The Helsinki Pact

by Alex Cugia

  “Hello Bettina. It’s good to see you again. How’s your mother? I haven’t heard from her for a few months now.”

  “She’s fine. You look in good shape, Georg.” She’d first met Georg when he was forty-one and he’d always looked identical since although was little was left of his always thin blondish hair now was showing some grey. “How’s the photography going? Any exhibitions lately?”

  “No galleries, I’m afraid, just small things amongst friends. But I still enjoy it immensely - I’m experimenting now with some new chemicals for sepia colouring.”

  There was silence for some moments, each wondering how to broach the subject they knew they had to talk about eventually. Bettina looked down at her feet and then back at Georg.

  “I’ve heard about a strange situation you might know about, a privatisation ... "

  “Best we talk outside.” Georg interrupted. He turned off his desk lamp, closed and locked his door then poked his head into a neighbouring office to tell his colleague he’d be away for an hour or so. Outside, he led Bettina through back streets to a small café bar entirely lacking in quaintness or charm but which was almost completely empty. They took a table deep into the small room and once they’d ordered Georg turned and looked at her.

  "You were going to ask me something. But I need to say something to you first. I know who you work for, Bettina. You must know, particularly after what they did to me, that I can have no sympathy with that. When they tracked down who was behind that newspaper, who had helped fund it, who the 'Hans Frei' who wrote all those critical articles really was, I was lucky to escape a long jail term but they still ruined my life as it was."

  "You weren't lucky, Georg. I know how good you were as a senior judge in Leipzig, how well people thought of you there, and it was that and your integrity which had got you some powerful friends."

  "Not powerful enough, though, were they? I was good in that work and I could use my position as a judge to stand up against injustice. Now look at me, a clerk in a Dresden administrative office of no importance, a person with no power and no way of helping people as I used to be able to do. If I try anything now I'm facing a long jail term, with anyone who could help me long gone."

  Bettina looked away, uncomfortably, and then Georg spoke again. “But I need you to tell me whether you’ve ever written anything about me, during the time I was with your mother or at any other time, before or subsequently. I need the truth, Bettina. I can understand if you did, although I confess it would hurt me deeply.”

  Bettina looked him straight in the eyes. “No, never, I swear. Your relationship with mum was some years before my joining and even that apart I wouldn’t have informed on you.”

  “Why did you do this? Why have you got involved with these people? You’re such an honest, straightforward girl. I just don’t see you in that context, joining other people those rats spying on other’s people’s lives to try to nail them for being who they are. Is it anything to do with what happened to your brother?”

  “Please just take my word for it that I’ve always acted properly. Not all people in the organisation are as bad as you think. And anything you can tell me will stay between us. I promise you that.”

  “All right then, I’ll trust you for old time’s sake. It must be hard for you now, I imagine. The boat is sinking and all the rats are trying to grab whatever’s left and hiding their past.”

  The waitress had finally brought the beers and the two clinked their glasses. “I can only talk about my own little world." Georg continued. "For the past three months, we’ve been ordered to go through all the political trials of the last five years and eliminate any page which makes reference to prominent communist party members’ depositions against the suspects. I’m sure that in small towns, where the new political parties can’t check, they’re cutting the process short and just throwing whole files away.” His disgust at this behaviour was evident. “This way, they’re hoping not to get prosecuted. I suspect, gut feeling only, that the same thing is happening in every field. The Party and the Stasi controlled everything, did what they wanted. They’re not simply going to hand all the evidence over to Kohl, are they?”

  “Did you hear about the privatisation of the flour mill?” she said, trying to keep any sense of importance out of her tone.

  Georg seemed lost in thought, as if he’d not registered what Bettina was asking. He took a long draught of his beer. “Why would the communists privatise something without being forced to? Find out the date and I’ll try to fish out the file. All public acts need to be registered in the Court. The only problem is that in my department we only have the acts registered in the last year. The rest is in the archives.”

  “This must certainly have happened in the last year.” Bettina said. “I’ll find out the exact date, or at least the month, and let you know.”

  “Without the date, it’s going to be difficult. There are so many acts registered every day that it would take me ages, certainly more than a day, to look through them all. How long are you staying?”

  “I don’t know. It depends how some things develop.”

  “I’ll ask some of my colleagues. Where can I reach you if I find anything?”

  “I’m staying in a farm on the road to Meissen, maybe a couple of kilometres beyond the mill. The woman is called Dornbush.” She gave him the telephone number.

  Georg left money for the beers on the table and they got up to leave. They hugged closely then Georg, waving goodbye, headed back to his office block.

  “Perhaps on my way back I should stop over at Jacob’s.” she thought as she returned to her car. “Almost everyone there works at the mill so they should be able to tell me what happened, and when.”

  When she finally reached the low wooden fence around the garden of the farmhouse Jacob’s two terriers, Trap and Chupa, came over to greet her, barking madly, whining and leaping up towards her, alerting the family. Jacob’s father, Herbert, peered out. He was around fifty-five but looked much younger as he kept in excellent shape doing most of the work on the farm.

