by David Young
*
To try to keep out the cold, Tilsner had found some old sacks in the corner of the shed. He used them now as makeshift blankets, ignoring the varieties of dirt attached to them. The extra warmth must have made him doze off, and he woke with a start when the headlights of a vehicle turning into the car park illuminated his face. He ducked down, then raised his head slowly. The occupants got out and made their way into the club. Winkler’s bike was still parked up in the same place. The first car was followed by several more – there seemed to be some sort of evening gathering. But who were they? And what was Winkler’s involvement? Perhaps they should have raided the club, despite the Stasi’s explanation that it was their ‘honey trap’. For now, especially as he was on his own this time, Tilsner would just watch and wait.
The first few cars had males inside – most looked to be in their thirties and forties. He didn’t recognise any of them. Then there was one he did.
Diederich. With another man.
Both made their way into the club, and when Tilsner got a partial glimpse of whoever was opening the door, he thought it was Winkler, but he couldn’t be certain. More cars arrived, with a mixed age range. More men in their early twenties, accompanied by what looked like late teenagers. Then he saw at least two of the youths from the motorbike group he and Karin had originally followed to this place earlier in the year – both brought in cars by older men.
The arrivals slowed. Tilsner was just about to settle down in his sackcloth bed again, knowing he would have a long wait until everyone started to leave, when a final car arrived. He did a double take when he saw the occupant get out. Surely not? The lighting in the yard was weak – perhaps he was mistaken.
He took another look.
It was definitely him. Good God!
He’d have to tell Karin – but really he needed her to see for herself. The man had gone inside the club now. It was definitely Winkler at the door because this time he saw him face-on as it opened. And Winkler obviously already knew the man. Their greeting of a warm hug was one of at least friendship.
Perhaps even more.
Tilsner couldn’t believe it. He glanced down at his watch. There was still time for Karin to get here if she was back from her meeting with Fenstermacher – which surely she would be by now.
Climbing out of his hiding place as quietly as possible, Tilsner made his way out of the car park and down the road a short way to where he’d hidden the bike in the undergrowth. He wasn’t sure he’d get a signal from the radio with all the undergrowth. But he had to try.
The line was crackly, but he managed to make contact with Keibelstrasse.
He couldn’t say much over an open radio connection. His message was terse but to the point.
‘Please get this urgent message to Major Karin Müller. Send someone round to her home if necessary. Tell her Hauptmann Tilsner says she must come to the club in Frankfurt immediately and without delay. There’s something she needs to witness.’
He couldn’t say more than that.
He knew Karin would be as utterly shocked as he was.
37
Later that night
A Stasi prison
The long, straight drive ended, and it was back to the stopping, starting and apparent driving round in circles. Müller didn’t care where she was any more. Her whole body ached, the mobile cell stank, and she was sitting in her own dampness. Despite the stench, she found herself gulping down air to try to quell her panic. She’d assumed this was all a mistake. But what if it wasn’t? What if it’s deliberate? Images and memories of Jannika and Johannes kept flashing through her brain. She wanted to kiss them, hold them, rock them to sleep. This was all her fault. She should never have agreed to Reiniger’s proposal to move to Strausberger Platz.
Finally, the van braked to a halt.
‘Out, out,’ shouted the guards, as one of them clambered inside, opened the door to her cell, and pulled her forward by her cuffed arms.
‘I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m a major with the People’s Police criminal division. This is—’
‘Be quiet!’ shouted a second guard as she was bundled out of the van. Müller had to close her eyes because of the sudden blinding white light in the reception area – some sort of garage, with white walls that accentuated the brightness from the strip lights.
The guard jabbed her in the back with something hard, metallic. Müller had no doubt it was a gun. She wanted to continue to protest her innocence, but these were the foot soldiers. Just doing their job. There was no point arguing with them.
Then her world was plunged into blackness again, as some sort of hood was forced over her head and she was led away.
*
From the change in air temperature, she knew she was outside for a few moments. Then back inside an echoey building. Even through the hood she could hear the guards’ boots reverberating on the concrete floor as they maintained a rapid pace, jabbing her in the back if she failed to keep up.
They stopped for a moment, keys were turned in a lock, a door creaked open and was then clanged shut behind her.
She was pushed forward again. After a few more paces, they turned a corner, and then finally the hood was lifted clear.
Müller didn’t quite know what to expect. The journey had gone on long enough for them to have crossed the Republic’s borders. But the guards at the garage had been speaking German, wearing the uniform of the Republic. She’d thought perhaps the long drive had all been a ruse, that she might have been taken from Berlin, out onto a motorway, and then brought back again, perhaps to Hohenschönhausen.
But this wasn’t the Stasi prison in Berlin where Gottfried had been held, where she’d visited him. Or if it was, it was another wing.
Ahead of her were metal steps rising three – perhaps four – floors, surrounded by wire cages. The same smell as in the Barkas van: piss, shit and sweat mixed in with the tang of disinfectant, as though there had been half-hearted attempts to clean up. And the same red and green light control system she’d seen in Hohenschönhausen.
