play any tricks on us we’ll release that to the press in the West and to the West German secret service, the BND. The second document is your confession to your crime and the charges laid against you. If we set you free and you try to change your mind we will find you and return you here – make no mistake about that – and that sheet will mean your trial will take only a few minutes, the result a foregone conclusion.”
Thomas signed both papers quickly without reading them. Dieter took his left hand, pressed the thumb on an ink pad and further marked each paper with the print.
“Despite what you might think you have no way of leaving West Berlin without our permission and you will only leave with my prior agreement and approval. Your name will be on the checklists used by the border guards. In case you think that false travel documents might work let me assure you that they will also have several photographs of you and that they are extremely efficient in their work. They have been well trained in psychological profiling and analysis, for instance. You might be surprised to learn how well even West Berlin’s Tegel Airport is covered by us and the extent of our agent network in the West. If you try anything foolish and survive the attempt you’ll find our prison impossible to escape from, even with twenty years of trying.”
Despite the sun and the pleasant warmth in the room Thomas felt chilled. Dieter poured some mineral water into an elaborately decorated beer stein.
“Our department’s operational offices are in Alexanderstrasse, number 12. You will report there and receive further instructions weekly, sometimes more frequently if necessary. You will report there on Monday morning at 9.00am, for your first briefing. You will ultimately report to me but most of your contact will be with a junior agent who will take responsibility for you. In exceptional cases you may be brought also to my operational office.”
He lit a cigar, leaned back in his chair, smiled thinly, pressed the record button on the machine standing on his desk, and said “Now tell me all about yourself.”
The interrogation continued for some two hours, Dieter looking steadily at him and occasionally making notes. From time to time he revisited Thomas’s answers, sometimes asking the same question in different ways, sometimes pretending to have misunderstood or remembered wrongly, constantly checking the truth of what Thomas was saying, right down to intimate details of his life, his friends and his sexual habits and experiences. He got increasingly confused and even began to doubt his own answers, to worry whether what he was saying was sufficiently accurate and true. Only in one area, which took all his strength to hide, was he anything other than fully open with Dieter but he felt that Kai had risked enough already without being incriminated and probably spied on as one of his East German friends.
“Initially, I want to know everything you can tell me about Alfred Herren and what he’s working on. We know he has the ear of Chancellor Kohl and that the government listens to his advice on many financial and policy matters. Perhaps you will need to halt your studies for the moment and become an intern at the bank. That should be easy with your connections and your friendship with Fischer. I shall decide that later. If you are there you will meet daily with Fischer and report everything by telephone to your contact at an agreed hour each day.”
“Obviously no one must know about your connection with us. If there is any leak then not only your life but that of anyone who knows this about you will be at risk. Your contact will brief you in detail at your meeting in just over a week's time. Do you want to ask anything?”
“Who is my contact?”
Dieter turned toward him with a smile, the more unexpected because of its apparently genuine warmth. It was the kind of smile his father used to give him when he returned from one of his many work trips abroad. He pressed a button on his desk and Thomas heard a buzzer next door. “I would introduce you ... " he waited for a moment "But then I have the impression you may already have met.”
The connecting door opened and a figure walked in s
lowly. Thomas started from his chair, his initial horror changing to anger.
“Miss List is one of our best young agents.” said Dieter, formally introducing Bettina, a slight smile flickering on his face.
“You bitch! You goddamn, lying, treacherous bitch.”
Thomas sank back into his chair, then swung sideways to avoid looking at Bettina as she sat in the chair next to his. A faint trace of her perfume reached his nostrils, transporting him back to the moments by the river, where he’d inhaled it so fully, nuzzling her neck and her face, now feeling sick with the recollection, an idiot for having believed there was something there between them.
“You goddamn lying bitch.” he thought. “It was to have me trust you, keep me around until everything was ready. Just what the Stasi would require. How much further would you have gone if necessary?”
He felt anger, tried to glare at her but couldn’t as a deep sadness and despair suddenly welled up and choked him.
