Baltic Approach

by Max Hertzberg

  “Forty-four. Here’s some cash.”

  I looked at the notes he’d given me. Astonishing how little Westerners think household goods cost over here. Just because a bread roll costs five Pfennigs and a loaf of bread seventy, doesn’t mean you can buy a pair of shoes for the twenty-five Marks they blackmail out of you on entry to the country. “You might need a little more than that.”

  “I’ve only got Deutsche Marks. Here, take this.” He pulled out a blue tile—a hundred Westmarks. He probably thought I’d wander into a shop and they’d be happy to take Western money. It might work, but it wouldn’t be the most discreet way to buy shoes.

  “That’ll do. If I’m not back in an hour, start worrying,” I told him as I climbed out and shut the car door. I’d buy his shoes with my own money and pocket the blue tile. That way everyone would be happy.

  But my plan would only work if they had any shoes in this town.

  I found the shoe shop without problems, it was just down the hill from the cinema. But finding suitable shoes was as difficult as I’d feared.

  “Size forty-four?” the assistant sucked her teeth for a bit while she cast an eye over the perfectly serviceable shoes on my feet.

  She wandered up and down in front of the shelf of boxes that ran along the back wall of the shop, now and again bending over to read a label just to show she was doing something about my request. Standing up again, putting her hands over her kidneys so that her elbows stuck out, she leaned backwards and surveyed the boxes on the top shelves. A ladder stood in the corner, but she didn’t feel the need to fetch it.

  “That one says forty-four.” By now I’d joined her at the wall of boxes, peering up at the labels above head height.

  The assistant turned around, elbows still sticking out. “What colour do you want?”

  “Don’t care. Brown, black, red with gold stars.” That earned me a disapproving tut, but at least she mustered the box in question.

  “That’s a size forty-two,” she told me, directing her attention to another column of grey cartons.

  “But it says forty-four, look, right there.” I pointed at the label.

  “Citizen, it may say forty-four, but it’s actually a size forty-two. And before you ask, I just know. That’s why I work in a shoe shop and you’re the one needing shoes.”

  Sometimes I miss not having my clapperboard—a quick flash of the official ID and a secret door would open to reveal a select choice of size forty-fours. Then I remembered I had something nearly as good.

  I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the folded blue tile, keeping it in my hand, but allowing a corner to show.

  “How much does a pair of men’s shoes cost anyway?” I asked, allowing the assistant to see what I had in my hand, but making sure it remained hidden from the waiting customers.

  She gave no answer to that, but she did pull the step ladder out of the corner, and began making a far more convincing impression of someone searching for a suitable pair of shoes.

  After coming up with nothing, she disappeared into the back of the shop. I waited for her, looking out of the window. A Konsum grocery was across the road, the queue to get through the door was at least twenty long, snaking down the pavement and impeding the passage of pedestrians struggling up the steep street.

  “Dear sir,” the assistant was back, wringing her hands at the thought of all those Westmarks, “I’m sorry, but we don’t have anything in that size.”

  “Size forty-five, then?” I asked, hopefully. “Forty-six?”

  She shook her head sorrowfully, her face growing even longer as I turned to leave the shop.

  “You can try the cobbler’s on the island,” suggested a middle-aged woman with bottle-black hair. She gave my hand a meaningful look, even though I’d already slipped the blue tile back into the inside pocket of my coat. “Down the main road, over the bridge, can’t miss it. Tell him Frau Rupprich sent you.”

  It wasn’t hard to find the island—follow the main road down the hill and over a swing bridge, just like the lady in the queue had said. I had no unrealistic expectations that the cobbler would actually have a pair of men’s shoes in the size I was looking for, but the little hope I had soon fizzled when I saw the faded wooden sign pointing down an alleyway lined with shadows. At the far end, a wooden staircase led up to what was presumably the cobbler’s workshop, beyond that, the alley dropped down to the lake.

  I mounted the steps and knocked on the door. No answer. I gave it a good bang, but still no-one was interested in opening up. That was it, I’d done my best, and I’d failed. Not that it mattered.

