by Ross Thomas
“The Schmidt family made friends in their new neighborhood. Among them was the family of Leo Boehmler, who had been a Feldwebel on the eastern front during the war until he was captured by the Russians. He reappeared in East Berlin in 1947 as a lieutenant in the Volkspolizei. By the time that the Boehmler family had become friends with the Schmidt family, it was no longer Lieutenant Boehmler but Captain Boehmler. But even a captain’s pay could not match that of a mechanical engineer employed by a prosperous firm in the West Sector, so I have good reason to suspect that Captain Boehmler was a trifle envious of the Schmidt’s fine house, their small car, and the general prosperity that surrounded the household, where the captain, his wife, and their pretty young daughter were often guests for real coffee and cakes.
“Schmidt was proud of his work on his house and insisted on showing it in detail to the captain, who, while devoutly of the Communist persuasion, could not prevent his mouth from watering at the modern trappings and innovations that Franz Schmidt had installed. The Boehmlers lived in a small apartment in one of the hastily built piles of flats that were thrown up in 1948. While it was much better than what most citizens of East Berlin had, it was a slum compared with the Schmidts’ fine residence.
“By 1960 or thereabouts, Franz Schmidt’s son Horst was a young man in his middle teens, and he was becoming interested in young girls—or, to be more specific, in one girl, the daughter of Captain Boehmler. Her name was Liese and she was six months younger than Horst. The parents of both children looked on the romance as—let me think of the American phrase—puppy love, but by 1961 Liese and Horst were spending most of their time together. Captain Boehmler had no objections to his daughter’s making a good match with the son of a prosperous engineer, even though the engineer remained steadfastly disinterested in politics. And while Franz Schmidt was avowedly without politics, he was something of a realist, and when the time came he saw no reason why it could not prove useful to have a daughter-in-law whose father was an ambitious officer in the Volkspolizei. So little family jokes were made about the romance and Liese blushed prettily and young Horst stammered and did all the things adolescents do when they are the butt of an adult joke.
“Then one fine August day in 1961 the wall went up and Herr Schmidt found himself without a job. He talked the matter over with his good friend, Captain Boehmler, who suggested that it would be easy for him to obtain suitable employment in the East Sector. Engineer Schmidt found employment readily enough, but he also found that he was making only a fourth of what he had made in the West. And things that he liked—such as good coffee, chocolates, American cigarettes and what have you—were impossible to come by.
“It is now time to point out that Herr Schmidt’s house was fortunately situated. It was on a corner which faced the apex of a small triangular park in the Kreuzberg area of West Berlin. When the wall went up it almost touched the tip of the park’s apex. The park itself was no more than fifty meters from the Schmidt doorstep, and it was a pleasant spot of greenery in the midst of the city’s dreariness.”
Maas stopped his story to sip his wine. He seemed to enjoy the role of storyteller.
“After a few months of working at his low-paying position, Herr Schmidt took to standing in a third-story bedroom and staring out at the small triangle of greenery which lay over the wall. Then he began to spend much time in his cellar, tapping here and there with a hammer. And sometimes he would work late into the night, figuring with a pencil on a tablet of paper and drawing diagrams. In June 1962 he summoned a family conference around the dining table. He told his wife and son that he had decided to take them to the West, where he would regain his former position. As for the house—they would leave it. Neither his wife nor his son argued with him. But, later, young Horst drew his father aside and confessed that Liese was pregnant, that they must get married, and that, if he were to go west, Liese must go with him.
“The elder Schmidt examined this new information in his typically methodical manner. He asked his son how far along the girl was and young Horst said only two months. Schmidt then counseled his son that it would be wise not to marry Liese at once but to take her with them to the West Sector. He told Horst of his plans to tunnel under the wall and to come out in the small triangular park. He estimated that the job of tunneling would require two months of work, both of them digging and shoring four hours at night and eight hours on Saturday and Sunday. He told his son that if he were to marry now the Boehmlers would be in and out of the house constantly. Horst asked if he could tell Liese about the plans for the tunnel so that she would be able to plan for the future and not worry about his intentions. The elder Schmidt gave his consent reluctantly.
“The next night Schmidt and son began the tunnel. It was not too difficult a job except for disposing of the sandy dirt. This was done by loading up their small automobile on weekends and driving to various isolated points in the city, where the dirt was dumped from sacks made by Frau Schmidt from bedsheets.
“The mouth of the tunnel in the basement was concealed behind Herr Schmidt’s hand-built tool case, which he mounted on cleverly concealed hinges to swing out from the wall. He illuminated the tunnel with electric lights as it progressed. It was shored with timber that he had accumulated before the wall went up, and he even laid down a rough floor of linoleum. By early August the tunnel was nearly finished. And if Herr Schmidt had been less of a craftsman I would not be telling you this story tonight.
“Schmidt had designed the tunnel to come up in a clump of arborvitae in the small park. It was a thick growth, and he had carefully arranged the exit so that a hard shove would work the earth loose above a circular metal cover. The earth could then be replaced. All of this care, of course, took longer than his original estimate. And Liese, nearing her fourth month, began to fret and to question young Horst about his intentions. Finally he brought her to the house and showed her the entrance to the tunnel. It may have been her pregnancy, it may have been her fear of leaving her parents, but the young lovers quarreled. It was the night before Herr Schmidt planned his escape.