“I’m afraid we weren’t entirely straight with you earlier, Mr Wundart.” Dieter opened a drawer in his desk and handed Thomas his watch. “It’s now nearly four in the afternoon, but Friday, not Saturday as the guard may have implied earlier. So of course you will all go the opera as planned tonight. I think your friend Stephan and” – Dieter glanced at his notes – “his friend Camille will be excited to meet your beautiful new girlfriend. And as a Berliner now" - he marked the ambiguity with an emphasis on the noun - "she’ll know the good places to go to eat afterwards. Forget business - that can wait till later. This is pleasure. Enjoy your evening. I’m sure you’ll all have a wonderful time.”
Chapter 8
Friday September 15 1989
"THAT'S a bugger Klaus leaving like that." said Bernhard.
The work became harder with only two working but also because of the distance they’d reached. The confined space was too small for both and so they developed a routine where one would dig but also fill the bag and the other would fetch and stack it up in the corner. Then the bags had to be moved periodically to the other room, risky because Frau Schwinewitz was a lurking menace, suddenly appearing. Although it was almost impossible for her to be completely silent coming down the stairs they became tense and snappy with each other during these periods.
In between times they built the roof supports and the wall cladding. All this slowed down their progress considerably and because neither dared to call in sick for the second week running they had to do what they could in the evenings only.
By the Friday evening, nearly a week after Klaus had left, they measured the tunnel at just under 19 metres of travel. They stood in the room, looking morosely into the tunnel mouth.
“I guess that’s about sixteen, maybe a little more, in a straight line.” said Kai. “Allowing for the pipe first of all, then that bloody great rock we had work round. Three quarters there, about. So maybe another three or four to go, till we hit the wall. Sunday? Monday? Weekend at very latest, I guess. What do you think?”
“Depends if we hit another big rock or more of that stuff with lots of little stones. Oh, god, that bit – you just couldn’t drive the spade in, use the pickaxe to loosen it, scoop it, same again, over and over. But, yeah, mid week probably.”
"I have nightmares about this tunnel. The dirt and the work. I wake up thrashing about thinking it's falling in on me. How much longer? Are we ever going to make it? Surely we're nearly there." He stretched and yawned again, luxuriously. "We're close, though, I'm sure of that. Look, your plans showed it about 20 metres in a straight line and we're well over that now. OK, it's not straight but it must be approaching that. I reckon we'll hit the wall tomorrow." He straightened, beamed at Kai and clapped his hands sharply "OK. Last shift tonight. In you go, Kai and see what you can do."
For twenty minutes Kai dug with renewed energy. The thought of coming close to the finish had fired him up and he’d forgotten his tiredness and aching limbs. He filled one bag in record time and summoned Bernhard to collect it, returning to attack the surface with enthusiasm. Suddenly Bernhard was back in the tunnel.
“It’s that Schwinewitz woman outside the door. She’s banging on the door, shouting and saying she wants to talk to you. She says she knows you’re in here. Go and talk to her now before she goes and calls the Stasi or the police.”
“Oh shit.” They scuttled back quickly. Bernhard moved to the tunnel mouth as Kai stood by the door, listening.
“I can hear you moving in there. Now open this door right now!” Frau Schwinewitz shouted, banging on the door. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks and your rent is well overdue. Come out of there at once. If you don’t come out I’m going to get the police and have you kicked out of your flat.”
Kai and Bernhard stood silently, looking at each other.
“OK, that’s it. I know you can hear me. I’m going to call the police now, and they’ll sort you out. We’ll see how this story ends, Herr Rumpel.”
There was a further long silence and then they heard her footsteps echoing down the long corridor.
“Go and stop her.” whispered Bernhard, throwing Kai a clean sweater to cover his muddy shirt. “Comb your hair and wipe that smudge off your forehead, yes, just there. Tell her she’ll have the rent Monday at latest, maybe even tomorrow. You’re getting it from a friend and you don’t think he’s around. Make up some story anyway.”
He opened the door silently and pushed Kai into the corridor where he chased after the woman.
“Frau Schwinewitz! Frau Schwinewitz!”
He caught up with her just as she reached her apartment door.
“I’m sorry Frau Schwinewitz. I think I heard you shouting but I’d fallen asleep. I’ve been working extra hours, cutting out some designs down in the basement to make a bit more money. Look, is it about my rent? I called round a couple of time to pay you but we never seemed to meet and I didn’t want to just push it under the door.”