  Back down the steps, and curiosity took over. I walked the final few paces to the water and lit a cigarette while looking out over the lake. It wasn’t frozen solid like the River Warnow at Rostock, or some of the lakes we’d seen today, but it wasn’t completely free of ice either.

  To the left and right, self-built boathouses lined the shore of the island, much the same as those we’d looked at earlier. Further along, at the end of the island, I could see the causeway that would take us over to the other side of the lake and towards Waren, then on to Berlin.

  Traffic was heavy, I could see a steady line of headlamps coming along the causeway from the far shore. But the rear lights of vehicles heading out of Malchow weren’t so regular. Or at least, they were regular, just not so closely packed: every twenty seconds or so a pair of red lights would start out over the causeway. Why wasn’t the traffic in that direction bunching up like it normally would be?

  I could think of only one explanation—a checkpoint.

  It could only have been set up a few minutes ago—when I’d walked over the swing bridge onto the island, traffic had been flowing normally in both directions.

  A moment’s reflection, and I decided we could get round this checkpoint—we’d just take the north route out of town and go along the back roads to Waren.

  But what if there was a second checkpoint up the hill, the way we’d come into Malchow? We’d be trapped.

  I flicked my cigarette into the water, eyes on the traffic as it crossed the causeway. Several sets of headlights, wider and higher than those of the cars, had set off from the far bank. A smaller vehicle was in front, blue light flashing, forcing other traffic to the side of the road to make room for the convoy of trucks. Bereitschaftspolizei?

  Whatever was happening, whether or not it was barracked police troops on those trucks, that convoy probably wasn’t good news.

  62

  Malchow

  I jogged back towards the car, hearing the lorries rumble along the cobbled road behind me. They came alongside, not the usual lorries used by the Bereitschaftspolizei—the flat fronted W50s and LOs, or the tapering nose of the G5—but the heavy snouts of Ural trucks. The red and white circular decals on the doors confirmed the identification: Soviet Army.

  I turned off the main road, running down the lane and sliding to a stop as I entered the coal yard. The jeep and military police BAI minibus I’d just seen escorting the convoy were in front of me, hemming in my Shiguli. A handful of soldiers stood around, Kalashnikovs shouldered, a starshina, senior sergeant, from the BAI had Merkur pressed against the car.

  As far as I could tell, no-one had noticed my arrival, and wanting to keep it that way, I backed into the shadows of the alley. As I did so, something hard poked my spine. The kind of poke that makes you freeze because you know it’s been done with the muzzle of a pistol.

  It was only a quick jab, enough to let me know what I was dealing with.

  I put my hands up and turned slowly to face a tall and thin Russian, his clean-shaven face narrowing into a pointed chin, his mouth as straight and thin as a spent match.

  I read his shoulder boards: leitenant, one rank above me, with the black flashes of the artillery regiment on the collar of his new-style afghanka jacket. The gun he’d used to poke me was a good old Makarov, held in an ungloved hand. I couldn’t help but notice the safety was off, so when he gestured for me to
undo the buttons on my coat, I did exactly what he wanted, no more and no less.

  He reached into my open coat, arm at full length, fingers briskly patting the lining and inside coat pockets, then moving on to my jacket and trousers. At the end of the frisk, he’d collected my Makarov, my civilian Ausweis and my pocket knife. Another waggle of the gun barrel, and I started towards the car.

  “Tuda, poshol!” he barked, even though I was already on the move.

  At the sound of his voice, the starshina and soldiers stood to attention, thrusting out their chests and lifting their chins the way Russian other ranks do, all the better for an officer to bop them on the schnoz if the mood should take him. Merkur remained where he was, legs wide apart, leaning against the car, but he turned his head to watch me coming towards him, an apologetic smile on his face.

  “Find the shoes?” he asked.

  I looked at his feet, he was standing on the frozen dirt of the yard, now minus both shoes, socks encrusted with damp coal dust.

