“No. I instructed my team not to discuss it and all the neighbors have been warned to keep silent. I don’t want to spook our quarry.”
“Let’s talk, I have an idea,” Wolf said.
Großmann suspected Wolf had something interesting in mind. In the convoluted world of espionage, he was the best. They walked down the hall from Mielke’s office and stepped into an unoccupied conference room. When Großmann was inside the room, Wolf shut the door and faced the portly security officer.
“Walk me through what you’re doing again and who you believe could be our leak.”
“I started with the leaked information that our liaison got from the Russians, which was on our relations with the Libyans and assistance to one of their assassination teams. The only departments, other than yours, that deal with anything close are Department X—International Relations, Department XXII—Terrorism, and AGM—the Minister’s Working Group. The two offices that concern your directorate are the Overseas Stations and Political Intelligence sections. Since the dead contact was a Berliner, I eliminated any of our officers serving outside the country.”
“That’s a lot of people, from the generals at the top down to the secretaries.”
“I narrowed the list down by looking at who had access to that specific bit of information and after I eliminated you and the Minister, I came up with five names. Niebling, Coburg, Kleine and two from your group: Fischer and Dahle.”
Großmann had mentioned the subordinates’ names to Wolf before the meeting with Mielke but hearing them again did not convince him that either were traitors. Both Fischer and Dahle were long-time trusted employees and had proved themselves patriots to the nation. But he had to admit that Großmann was correct to consider all the possibilities.
“Why did you eliminate me from suspicion?”
“I —” Großmann didn’t know how to answer that. For once, Wolf smiled.
“I’m kidding. What other measures have you taken?”
“The Minister authorized me to put discreet surveillance on each man. I have also checked their offices and safes for evidence but haven’t come up with anything.”
Wolf thought for a moment.
“If the traitor finds out that his contact is dead, he will either shut down his operation and sit tight hoping not to be found, or he will try to escape. The next days will be critical. So I would like you to consider an idea.”
“Yes, General.”
Großmann addressed Wolf as ‘General’ out of respect. Although he was a major general, Wolf still outranked him by two grades and his reputation in the service. He was also very much afraid of Wolf ’s power.
“I will have a report written that will confirm there is a Libyan plan to assassinate a prominent Western opposition political leader within days. It will be disseminated to the same people as the other report. Then we’ll see what happens. I would expect our traitor would be very eager to get that information to his handler, so you must keep close surveillance on all of them,” Wolf continued.
“That’s an excellent idea, General.” Großmann understood that Wolf didn’t want him to question the plan; rather he was being instructed on how the problem was to be handled.
“I will ensure my surveillance teams are fully engaged with their respective targets. I will also ensure we have the means in place to instantly alert Border Command if the traitor decides to run for the West.”
Sometimes, Großmann longed for the good old days when he could arrest the people he wanted without all this need for proof. Großmann thought back to his days as an interrogator, a member of Kommissariat 5, the predecessor to the Stasi, where he started out. K5 became the Stasi before the June 1953 uprising happened and then everything changed. It was a time that shook the foundations of the government and it was shortly after Stalin died…
I miss the old man.
Early in 1953, Moscow demanded an acceleration towards the full implementation of communism in East Germany. More work and higher production on lower wages and longer hours. The populace began to grumble. The ill-advised policy reforms only convinced people that the government intended to work them hard and wring them out like rags. When the uprising came, the party bosses were caught unawares and on June 16 the country quickly went to hell.
Großmann remembered the workers marching from the factories in the north of town shouting their slogans. Then the office employees poured out of their workplaces and joined them, tentatively at first, then enthusiastically, as they marched on East Berlin’s city center.
It was lucky for us that they didn’t have a plan beyond marching and protesting.
General Secretary Ulbricht and his ill-informed party hacks had acted like frightened children. They couldn’t make a decision and when the rebels began to trash government buildings it looked like the entire country would rise up. In fact, one million people did rise up against the government, but the Western press never got wind of that because the news was suppressed.
Thankfully, the Soviets knew what to do. As soon as High Commissioner Semyonev figured out that his German comrades were out of their depth, he called Moscow for the permission he needed to employ the Soviet Army. He got it and told General Grechko, the Russian military commander, to take care of business.
Working alongside the Russian state security service, the MGB— Ministerstvo gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti—the internal security department of the Stasi got the green light to take whatever action was necessary to put things back in the box. The Soviets gave them good cover. Never faint-hearted, they led the T-34s into Berlin and cleaned house. The protesters didn’t stand a chance.
At one city square he remembered watching hundreds of protesters milling about as a phalanx of tanks entered into the square from a side street. They were surprised at first but clearly didn’t believe there would be violence.
They thought the Russians would never open fire with the Allies so close. So they didn’t run. Instead, they began walking towards the tanks. That was the wrong move. When the smoke cleared scores of rebels lay dead or dying on the ground. Then the tanks moved forward, still firing their machine guns and churning through the now-terrified humanity. Stasi officers, including Großmann, followed the tanks and arrested the surviving ring leaders, or anyone who looked like one, and disposed of them. They kept at it for weeks after the street demonstrations were crushed. Großmann remembered fondly how people betrayed their neighbors or anyone they didn’t like to him and his fellow officers.
Most of the time no evidence or confessions were necessary. If they weren’t shot, they went to prison. After it was all done, the Red Cross reported that fifteen or twenty people were killed.
I alone shot almost that many! The total was more like 500, maybe as many as 1,000 dead.
Großmann remembered the empty factory-turned-holding pen where he had conducted interrogations. The Russians brought many of the arrested to him and his comrades. There were so many prisoners that they had to operate like an assembly line: one by one the prisoners were brought in. Then one morning a group of around twenty arrived. They were a motley-looking group of men and women. Scared and dejected mostly, but several looked defiant. He would focus on the strongest first and then the weaker would easily break and confess to whatever he demanded of them.
One of the Russians, an MGB officer who spoke German, told Großmann that they were leaders of the rebellion.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“They were carrying handbills with anti-government sayings,” the Russian said.
“All of them?”
“No, but they were all together. They must all be associates and are therefore guilty.”
Guilt by association. Simple enough. He questioned them separately and their stories were all the same. They had been given bundles of handbills by a man on the street and were told to pass them out to everyone they saw or met. No one was guilty of anything more than being caught up in the moment. He didn’t believe them. There was one man—an ef
fete-looking man, maybe an academic—wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He looked to be an organizer. Großmann asked him where the handbills came from. Same story.
“A man gave them to us on the street.”
“Is he here?”
“No,” Wire-rimmed said.
Too quick, Großmann thought, he didn’t even glance around.
He marched the man back towards the center of the room.
“This man says he’s innocent.”
Großmann regarded the prisoners. They were young and old men, young and old women. Most appeared to be laborers, some could have been students, others looked like intelligentsia. He hated the intelligentsia. Wire-rimmed looked like intelligentsia.
“But I know he’s lying,” he stated, “and until one of you tells me the truth, I will keep you here, maybe forever.”
“I am not lying,” Wire-rimmed said. He was scared.
“Shut up, traitor. You are a traitor to the Democratic Republic and the Communist Party.”
Großmann pulled his Tokarev pistol from his waistband. He always kept it loaded as his Russian instructor taught him. Holding it at his side he pointed at the ground. An audible click resonated through the dead silent room as he flicked the safety to the off position. There were gasps.
“No—” Wire-rimmed started to speak, but before he could continue, Großmann raised the pistol to his head and pulled the trigger. The pistol barked once and Wire-rimmed’s head jerked to the side as the small-caliber bullet entered his brain and blew a hole out of his skull. He was dead before the red mist cleared from the air. The body fell heavily to the floor and a pool of blood spread across the concrete.
The other prisoners were transfixed by the sight. A woman turned away and started to sob. Several men just stared at the ground.
Großmann looked at the body and was pleased with his work.
“Who would like to tell me the truth now?”
No one spoke up.
“You,” Großmann pointed at a young woman, “come with me.”
The woman might have been in her early twenties but it was hard to tell. Her face was grimy and her clothes dirty. He grabbed her arm when she came close and jerked her towards him as he turned. Together they walked out of the holding room and into an adjacent cell.
He tossed the girl across the room. She bounced off the wall and collapsed in a heap. The she looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes and pleaded.
“I am innocent. Why have you brought me to this place? I have done nothing wrong and I have nothing I can tell you.”
“You are mistaken, slut. We don’t bring people here to profess their innocence. We bring them here to admit their guilt.”
Soon, screams permeated the air, assaulting the ears and minds of the prisoners. For fifteen minutes the prisoners stood trying to avoid each other’s eyes. The Russian and East German soldiers talked among themselves and laughed. Then came a muffled shot. And quiet. Großmann came into the room, straightening his clothing as he walked.
“Let’s try this once more. Who would like to tell me the truth?” he asked.
Some of the arrested informed on their friends and relatives; others, seeing no way out, volunteered to work for the regime. A new order was coming, one built on fear, suspicion, and repression. It was a foundation that would later prove to be built not on stone but on sand. But no one knew that yet and Großmann would never understand that fundamental weakness. Instead, he smiled to himself.
Those were the good old days.
The interrogations he conducted, the confessions—that’s what got him to where he was today.
The uprising didn’t end well for those that started it, nor for many in the regime. Wilhelm Zaisser, the Stasi’s chief at the time, was replaced. Ostensibly it was because he missed the signs that the revolt was coming. In reality, he was thrown out because he was too much of a Stalinist and when Stalin died, so did his protection. With Zaisser out of the way, Mielke began his rise to power and in 1957 he would take over as Minister. Things began to change and after the Wall was built, Großmann was told his ways had to change too. East Germany became a kinder, gentler dictatorship. He still missed Stalin, he just learned not to show it.