  “Bettina, how are you? Such a long time since we’ve seen you.” he said warmly, shaking her hand and passing his left one through his long silver hair. The squeeze felt like iron.

  “Yes, probably a couple of years.” Bettina said. “Everyone fine?” She knew them well, Jacob having been her first boyfriend. They’d been inseparable until she’d moved to Berlin, aged nineteen, and they’d gradually drifted apart, finishing a few months later.

  Jacob came out running and hugged her warmly then leading her into the kitchen where Herbert opened beers and poured out three glasses.

  “How are things going at the mill?" Bettina asked Jacob. "I stopped by and they told me it was being restructured.”

  “Happened a couple of months back. That’s the good news” said Herbert. “Now I can use these lazy sons of mine here at the farm for a change.”

  “Can I say something or is this a private conversation?” Jacob interrupted. “You weren’t even there when they told us. You were here planting beans.”

  “It happened exactly a month and a half ago,” Jacob went on. “The Party officer called a workers’ assembly and told us that the committee had finally approved the restructuring of the mill. Production levels had dropped, he told us, while at the same time there was increased demand from the city. They’d decided to buy new machines, do some renovation work as well, and all that meant that the mill needed to be closed for a period, probably around six months. However, in order to guarantee the workers’ livelihoods the committee had decided to pay a full six months’ salary in advance. They shut down a week later. Everyone was extremely happy, as you can imagine.”

  “Did they say anything else?” Bettina asked.

  “Something about changing the name from Dresdener Mehl Kooperative to align it with the more modern image of the country today. I believe Omega Mills was what he said. No one really cared about the name anyway. We all called it ‘the pastry�
�, as you’ll remember.”

  “Nothing about it being sold, or privatised?”

  “Sold?” Herbert looked worried and moved his chair closer to Bettina. “Privatised?”

  Jacob looked shocked. “Sold? Are you sure?”

  “The guard at the mill told me that it had been privatised. But maybe it’s all a mistake and it simply changed names. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” she said. She didn’t know for certain what had happened and didn’t want to worry the Klimas with rumours. The farm was struggling and the family depended on their mill wages to survive.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.” she added. “The guard probably didn’t know the difference between just changing a name and privatising something. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  She drained her beer and got up. “I’m afraid I’ve got to run now. Say hello to Anja and the rest of the gang.”

  Chapter 28

  Tuesday January 16 1990

  “I’M so sorry to have kept you waiting but I had to finish checking these urgent reports. Today is really hectic. I’ve got a thousand things to finish before I leave.” Roehrberg glanced at his watch and made a brief note on the pad in front of him.

  He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her and although he'd reverted to his earlier urbane and charming manner Bettina felt patronised and wrong-footed. "My own fault, I suppose." she'd thought "I shouldn't have just turned up at HQ and expected to waltz straight in to see Roehrberg without an appointment. So much for his being at my disposal."

  She'd been given coffee when she'd turned up but that had long been drunk and no refills had been offered. She spent her time going over what she knew of the recent events, trying to identify patterns and make some sense of the remaining mysteries. Eventually his secretary had led her into the inner office where Roehrberg was working through and occasionally signing documents piled on his desk. Barely looking up he waved her to the sofa and continued his work for two or three minutes. She noticed that today he was wearing horn-rimmed reading glasses, finally removing them and placing them carefully on the desk. They made him look even more interesting, she thought, and then for a moment found herself musing on how Thomas would look in glasses.

  “You’re leaving?” She tried to keep the surprise out of her voice. He nodded.

  “Yes, early tomorrow morning. It’s the mission I told you about, the one for which we needed the funds. The unexpected lack of the money is causing problems with some of our key informants in France. I have to go over and talk to them and make sure things continue as planned." He moved a document from one pile to another and made a further note on his pad. "But Spitze will remain here - please speak to him if you need any more help. I assume that you've come to tell me that now that matters have been cleared up replacement funds will be sent shortly, right?”

  “Well, I can’t promise that. I’m not sure how … ”

  “Yes, I understand it’s not your decision but you all do need to understand in turn that our work here continues. Berlin can’t just sit around doing nothing and have us wait until it gets round to sorting things out. Did you give Dieter the update on Henkel?”

  “Yes, I spoke to him briefly yesterday. He was glad to learn that the solution was apparently so straightforward, if distressing for everyone who knew Henkel." She decided to try to assert some authority of her own, took a file out of her bag and made a show of looking for something there before answering. "But there are a couple of things he asked about and so I still need to check these before I can complete my report. Forgive me, but, as I’m sure you understand, it’s a very delicate matter. One crucial aspect is whether you’ve asked a specialist to verify the handwriting of Henkel’s letter and whether he’d confirmed that it was Henkel's.”

  There was a long silence as Roehrberg stared at her. She noticed with dismay that his eyes narrowed and hardened and his face became livid, relieved only by spots of colour on his high cheekbones. His nostrils flared and he breathed in heavily. She watched as his shoulder started to rise, the right arm tensing and the palm of his hand ready to smash down. With a visible effort he controlled his movement, shut his eyes for a moment, then breathed out and lowered his arm slowly to rest on the desk.

  “You’re implying that you, that Dieter, thinks that someone murdered Henkel and falsified his handwriting? You think I don’t recognise the handwriting of my subordinates almost as well as my own? I see these people’s handwriting on scores of documents each month. It’s preposterous. The idea that the note wasn’t written by Henkel is just ridiculous. Quite ridiculous.”

  “Of course!” she said. “Naturally I see that. But you know how people sometimes get odd ideas into their heads even if they’re ridiculous. Sometimes it’s just box ticking, excessive bureaucracy. Left to myself ... ”

  “Dammit!” she thought “Why did I have to add that last bit rather than hold my nerve.”

  “Unfortunately Dieter won’t authorise the release of replacement funding until he has my report." She breathed slowly and deeply to calm herself again. "He’s made it clear that it’s got to include a certificate of handwriting verification before it can be accepted.” The silence continued.

  “I’m sorry.” Roehrberg said smoothly. “Forgive me. Of course you’re right. It’s routine to do such checks but in this case I just didn’t think about it. Gerd was a friend and we’ve worked together a long time. I know his handwriting intimately and the idea of a forgery never occurred to me. But of course you’re right and we should have run standard checks. I’ll order them immediately and stress the urgency and we should have the results by early evening. Anything to get this story over and done with. Anything else?”

  “Yes, there’s one thing I don’t quite understand.” Bettina shifted in her chair. “You told me that the funds were ordered for three missions - in France, England and West Germany. What I don’t understand is why the foreign money that was ordered was a combination of Deutsche Marks and French Francs only; there were no English pounds whatsoever.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer that question. It was Gerd who handled all the practical aspects like that. I just checked that the projects were progressing as scheduled, told him broadly what we’d need and when and he just got on with it. The project in the UK is certainly not as far forward as the others and so possibly the funding there wasn’t going to be needed until later on, assuming we’re all still here, that is. You could ask Spitze later. He might have a better idea.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “Now I hate to do this, but I really need to get some more work done today. Why don’t you talk to Spitze, ask him about the English money gap and anything else you need to know, and you’ll probably get answers to all your questions. If there are any issues outstanding, you can ask me at dinner, if you’d be so kind as to accept this as my invitation for tonight. And I’ll bring a copy of the forensic report on Henkel’s suicide note with me for you to take away.”

  “Thank you. I’d be delighted to have dinner with you.” she said.

  “Shall I come to pick you up? Where ... ”

  “Don’t worry. I’m from Dresden and I have my own car here. I just need the address.”

  "We call it Heinrich's" he said smoothly "and it's the just down the hill from my house. If you came there we could walk down together."

  "Oh, I know it well. Best if I just go direct, I think."

  He jotted down his address and that of the restaurant and handed the note to her.

  “Eight o’clock at Heinrich's then, if that’s fine with you.”

  “Perfect. I’ll see you later.”

  Bettina walked down the corridor to Spitze’s office, knocked and entered without waiting for a response, just as Spitze was putting down his receiver. He gestured her to sit in the chair near his desk.

  “Hello again Miss List. That was Roehrberg. He told me you were coming and asked me to put myself at your disposal, for the day if necessary. He said you had some questi
ons I might be able to help you with.”

  He smiled, but she remembered her meeting at lunch the day before and far from reassuring her she knew that she'd need to be cautious in what she said and in how much reliance she should place on his answers.

  “I’ll do my best but as you might imagine we’re all a little frazzled today.” he added.

  “Thank you for making time for me Mr Spitze. Yes, I imagine that today must be difficult. It must have been a terrible shock to all of you.”

  “Yes it was. It’s not something I would ever have thought possible.” The both sat in silence for a while, then Spitze leaned back in his leather chair and steepled his fingers. “Now, what can I help you with?”

  “The first point, I guess, is the organisational structure. How exactly were the responsibilities divided between your, Roehrberg and Henkel? And was anyone else particularly involved? I didn’t get an organisational chart from HQ and I’m a little confused.” She ripped out a piece of paper from her pad and started outlining a scheme. “So if this is the structure ... ”

  Spitze looked at her sketch with disapproval at its messiness. “Permit me.” he said, taking a sheet of blank paper from a drawer and creating his own version. Underneath each perfect box with their three names were further squares in which were written out the functions and the number of agents directly depending on each of them. A larger box with Modrow’s name headed the paper. He drew boxes, entered names and added comments about responsibilities so that in a short time the sheet was covered with a clear organisational chart all annotated in Spitze’s neat script.

  “It’s quite easy really. Roehrberg heads the whole department, directly under Modrow as overall head, and therefore has no direct functions but through Henkel and me is responsible overall for our various areas and personnel. Of course now that Modrow is Prime Minister Roerhrberg is de facto head.” he added, pointing to the various lower levels of the organisational chart. “Is it clear?”