by Neil Maresca
When she finally got a chance to interrogate Lucas, she was shocked by what she found. The man they dragged into the interview room was barely recognizable. He had been alternately interrogated and severely beaten several times since his arrival at the prison. The commander was proud to inform Frau Viser that Lucas had not been allowed to sleep more than twenty minutes at a time. He no longer knew the time or even what day it was. “I’m sure,” the commander proudly announced, “that you will find him ‘pliable.’”
Lucas could hardly speak, and even if he could, Frau Viser wasn’t sure that he could understand her questions. She immediately had him transferred to the hospital wing, and ordered that he be treated humanely.
Viser was angry—very angry. Mechler should have known better than to have Lucas sent to Hohenschönhausen, especially without special instructions about how he was to be treated. It was an inexcusable error. In his present state, Lucas was of no use to her investigation, and neither could he be returned to the U.S. until his body had healed. It further complicated an already complicated—and very delicate—situation.
Frau Viser was aware that heated negotiations were being conducted at the highest state levels, and that both the U.S. and East German governments wanted a quick and clean solution to the dilemma they found themselves in. But as anxious as they were to close the book on the incident, her government was stalling. Party Secretary Ulricht wanted to know what had happened. What was Peter doing in room B-4? Who was the other dead man? Who killed him? And why? The normally suspicious East German government was on high alert, Frau Viser smelled a rat, and his name was Mechler.
Viser knew what no others knew. She knew why Peter had gone to room B-4. She knew this because she was the one who had planted the envelope and arranged the pick-up. She also knew, as soon as she saw the two dead men in room B-4, that the man identified as Heinrich Stein, Deputy Superintendent of the Main Administration for Struggle Against Suspicious Persons was a Russian assassin. She was sure her investigation would prove that Herr Stein was, or rather had been, a member of the Stasi, but she was equally sure that he was dead, and his identification appropriated for just such an occasion. There was no other explanation. There was no reason to kill Peter except to provoke an international incident and embarrass the East German government. A real Stasi agent would have followed Peter to see where he would lead. She was also certain that Lucas had killed the Russian agent and taken the ‘package.’
Her mind worked rapidly. She was in danger. Somebody was aware of her role as a double agent, had knowledge of the arrangement, and used the information to tip off the Russians, which explained why General Dunayevsky had politely stepped away from involvement in the exchange program. This was all being done to embarrass Ulrich, and Dunayevsky wanted to make sure he was sufficiently removed from the action. But who was his inside man? Once again, the name of Klaus Mechler came to mind.
Once resolved, Frau Viser acted quickly. She had Mechler arrested and thrown into Lucas’ now-vacated cell and held completely incommunicado—no visitors or messages either in or out. She did not, however, order him beaten—she wanted his mind clear to contemplate his position and what would come next if he did not cooperate. She told the commander that if anything should happen to Herr Mechler before she had a chance to interrogate him, he would be the next person to occupy that cell. Then she put the entire Stasi domestic espionage system to work to find out Herr Stein’s real identity. She needed to establish the connection between the assassin and Dunayevsky, and she needed to counter Klaus Mechler with an agent of her own in Dunayevsky’s organization. That’s when she thought of Major Alexandrovich.
Frau Viser sat across the table from Lucas.
“I deeply regret what you have suffered, and on behalf of the German Democratic Republic, and for myself, personally, I offer you a most sincere apology. The person responsible for your reprehensible treatment has been dealt with.”
“Thank you. I am glad to hear it.”
“I will be frank with you Mr. Hamilton. I know you killed the man who assassinated your friend.”
Lucas started to object, but he was cut off by Frau Viser. “There is no need to deny it, nor any need to confess to it. Officially, I accept your explanation, as does Chancellor Ulrich. Peter Cameron was the unfortunate victim of a Russian plot to embarrass the Chancellor and create friction between the people of the German Democratic Republic and the United States. The fact that you happened by too late to save him, is of no relevance to the case.”
“We have recovered evidence from the assassin’s lodgings, linking him with a Russian KGB general, and he has been denounced by Major Alexandrovich, a senior member of his own staff. The General has been recalled to Moscow, and we, that is, the people of the German Democratic Republic, have demanded an apology from the Russian Government. I am sure that, once they have been made aware of our findings, your government will also be making a similar demand of the Russians.”
“And how will you explain my injuries?” Lucas asked, aware that what he had just been told was diplomatic double-speak.
“I am not at liberty to say at this time. Our governments are discussing the subject of your repatriation as we speak.”
“When will I be allowed to go home?”
“When our doctors say you are fit to travel. I have taken the liberty of having all your belongings transferred from the dormitory to your hospital room.”
“Cell.”
“Pardon?”
“You said room, but it’s not a room, it’s a cell with a hospital bed.”
“Yes, quite right. I must apologize again. That is the best that we can provide at this facility. I had ordered you moved to a proper hospital, but your doctors said it was too risky. Perhaps in a day or two….”
Frau Viser was hoping Lucas would give some hint as to the location of the envelope. She couldn’t ask him directly without revealing her role in the operation, and she couldn’t risk that without knowing more about him. He seemed unconcerned about it—either that or he didn’t know anything about it. Lucas Hamilton was an enigma, one which she felt she could decipher given enough time and resources, but she had neither, so all she could was to wish him well, and hope that the envelope was someplace safe, or possibly destroyed.
The last few weeks had been extremely stressful, but it was all coming to a satisfactory end, satisfactory, that is, if you exclude the fate of Peter Cameron who had been killed for no good reason. Still, General Dunayevsky and his stooge Klaus Stein were gone; her cover was safe, and that would have to suffice.
Chapter 57
March 8, 1957
The Roosa Household
Leiden, The Netherlands
Anke’s world was small. Denied the opportunity to continue her education, she spent most of her time in the home or on household errands. Shunned by small-minded neighbors who disapproved of her mother’s behavior or simply disliked her father, she had no friends with whom to share her feelings. It had been that way since her mother left. She had learned to bear her mother’s abandonment, her father’s bitter anger, and the world’s disdain with patience, finding in her imagination and dreams the love that she could not find elsewhere. Until Lucas entered her life that had been enough for her.
But Lucas had entered her life, and that was a double-edged sword. He brought with him real love, not the love of imagination and dreams but true flesh-and-blood love, and he made her believe that she—who was worthless to her father, lost to her mother, and ignored by everybody else—was worthy of something, of someone.
But he also destroyed her old life, the life of dreams and solitude. She could never go back there, never again be content with imaginary Prince Charmings. Having once tasted the sweet nectar of true love, she could not bear to be without it, could not hope to return to the simplicity of imaginings. She felt that she had been in a trance, and that Lucas, with his sheepish grin and ridiculous hair, had awakened her to life as it was meant to be lived. Ever since she met Lu
cas, she had dared to think she might, one day, be happy.
So she went every day to the Beestenmarkt, waiting for Lucas to walk up to her out of the crowd as he had done on the first day they met. She sat on her bench, off to the side so there would be room for him to sit next to her, and she watched as the day’s debris floated past—the discarded remnants of people’s lives, the unwanted, used and no longer needed trash. And each day that she sat there, waiting for Lucas to come by, she felt less and less like that trash, more and more like a person worthy of love.
She had been saddened and disappointed when Lucas went off to East Germany without a word, but she consoled herself with the thought that he must certainly have been busy—such an important assignment! She was proud of him—and she could wait. He would come back with wonderful stories to tell her.
But the day of his scheduled return came and went without a word. A few days later, several government officials came to the house and collected all of Peter’s belongings. She asked why they were taking his things, but they would not say.
Two days after that, her father came home more drunk than usual, boasting that he was a hero, ranting about how he was going to be foreman at the factory, and people would not laugh behind his back anymore.
Anke usually didn’t pay attention to her father when he was drunk. She had learned to go to her room and leave him alone. But this time was different. Usually he was angry and mean, but this evening he was happy, so she stayed in the kitchen while he devoured the soup she had prepared for him.
When he had finished eating, she asked him why he was so happy. He replied, “Because he’s dead. The stinkin’ American is dead, and I did it—and you too,” he added, “You played your part.”
Anke was confused and frightened. “What do mean, the American is dead? Which American?” she asked, afraid to hear the answer.
‘What American do you think, you stupid girl? The one who lived upstairs, the one you fucked!”
“Peter!” she gasped. “He’s dead? How?”
“Shot, I heard—and here’s the best part. They say he was shot by another American.”
“An American!” She almost shouted it. “What American? What’s his name?”
“I don’t know girl. What difference does it make?”
Anke was almost hysterical. Tears were pouring uncontrollably down her face. “Who told you this? How do you know it’s true?” she shouted at her father, who responded by smacking her across her face.
“You stupid trash! What did you do,” he said in a sing-song mocking voice, “fall in love with your American like your mother?
“Whore!” he shouted at her, and smacked her a second time.
Anke ran upstairs and threw herself on her bed as she had so many times before. He had smacked her hard, she felt warm blood trickling down her throat, her face hurt, but she cried, not from pain, but from fear and grief. She rose from her bed and went into Peter’s room, empty now and forlorn. He was gone, all history of his presence erased. She inhaled deeply and tried to detect the odor of his cologne, but it was hopeless.
She looked around the room, remembering the last time she had spoken with him. It was the night before he was to leave for East Germany. He was, as always, smiling and friendly, perhaps a bit more excited than usual. She liked Peter—not like she liked Lucas, but his presence had always been calming. Besides, when Peter was around, her father usually made himself scarce, so it was a double pleasure. They spoke about his upcoming trip, and after a while, she had worked up the courage to ask about Lucas.
She was surprised to learn that he knew about their meetings, and also knew that Lucas had stopped coming to the Beestenmarkt.
“Don’t worry,” he had told her. “I know he cares for you…deeply. He just needs time to sort some things out. You’ll see. When we get back from East Germany, the first place he will go to will be the Beestenmarkt.”
She took his words to bed with her that evening, stored them in her heart for safekeeping, and began her daily pilgrimage to the Beestenmarkt the following day.
Those words soothed her now. She told herself that her father was a drunken lout, Nobody paid any attention to anything he said. She determined to find out the truth herself, so after her father left for work, she dressed in her warmest clothes, and made the long walk across town to the home of Josef and Maria Jansson.
When they answered the timid knocking, the Janssons were surprised to see Anke Roosa standing in their doorway. The two families were not friends. Maria Jansson suspected Pietr Roosa of playing a role in her son’s death, and they had always kept their distance from the Roosas. However, any animosity they might have had toward Anke disappeared the moment they saw the red welts and bruising on her face. Mr. Jansson ushered Anke into the sitting room while Mrs. Jansson hurried into the kitchen to make some tea.
They offered to help, to send for a doctor, but Anke refused. She had only one purpose in visiting the Janssons, and that was to find news of Lucas. Unfortunately they had none to give her. Lucas, like Peter, had not returned, and, also like Peter, his personal effects had been gathered up by government officials with no explanation offered.
The Janssons were as distraught as Anke. Lucas’ disappearance had reopened old wounds, bring back painful memories of their son’s betrayal and death.
“Do you believe they are dead?” Anke asked.
“I don’t want to believe it,” Mr. Jansson answered, “but I fear they may be.”
“My father says that Peter is dead, shot by another American.”
“Your father can go to Hell!” Mrs. Jansson screamed. “I’ve no doubt he had a hand in this!”
Anke could do little more than cry. She was afraid they were both right, Mr. Jansson about Peter and Lucas, and Mrs. Jansson about her father.
“Have you spoken to Professor de Groot?” Josef Jansson asked.
“No. Should I?”
“We spoke to him, but he told us very little, but he might be more forthcoming to you. You can at least try. I believe he knows more than he told us.”
Anke thanked the Janssons and took her leave. The day, already cold, had turned bitter. A hard wind had come in off the North Sea bringing flakes of wet snow and sleet along with it. Anke pulled up her fur-lined hood, put her head down and walked the two miles to the university.
She was covered with a heavy wet snow by the time she reached the Academic Building. She climbed the steps, shook off some of the snow that had clung to her coat, and pushed open the door leading to Professor de Groot’s office, surprising Mrs. Van der Berg, who was intently studying a sheet of paper.
“Oh,” she said, “Anke. You startled me.”
“I’m sorry, Frau Van der Berg. I have to see the Professor. It’s urgent.”
Professor Van de Groot had just come in from a meeting, and had asked not to be disturbed. Mrs. Van der Berg’s initial reaction had been to tell Anke that the Professor couldn’t see her, but when she saw the bruises and the state the girl was in, she went into Professor de Groot’s office, and when she returned, told Anke to go in. “I’ll bring you a cup of hot chocolate, and a couple of cookies,” she said. “You look like you need warming up.”
“Anke!” de Groot said warmly. “Please come and sit down. I apologize for not getting up to greet you, but I’m afraid the cold has gotten to my bones.”
“It’s kind of you to see me, Professor. I came….”
“To enquire about Peter, of course, I understand….”
He was interrupted by Mrs. Van der Berg, who came in all warm smiles, bearing a tray with two hot chocolates and several cookies.
“Relax, dear,” she said. You look like you’ve been through a terrible time, but we’re here to help, aren’t we, Professor?”
“Of course we are. We understand that Peter’s sudden departure must be upsetting to you, but it had nothing to do with you. He had to return to America….
“My father told me he is dead…shot by another American, and that he�
��he and I—had something to do with it! I have to know if that is true. Is Peter dead? And did I have a hand in it?”
“He told you what?” Mrs. Van der Berg blurted out. But Anke wasn’t listening to her.
“I have to know,” she continued, “Is Peter dead, and did Lucas kill him? Is Lucas dead, Please! I have to know!”
Anke was nearly hysterical. Mrs. Van der Berg was angry.
“That man!” Mrs. Van der Berg stammered, as she rushed to Anke’s side to console her.
De Groot was dumbfounded. “He said what?” he asked, as if his mind had rejected what Anke had just told him.
Anke composed herself and repeated what her father had told her, adding what he had said about becoming a foreman and her ‘playing a part.’
Mrs. Van der Berg kept shaking her head and ‘tsking’ while sharing disapproving glances with de Groot.
When Anke seemed under control, de Groot explained that there was no truth to what her father had told her. Peter and Lucas were both in America, alive and well, nobody had been shot, and none of it was her fault.
“It’s absurd, really, Anke. It’s like something out of a spy novel,” he told her. “I am sorry you have been so misled and mistreated, but there is no truth to it at all—none. I’m glad you came to me Anke. I hope you will always think of me as a friend.”