Now, when the Politburo wants to arrest someone, we need to find evidence. What a bunch of crap!
5
Fischer did not have many interests in East Berlin other than enjoying concerts, eating at one of the few good restaurants in the East, and walking in the parks. He much preferred his small house outside the city. The Dacha he called it. It was his forest refuge where he could read, walk, relax, and enjoy the solitude. He did not relish never seeing it again.
Just as had been the case at his overseas posts, many aspects of his daily routine in Berlin were fabricated. He knew he had to have good reasons to move about the city, reasons that would appear normal to anyone who might be interested in keeping watch on his activities. For that, he had developed other interests. Hunting antiques and old books were two of them. Cash-hungry East Berliners always wanted to sell their heritage so they could afford to buy a refrigerator or even a car without saving for years from their meager salaries. Seeking out antiques gave him a reason to walk around the city and loiter in stores or marketplaces for what might seem interminable periods to a surveillance team. Surveillants, unless they were very professional and used to shopping with their wives, usually lasted only a couple of hours before the tedium and repeated appearances revealed their purpose to a situationally aware subject. That was one important thing about a secret life that few understood: it was not as exciting as the movies portrayed it. It was boring as hell and required iron discipline to maintain a cover.
One of his shorter circuits was the walk to the Konditorei, a place he visited often. It was not too far from the office but the convoluted route he had chosen made sense because it was the fastest and it offered several natural look-backs that let Fischer unobtrusively see if he was being followed. Not that it mattered; he wasn’t doing anything of interest to Department S anyway, at least not anything they could see.
Backerei Lila had been on the Harnackstraße longer than most people could remember. It always had a decent assortment of pastries that made it popular with the locals and the bureaucrats who worked nearby. When he walked into the shop, it was empty save for a retired couple who teetered about arm in arm trying to decide what to buy with their change. Fischer waited patiently until they finished their transaction before he spoke.
“Good morning, Lila! A dozen Berliners, please,” he said. He would share them with his comrades at work.
Always treat your co-workers well, because you can never tell when a favor might be needed or a secret shared.
Lila was several years younger and a head shorter than Max, and her face held a beauty and glow that contrasted sharply with the monochrome culture that surrounded her. Fischer knew Lila’s bakery from its opening and liked her wares, but his real connection was to Lila herself. Their relationship was deeper and longer than anyone knew.
The first time he met her was in 1950. Her father, Heinrich, had run afoul of the communists after the war. He was an outspoken journalist and his socialist views didn’t square with the Party’s hard line. It was during the so-called intensification of the class struggle that he was arrested, and it was Lila who came and tried to get him out of jail.
Fischer was there to conduct background checks on some names in the police files and just happened to intercept her when she came into the police station. She was beautiful—that was what drew his attention—but he saw she was distressed. When she explained why she was there, he became concerned for her safety.
“You are not safe here, you must leave now,” he told her.
He knew the families of “enemies of the state” were usually punished, and ostracized from society. That meant the family couldn’t join the Party and without membership, they were not eligible for any benefits and were on the bottom of every waiting list—for housing, buying a car, ratio
n cards, everything. Although he hadn’t entirely rebelled against the regime yet, he knew someone in need when he saw them, and he made the impulsive decision to help.
Before Lila left the station that day, Fischer got her name and address. He told her he would be in contact. He thought it was a fortuitous coincidence that he was even there. He had been looking through police files, checking the backgrounds of candidates for Markus Wolf ’s refugee program. It was a clever plan to recruit loyal men and women to go to the West as “refugees” where they would be sleeper agents. Some would assume completely new identities and seek government jobs. If they were successful they would become agents in place. It was one of the Stasi’s best infiltration projects and would later lead to the demise of several prominent West German officials, including Chancellor Willy Brandt.
Later that day, he went to the apartment block in Moabit where Lila lived and coaxed her out to a small Kneipe to drink some wine with him. She was nervous in his presence at first, thinking him to be a police officer.
“I am not with the police, but I do work with the government,” he said.
He could never bring himself to tell her exactly what he did, but she must have guessed because she stopped asking. But she never pushed him away either.
“I want to help you, but you have to forget your father for now. Otherwise, you and your mother might end up in jail too. I have an idea of how to keep you both safe.”
“How will that work?” She was skeptical, having had no education in the finer points of the tradecraft that Fischer knew all too well.
First, he quickly moved Lila and her mother to a safe house. The refugee project paid for incidentals like relocation and he was able to mix the two women in with his classified roster of candidates without anyone being the wiser. The project also provided him the opportunity to get new documentation and set them up with new identities. It wasn’t difficult; his work in the security service had its advantages at times.
A Question of Time Page 4