She was half-jabbed, half-pulled up to the second floor, and then marched to another wing. Two doors with control lights, then a narrow white corridor, with the doors framed in beige. The pipework was on show, all highlighted in lemon yellow.
Cell 13. That was the door they opened, shoving her inside.
Müller had expected isolation. That was the usual trick, she knew. That was what broke Gottfried into the snivelling wreck she’d had little pity for in the Hohenschönhausen interview room eighteen months earlier. But she had a cellmate – an older, thickset woman, with a leathery face and grey hair. She was sitting on the bench that doubled as a hard bed, smoking.
Müller turned to the guards. ‘I can’t go in here. I haven’t done anything—’
One of the guards clasped his hand across her face to shut her up. The other uncuffed her hands. Then both turned to leave the room.
Müller rushed towards the cell door. ‘Please—’
The door slammed shut. Müller sank to the floor in despair.
38
The next day
Keibelstrasse, East Berlin
Tilsner had asked for a personal meeting with Reiniger after failing to get hold of Müller – no one seemed to know where she was, and attempting to phone her at the flat just got an operator on the line saying the number was out of order.
When he was finally allowed in to see the police colonel, Reiniger looked harassed.
‘What’s going on? Where is she?’
‘Don’t you mean, “What’s going on, Comrade Oberst”?’
Tilsner fought back the instinct to grab the overweight, middle-aged man and shake him. Instead, he rested his hands on top of the desk and fixed the colonel with what he hoped was his iciest stare. ‘Apologies, Comrade Oberst. But I know there’s something fishy going on. I read about Metzger and the car bombing in the paper. Is it something to do with that?’
Reiniger dropped his gaze an
d stared at his hands. ‘I don’t know what it’s about. All I know is that she’s been arrested.’
‘Arrested? Why on earth has she been arrested?’
He watched Reiniger’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. ‘It’s not us who’ve arrested her, obviously, Hauptmann Tilsner. It’s the Stasi.’
‘Well, surely you rank highly enough to get them to un-arrest her, don’t you? Where is she?’
‘Bautzen.’
‘Bautzen II? That’s the shittiest hellhole in the Republic. She’s the head of your new Specialist Crimes Department. I thought she was supposed to be liaising with the Stasi. Not being arrested by them.’
The man looked defeated. He seemed frozen to his desk, as though he wasn’t the same person who’d authorised their hunt for Markus Schmidt, even though that meant continuing their inquiries into the Nadel murder against Stasi instructions.
Reiniger sighed. ‘My hands are tied, Hauptmann.’
Tilsner could see no amount of cajoling on his part was going to do any good. Reiniger seemed to have given up. There was only one person Tilsner had enough influence over to get this reversed. And the influence he had over him was a threat, a threat to expose something that would leave Tilsner himself equally exposed.
But Karin was worth it to him.
He would have to play his last card. Whatever the danger to himself.
‘Could you perhaps get Oberst Jäger at the Ministry for State Security on the phone for me?’
‘Whatever makes you think he would talk to you about it, Hauptmann? In any case, I’ve already tried speaking to him. It seems to be out of his hands too. I’m told the arrest was authorised by the Bezirk Frankfurt regional Stasi office.’
‘Scheisse!’ spat Tilsner. ‘So, Baum and Diederich.’ Tilsner took a deep breath, then slowly emptied his lungs. ‘I can’t tell you why Jäger will listen to me, Comrade Oberst. But he will, I assure you. And that may just be enough to get this sorted out.’
Reiniger looked dubious, but slowly lifted the handset of the telephone and began to dial. After a few questions and answers, he passed the receiver to Tilsner.
‘Hello, Werner. I understand you want to speak to me.’
‘It’s time, Jäger. I’m calling in that favour.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You know very well what I mean. And you know very well what will happen if you don’t cooperate.’
‘Don’t try to threaten me.’
‘It’s not a threat. It’s a statement of fact. Sort this out, otherwise you know what the consequences will be.’ Tilsner watched Reiniger raise his brow, intrigued. This conversation ought to be taking place in private, but Tilsner didn’t have the time, and if his boss knew he had something on Jäger, then Reiniger might be a little more wary of him himself in future.
Despite the crackly line, Tilsner heard Jäger give a long sigh. ‘I can’t make any promises.’
‘I don’t want promises, Klaus.’ Reiniger frowned now, hearing his subordinate casually using the Stasi colonel’s first name. ‘I want action and results.’
The line went silent.
‘Did you hear me?’ asked Tilsner.
‘I heard. I’m waiting for you to tell me what you want.’
‘I want Müller released from Bautzen, without any stain on her record and without any further action taken against her.’
The line went silent again.
‘You do understand, don’t you?
‘I’m not sure I can do that.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you can, Klaus. We go back a long way, don’t we? You can sort this out if you want to, and I’m sure you do want to.’ Tilsner looked down at his watch. ‘It’s now a quarter to nine. Oberst Reiniger and I will be travelling to Bautzen and we expect to see you there at . . . let’s say at 1 p.m. prompt. With whatever authorisations you need to get this sorted – even if you have to go to the very top.’
39
Three months earlier (September 1976)
Frankfurt an der Oder
‘You’re disappointing us, Markus. You were doing such good work.’ The agent – I still don’t know his name – is twirling his pen round and round with his fingers.
‘Look. You wanted me to get the photos. That was the deal. I did what was required.’
‘You did a good job, yes. But the man you were consorting with is involved in important negotiations with the Republic. It is vital for our country that you continue your work as requested. Yet you refuse. You know what the alternative is, don’t you?’
‘You said, yes. That I’ll be jailed. If that’s the case, so be it. I’ve told you I was framed. I’ll just have to hope the truth comes out eventually.’ I pull my shoulders back, thrust my chest out and try to hold his gaze. Try to look confident even though inside I don’t feel it. I’m standing in front of them, but I don’t know if I can for much longer. I feel dizzy, as though my legs could give way at any moment.
The other agent – the older, round-faced one – has been silent up to now. He gets up, stares out of the window and begins speaking, even though his back is to me, with his hands clasped together behind it.
‘You do know what happens to people like you in prison, don’t you?’
‘People like me?’ I know what he’s driving at, but I want to force him to spell it out.
He turns and eyeballs me. ‘Yes. People like you. Homosexuals, queers, faggots. Without your glasses, in the contact lenses that we provided for you, you’re pretty enough. Certainly pretty enough for some of the rapists and murderers we get in our jails. If you’re lucky, one of them will take a shine to you. Even then, you won’t be able to sit on your arse for months after you come out.’
‘It’s not a crime to be a homosexual in the Republic.’
‘It might not be a crime, but the normal laws don’t apply inside prison, I can assure you. Let’s say you’re not lucky enough to find some thug who takes a shine to you and will protect you. Do you know what will happen then?’
I stay silent. Why play his verbal games? Let them do their worst.
‘You won’t just be used as a toy boy. You’ll be beaten black and blue. They’ll probably stamp on your dick in the showers. You won’t last six months, never mind the three years we’re likely to jail you for.’
Three years? Oh God. They’ve never put a figure on it before. I had assumed it would be months, not years.
‘I can see you look alarmed at that prospect. But let me tell you what else will happen. We have photographs of you in some very compromising situations with Herr Metzger . . . very compromising indeed. You did well with that part of your assignment. I think your parents will be very interested to see them.’
‘No!’ I shout. ‘Please not Mutti and Vati. Don’t involve them. Please.’
He responds with a thin smile that makes me shiver. ‘We can easily send them under a plain envelope to your mother and father. And then we can raid them. Possession of pornography – that won’t go down well with your father’s People’s Police bosses. And featuring his own son? I suspect that will be the end of his career.’
‘Arschloch!’ I make a move towards him. I want to tear at his round, mocking face, but the other one – the good-looking, younger one – leaps up and grabs me before I can.
‘Careful,’ says this second agent. ‘Sit down, take it easy. I might have an alternative for you.’
I sit with my elbows on the arms of the chair, my fingers splayed over my eyes.
‘Would you like to know what that is? If you cooperate you can avoid prison, avoid all that happening to your mother and father.’ Both of them have sat down again, side by side behind the desk, under the portrait of Honecker.
I don’t reply. They’ve failed to keep their promises before. Why would they this time?
‘I’ll tell you anyway, because I think you’ll be very interested. This could be a way of wiping the slate clean with us. We’ll forget about everything. We might even be able to
ensure you get a university place after all.’
The other man nods.
I sigh. ‘My results weren’t good enough.’
‘We can always make sure that gets overlooked, or provide you with certificates that are good enough. More than good enough.’
I still don’t trust them. There is no reason to trust them. They are scum. Manipulative scum.
‘All we need you to do is help one of our eminent scientists.’
‘I don’t know anything about science.’
‘You don’t have to. All you’ll be doing is what several students have already done in Berlin: volunteering for a medical trial. It’s an important one, being sponsored by an American pharmaceutical company. So it earns important hard currency for the Republic and you’ll be doing your bit for the country at the same time. We could even classify it as your military service. That way, you wouldn’t have to serve in the army.’
Although I don’t trust them, he’s piqued my interest.
‘Go on,’ I say.
‘The trial involves testing a drug used to control and alter hormone levels. And in that way control desire. It’s hard to find suitable volunteers. We can recommend you as suitable. That way, you don’t have to betray Georg Metzger any more. When all this is over, if you still feel the same about him, then we might be able to facilitate your emigration to the Federal Republic to be with him. And, of course, there will be no jail. No photographs sent to your parents. No threat to your father’s job as a police forensic scientist.’
I don’t trust them. Of course I don’t trust them. But do I really have any option? And it will protect my parents. I’ve let down my father too many times. For once, I can perhaps do something to make him proud of me.