  “Moltchat’!” the junior lieutenant yelled, and it didn’t matter whether or not Merkur could understand Russian, the meaning was clear.

  With another poke of the Makarov, the Russian guided me around the front of the Shiguli to the open driver’s door. As I put one leg inside the car, my foot connected with something hard and long. Without thinking, I reached down to see what was in the footwell, my fingers brushing smooth leather. Another jab in the back made me pull my leg back out of the car and stand up pretty smartish, keeping both hands visible. The lieutenant pushed me out of the way and bent down to see what I’d been reaching for.

  He picked up Merkur’s abandoned shoe, tapped the heel against the floor of the car and, reassured there was nothing hidden, tossed it under the seat.

  I got behind the wheel and the Russian climbed in the other side, casually throwing another order over his shoulder as he did so: “Razojdis!” The squad of soldiers and the sergeant fell back, taking Merkur with them. The UAZ ground its gears and jerked away from my car.

  With another gesture of the gun’s muzzle, the leitenant indicated I should drive out of the yard, back up the alley to the main road.

  63

  Malchow

  The Russian junior officer was a man of few words. A sharp “Tuda,” and a gesture, either with his finger or the muzzle of the Makarov sufficed to tell me which direction he wanted me to drive.

  Over the swing bridge and onto the island, slow down at the red and white trestle blocking the entrance to the causeway. A cop approached, bending down to talk to us, his fingertips already stuck to his forehead in polite salute, and the Russian lieutenant didn’t say a word. He rolled down his window and gave the policeman a full-on arrogant stare. The kind that makes uniformed lackeys think they might be in for a recommendation for one of those holidays in Siberia.

  The bull’s salute quickly turned into a wave, gesturing us on, and I weaved around the roadblock and put my foot down on the long straight of the causeway, sure that no cop was going to pull us for speeding.

  Another curt instruction once we hit the south shore of the lake, and I turned the Shiguli towards the motorway.

  Forty minutes and very few directions later, we’d left the motorway and were rumbling down the concrete highway that runs south of Lake Müritz, towards the town of Mirow. I stopped for a traffic light on an open stretch of road, wondering what purpose it could possibly have out here in the pampas. The Russian turned to survey the cars that were pulling up behind us, although he could see nothing beyond the glare of their headlights.

  A deep hum came from somewhere over to the right, where lights hazed the night sky. The hum lightened in pitch, and at the same time a twin row of lamps switched on. They drew a straight line from the dim lights on the horizon to where we were sitting by the traffic signal.

  I leaned forward as the hum turned to a growl, continuing up the scale until rarefied air was roaring and shattering over us. The growl wound itself up to a howl, but it hadn’t finished yet—a continuous boom shook the car on its suspension.

  I put my hands over my ears as the silhouette of a MiG fighter jet heaved itself over the road, just metres in front of our headlights and low enough to reach up and touch, if anyone were stupid enough to try. As it passed us, the roiling boom was shunted aside by the screaming exhaust burning a bright hole in the night.

  “Fuck,” I whispered, the incandescent glow from the aft of the plane still scarring my vision. I could barely see the MiG now—it had risen quickly, orange flame dimming as it entered the low clouds. The corrugated groan of the jet still reached us, but was already receding rapidly, leaving an aural sterility that made me doubt I was still able to hear.

  The runway lights switched off, the traffic lights turned green and in the headlamps of the oncoming cars, I could see a smile teasing the corners of the lieutenant’s mouth.

  Before I could put the Shiguli into gear, he pointed out a gate in the fence between the road and the runway. I pulled onto the rough slab track and slowed, aiming to halt in front of the barred opening in the fence, but before I could give the brakes a necessary last dab, unseen hands opened the gate. With a glance at my passenger to confirm, I drove through.

  My headlights briefly swept the concrete runway—the cones of light ebbing long before they illuminated even halfway along the piste—then the path took us further to the left, along a line of bare trees. My Russian passenger had no further instructions, seemed content to look out into the night, his head following the dark shapes of low buildings as we passed.