She stared at him for a moment. “Really, Herr Rumpel? How strange. And I’d somehow had got the impression you were trying to avoid me. But that's OK. I can take the money now.” She held out her hand.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have it right now. I left it with a friend for safekeeping – you remember Klaus, he was helping me move some things a couple of weeks ago. I need to get it back from him and when I do I’ll bring it straight round. You’ll have it Monday, Monday evening, I promise. I’ll go and see him after work, on my way home.”
“You know, Herr Rumpel, I don’t think I believe you. What’s wrong with tomorrow? Or Sunday?”
“He’s away. He’s gone to, to Leipzig. To see, to see a friend. A girlfriend. Driving. In his van. He’ll drive back just in time for work on Monday morning, early. But I’ll catch him on Monday evening. He’ll be home by seven. Or maybe half past. I promise. And I’ll bring it to your flat. Will that be alright?”
She narrowed her eyes and stared at him.
“I’ll expect you absolutely not later than nine.” she said. “And let me warn you - make sure this is the last time you’re late. I’ve had enough. I’ll make sure you’re evicted if you’re as much as a day late in future. Do you understand?”
“Thank you, Frau Schwinewitz. It will be the very last time. I promise you that. Yes, I can most certainly promise you that.”
Chapter 9
Friday September 15 1989
THE Deutsche Staats Oper, the East Berlin opera house, was brilliantly lit and streams of people, some in fine overcoats and expensive furs, were flowing towards it from both directions along Unter den Linden. As Thomas approached he saw Bettina standing by the main entrance. She was wearing a deceptively simple and very elegant black dress with a discreet pattern of small white flowers and over it a slim grey coat, falling open in front. Her blonde hair, loosely tied and cascading over her shoulders, caught and reflected the light as if burnished. Despite his new detestation of her he found himself imagining the pleasures of lifting and running her hair through his fingers as she smiled up at hi
m. He acknowledged her style and beauty and how marvellous she looked and saw from the lingering glances of others that he was not alone in his appreciation.
“Hi there!”
Ordinarily Thomas would have revelled in being the man accompanying someone so beautiful and elegant but now he barely acknowledged her greeting, looking around for Stephan and Camille. He thought back to his visit with Bettina to the Ephraim Palais and felt ridiculous and ashamed. He should never have taken her to such an expensive restaurant so soon after meeting her and he should certainly not have drunk so much that he’d become expansive and indiscreet about what he was doing. That he’d been strongly attracted to her, wanted to impress her, was no excuse for such juvenile behaviour. He’d been like the worst kind of amateur, playing at being in the black market money big league but being caught by the oldest kind of trap there was. He felt sick at the realisation that she’d been using him. He felt pain at the thought that the scene by the river, the memory of which he’d relied on to keep him going in jail, had been a mere act on her part, counterfeit and fake. Despite this he realised, seeing her standing there, that he still wanted her. That was going to be difficult.
“Perhaps by force." he thought with a savage flash of emotion. "She's not the only one who can betray trust. Pay back time!” Then he returned to his senses and acknowledged how much he was now in her power and how much worse it could still get for him if she chose.
The first bell rang but there was still no sign of Stephan and Camille.
“We should go in. I’ll leave their tickets at the box office and they can find us when they get here.”
Their seats were close to the stage and as Thomas led the way, brusquely and deliberately preceding Bettina, he realised too late that that meant she would be sitting next to Stephan or Camille, a closeness he’d wanted to avoid. He tried to change seats but she simply smiled sweetly and remained where she was. As the lights dimmed his friends arrived, slipping into their seats as the orchestra began playing the Overture to Fidelio. To his irritation and growing resentment, Thomas realised that Bettina was spending a good deal of time talking animatedly with Camille next to her and often also with Stephan, both of whom appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely. He felt morose and out of place, unable even to lose himself as he ordinarily would in the opera, and at one point felt a surge of conflicting emotions as Camille laughed delightedly at something Bettina had said and Bettina turned to Thomas, placing her hand with apparent fondness over his for a moment and smiling up at him.