“At any rate, Liese went home and confessed all to her father. Thinking quickly, the good captain told her to patch up her quarrel with young Horst the next day and said that, after all, they were in love and perhaps it would be better for her to have her baby in the West, where she could be with her husband.
“The next night, having smoothed over her quarrel with Horst, Liese packed a small bag, said good-bye to her parents, and walked to the Schmidt house. She arrived an hour before the Schmidts were to depart.
“They had a final cup of coffee at the pleasant dining table. Then, taking only a few possessions, they made their way down to the cellar. As Herr Schmidt opened the tool-case entrance Captain Boehmler appeared at the doorway of the cellar holding a revolver in his hand. He said he regretted that he had to do this to his good friends and neighbors but he was, after all, a servant of the people. He told his daughter to go upstairs and go home. Terrified, she left. Captain Boehmler then told the Schmidt family to turn their backs to him. When they did, he shot them.
“He then dragged them one by one up to the living room. Next he went in search of the Vopos guarding the wall in that particular section and sent them on a mythical errand, saying that he would patrol in their absence. He waited until the Vopos were gone and then dragged the three bodies out of the house and to the wall. He carried out their few possessions and dumped them beside the bodies. He then fired three shots into the air, reloaded his revolver and fired two more. The Vopos came hurrying back, and the captain said he had shot the Schmidt family as they had attempted to escape. He ordered that the house be locked and sealed until he had the opportunity to search it the next day.
“The bodies of the Schmidt family were carted away. Captain Boehlmer himself took charge of the investigation of the Schmidt house the following morning, giving his personal attention to the cellar. In his report he pointed out that the house was dangerously close to the wall and s
hould be either sealed up or occupied by a family whose loyalty to the government was above reproach. His superior pulled a few wires and Captain Boehlmer became the new tenant of the house he had long admired, complete with escape hatch to the West.
Maas stopped talking and finished his wine. “And that is the story of the tunnel.”
“What happened to the girl?” I asked.
“A pity,” Maas said. “She died in childbirth five months later.”
He called for the waiter, who entered a few moments later bearing a new round of drinks.
When he had gone, Maas continued: “And it is a pity about Captain Boehlmer, too. He has been passed over for promotion. Not only that, but the government plans to raze the entire block in which his fine home is located. They are going to build a warehouse, I believe. One with no windows. Captain Boehlmer has decided that he might turn the tunnel—still in good repair, he assures me—to a profit. Just once. Fortunately, his discreet inquiries reached me before anyone else.”
“You want five thousand dollars?” Padillo asked.
Maas knocked an inch of Havana ash from his cigar. “I am afraid, Herr Padillo, that the price is somewhat higher than that which I previously quoted my good friend, Herr McCorkle. It has risen, I assure you, only in proportion to the intensity with which you are being sought by your friends here in the East—and, I might add, in the West.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars.” He held up his hand like a traffic cop signaling stop. “Before you object, let me say that I will not haggle, but I will extend credit. The ten thousand can be paid to me in cash in Bonn upon your return.”
“You’re getting awfully generous, Maas. The last time I talked to you, it was all cash and carry.”
“Things have changed since then, good friend. I have learned that my popularity here in the East Sector—which is really my home, by the way—has diminished. In fact, you may say that I, too, am the subject of a search, though not as intensive as the one that is being conducted for you.”
“How much are they offering for us?” Padillo asked. “Not the public offer—the private one.”
“It is a considerable sum, Herr Padillo. One hundred thousand East German Marks. That’s about twenty-five thousand DM or seven thousand, five hundred of your dollars. You see I am not being overly greedy.”
I took a sip of my vodka and then demanded: “How do we know you won’t cross us, Maas? How do we know that we won’t waltz straight into the arms of Captain Boehmler and sixteen of his finest?”
Maas nodded rapidly in apparent agreement and approval. “I not only do not blame you for your caution, Herr McCorkle, but I admire it. There are two ways that I will demonstrate my good faith. First of all, I must get out of East Berlin, and it is not easy right now—especially right now. So I plan to go with you. Thus, I gain free egress from the East and, at the same time, I will be able to keep a close eye on my investment.
“Now my second method of showing good faith must be unpleasant news for you, but I am sure that you will bear it with your usual fortitude.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“It is with deep regret,” Maas said in his formal, almost pontifical manner, “that I must inform you that your friend Mr. Cook Baker is not to be trusted.”
Padillo played it straight. He even let his mouth drop open slightly and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I don’t understand,” he said,
Maas shook his head sadly. “I must confess that it is partly of my doing. If you recall, Herr McCorkle, you were good enough to allow me to sleep on your couch until my appointment the following day in Bonn. My appointment was with Herr Baker. It’s true. I must tell it all. After I failed to make a proper connection with Herr Padillo here, I acted like the businessman I am. I sold my information to Herr Baker.”
“How much?” Padillo asked.
“Three thousand dollars, Herr Padillo.”
“I was in a good mood that day. I might have paid five for it.”
“It was cheap, but the market was limited. Herr Baker was the only other customer.”
“Why would he buy?” clever McCorkle asked.
“He was told to. You see, gentlemen, Herr Baker is an agent for your opposition.” He let that sink in. “Of course, he has not been active until recently. Apparently he committed some indiscretion of a particularly unsavory nature some few years back. Pictures were taken. The pictures fell into certain hands. Herr Baker has his firm in New York, his financial interests to consider. So when friends obtained his current job for him in Bonn the KGB approached him quietly. He is acting not out of conviction but out of fear. Blackmail, its attendant embarrassment and disgrace—a man of Herr Baker’s temperament could not stand it.”
Maas sighed. “I may as well tell the entire story. It was Herr Baker’s idea for me to approach Herr McCorkle and to devise a story that would necessitate my friend to summon Herr Baker to Berlin. Fortunately, I thought of the tunnel, and since I am a businessman I made a legitimate proposition. The five-thousand-dollar price was worked out by me with Herr Baker. He thought the tunnel was a myth. I saw no reason to enlighten him. But now he poses a problem.”
“We’ll worry about that,” Padillo said. “Just when is your tunnel available?”
Maas looked at his watch. “It is twelve forty-five now. I can make arrangements for five o'clock this morning. Is that satisfactory?”
Padillo looked at me. I shrugged. “As soon as possible.”
“I have to make certain arrangements with the captain.”
“You mean pay him,” Padillo said.
“To be sure. Then I must arrange for a car. It would be better if I picked you up. It is too far to walk, especially at that hour of the morning. You must give me your address.”
Padillo took out a piece of paper and wrote the address of Langeman’s garage and handed it to Maas. “The back door, in the alley.”
Maas tucked it away. “I will be there at four forty-five this morning. In the meantime, Herr Padillo, although I realize you are a man of considerable experience in these affairs, I must urge you to make some arrangements about Herr Baker. He is a danger to us all, and he is also very accurate with a pistol.”
Padillo stood up. “He’s not any more, Herr Maas.”
“Bitte?”
“He’s dead. I shot him this afternoon.”
CHAPTER 16
Our luck ran out on the way back to Langeman’s garage. They stepped out of a dark doorway, the pair of them, and shined a flashlight into Padillo’s face. One of them said, “May we see your papers, please?” His voice sounded young and it almost cracked on the last word. Padillo said, “Of course,” and flicked his cigarette into the face of the one with the flashlight. When the Vopo’s hands went up to his face, Padillo hit him hard in the stomach. That left me with the other one. He was as tall as I and seemed broader, but I couldn’t be sure in the dark, so I kicked him in the crotch, and when he yelled and doubled over to grab himself I lifted my right knee into his face. Something seemed to break and his teeth bit into my leg. He fell to the pavement and groaned and twitched, so I kicked him twice in the head. He stopped twitching. The Vopo who had asked for the papers lay sprawled on the pavement. His flashlight still burned. Padillo leaned over, picked it up, switched it off, and stuck it in his topcoat pocket. Then he knelt down and examined both men. He rose and said, “Yours is dead, too.”
Padillo looked up and down the street. It was empty. “Let’s get rid of them,” he said. He led the way to the middle of the street and then began to run, zigzagging back and forth until he found what he was looking for. It was a manhole cover—the kind that has three inch-long, half-inch-wide holes for lifting it up. Padillo took out a four-inch pocket knife, unknotted his tie, and made a small square knot around the knife. He slipped it through one of the holes in the cover, fiddled it around until it was crossways with the hole, and started to pull. The manhole cover came up an inch and I got my fingers around it an
d pulled until it was upright and then eased it back on the pavement.
We ran back to the Vopos and dragged them by the legs over to the manhole. We dumped them in without ceremony. Padillo went quickly back to the spot where they had asked for our papers. He took the flashlight out of his pocket and shined it around. He found their two hats and carried them over to the manhole and threw them in. Then we quietly put the cover back. Padillo slipped his knife into his pocket and reknotted his tie as we walked down the street.
I was still shaking when we got to the alley that ran behind Langeman’s garage. I wanted a drink badly and decided that I would even settle for the unlabeled potato gin that Langeman had supplied. Padillo knocked softly on the door that led to the cubicle office. It opened a crack and Max whispered Padillo’s name. Padillo replied and we went in.
“They O.K.?” Padillo asked.
“Still sleeping,” Max said.
“Close the trap door. We’ve got some things to talk about.”
Max undid the hook and eye and lowered the trap door. I sat on the desk, Padillo sat in the old swivel chair, and Max stood.
“We ran into trouble on the way back,” Padillo said. “Two Vopos asked for our papers. We dropped them down a manhole.”
Max nodded his head in approval. “They won’t find them until in the morning,” he said. “But they’ll start looking for them in an hour or two when they don’t check in.”
“There’s nothing we can do about that. Do you think you’re still clean—enough to get across to the West Sector?”
“If I could get home, shave, take a bath,” Max said. “I have the proper papers. They’re valid—not even forged.”
“The exporter’s papers?”