  The track was clear of ice and snow, but I took it slowly anyway, not wanting to be surprised by another plane taking off or landing right next to me, so when a soldier stepped into the beams of my headlight, I was ready to bring the car to a rapid halt. He stepped aside, his right arm out, pointing into the trees.

  I pulled off the track, my wheels slipping into ruts left by another vehicle, and within a couple of metres we’d passed completely into the trees.

  “Vylaz’! Davay, vylaz’!” The lieutenant was back to being unfriendly. I followed his orders, stopping the car and climbing out of the Shiguli.

  Standing next to the open door, keys in hand, I wondered how much use they’d be as a weapon. The lieutenant was walking around the snout of the car, towards another soldier that stood in the shadows off to one side—in the scattered light from the headlamps, I could just about make out a greatcoat and a wide teller cap.

  The lieutenant stopped in front of the dark figure, saluted, then reached one arm forward, the naked flesh of his hand glowing dimly in the gloom. The officer—and it must have been an officer, why else would the leitenant have saluted?—reached forward and took the offering.

  Another salute, and the leitenant marched back in the direction we’d come, not bothering to spare me even a sideways look.

  The officer remained in the shadows, I couldn’t see his face, but his head pointed my way, so I went to see what he might want.

  “Burratino.” The use of the code name told me who I had in front of me.

  “Major Pozdniakov, how nice to see you again.”

  64

  Soviet Airbase Lärz

  “Did we not have a deal—one hand washes the other?” said Pozdniakov. It wasn’t a question, it was an accusation.

  “Usluga za uslugu,” I mumbled the Russian version of the proverb to myself: a good turn deserves a good turn. Perhaps it would have been more sensible to focus on the KGB officer in front of me, wondering what deal he thought I hadn’t kept to. But instead I was giving myself grief for not realising Major Pozdniakov would be at the end of this journey.

  “Yes. Usluga za uslugu. Did you think I gave you the tip-off about your Merkur’s booking at the Hotel Neptun out of fraternal feelings for a brother in arms?

  “Perhaps you did—perhaps you’re naïve enough to think a KGB officer might have your personal interests at heart? Because that was the only explanation I could think of this morning whe
n I found out about your interest in a cell of hostile agitators in the Warnow shipyard. Why did it take three days for this news to reach my ears, I asked myself. Perhaps my good friend Burratino couldn’t find a way to reach me? But no, because Burratino is confined to his place of residence, right next to a phone. You’ll tell me if I’m boring you, won’t you, tovarishch?” He broke off for a moment or two, maybe he was glaring at me? Hard to tell in the dark.

  “So I send someone to little Burratino, someone to listen to the good reason my friend has for not telling me his news about the cell in the shipyard. But tovarishch Burratino is too busy—he’s left a colleague in his flat to tell me that Burratino is in the north again. Not only that, Burratino has gone with Merkur: an agent of the class enemy! How I scratched my head!

  “Little Burratino, talk to me!”

  “You spoke to Lütten? What did you do to him?”

  “Talk to me about the Warnowwerft,” Pozdniakov insisted. He didn’t take a step towards me or deepen his voice, he had no need to resort to obvious methods of intimidation.

  “The Warnow shipyard? I received information from Codename Merkur regarding Diversanten in the shipyard. I took measures to confirm the existence of the people on the list, but engaged in no further action beyond that. There was no indication that Merkur provided the information in an attempt at political-ideological Diversion.”

  “You didn’t think to check in with me before you went to the shipyard? You weren’t interested in the fact that the Warnow shipyard is building freighters for the Soviet Union? That we necessarily have eyes in that shipyard?”

  Good work, Reim, I thought to myself. Not only do I have Kühn and the rest of Berlin Centre on my case, now I also have to start worrying about the KGB. I didn’t say anything out loud, there was nothing I could say. All I could do was wait and see how pissed off Pozdniakov was, then deal with the consequences.

  But it didn’t end there, Pozdniakov paused for a moment, before continuing with the bad news: