by David Young
‘It should be this lever,’ said Tilsner, forcing it forwards, the strain etched on his face. ‘But it’s not working. Any bright ideas?’
Müller leant over to the driver’s side and glanced around the cabin controls. She could smell Tilsner’s all-male scent, his masculinity somehow accentuated by the workman’s overalls. His square-jawed face thrown into sharp relief by the weak street lighting. His breathing laboured from the effort of trying to force the controls to do what he wanted.
‘I’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘Not really my strong point.’ She moved across to the passenger window, unwound it and leant out. ‘Jonas! Come up here a moment.’
She helped pull the weighty forensic officer into the cab, his face flushed with the effort of climbing up. Tilsner demonstrated the problem.
Schmidt immediately laughed. ‘You won’t get anywhere that way. Here.’ He pushed a red lever – one that neither Müller nor Tilsner had noticed – to one side. ‘You have to release the safety catch first, like that. Now try again.’
This time – amid the scrapes and scratching of poorly oiled metal rubbing against metal – they could see the back start to lift.
‘Drive forward at the same time,’ said Schmidt, squeezed onto the front passenger bench next to Müller. ‘That way you’ll spread out the load better and there’ll be less spadework for us to get everything ready.’
The roar of the diesel engine competed with the whoosh of the sand as it slid off the back of the tipper and onto the road below. There was a sudden fresh smell of aggregate dust combined with sweet diesel fumes: it reminded Müller of the Ostsee holidays of her childhood, and later when courting Gottfried. Beaches, harbours, pleasure boats. When the world had seemed a much more straightforward place.
With the load of sand emptied, Tilsner brought the rear of the tipper truck to the horizontal, then manoeuvred the vehicle – with more gear-crunching – back to the opposite side of the road. Now one side of this section of Siegfriedstrasse was blocked by the truck – the other by a partly flattened pile of sand. The three police officers worked with the shovels and brushes they’d brought with them to fully level off the sand pile.
Müller glanced at her watch. Scheisse! Only five minutes before the convoy was due. If the cars came early, or if they didn’t finish in time, there could be trouble.
‘Hurry it up. Both of you,’ she shouted. ‘We’ve only a couple of minutes left.’
Tilsner pulled Schmidt’s shovel out of his hands. ‘You’re doing more harm than good. Anyway, you need to get into position.’
The forensic officer ran up the road towards the entrance to the industrial estate, stopping every fifty metres or so to get his breath back. Once in position, he waited for the convoy of limousines to emerge as Müller and Tilsner frantically finished smoothing out the layer of sand.
Müller looked at her watch again. The limousines should be here now, but still no sign. She kept her eyes trained on Schmidt further up the road, but as the minutes ticked by, he still hadn’t given her the agreed hand signal.
Another ten minutes passed. At last she saw the Kriminaltechniker raise his arm. The cars were underway.
She quickly removed the barriers from their section of the road, placing them instead across the side streets that until now had been the diversion route. The only way for the limousine convoy to proceed now was over the layer of sand.
As the long-wheelbase cars approached, Tilsner and Müller began to shovel sand from the side of the layer back into the rear of the truck, to give the impression they were clearing up a spillage.
The first driver stopped as he passed, unwinding his window and shouting at Müller as she held a hand up to her eyes to protect them from the headlights of the following vehicles.
‘What the fuck’s happened here?’ he shouted. ‘We’ve just cleaned these cars. We don’t want sand all over them.’
Müller shrugged in apology. ‘I’m sorry. Our load tipped off accidentally. We’re working as fast as we can to clear up.’
She could see the man roll his eyes, his face highlighted by the beam of the car behind. She knew what he was thinking. Women working as construction workers. Like many East German men, he probably thought that they should be at home doing the housework. But that wasn’t the way it happened. The female workers and peasants of this little country played a full role. The driver and his ilk would eventually learn to accept that. Müller began to shovel again, directing her anger into scraping the aggregate from the road surface as the car moved off.
Tilsner, following their pre-arranged plan, moved slightly further into the sand-covered side of the road with his shovel as the second limousine was about to drive through. It earned a beep from the car’s horn, but achieved what Müller had planned. The car had to swing further round, making new tyre prints rather than following the same tracks as the first limousine.
They repeated the same trick for the third and final car of the short convoy. This time the driver not only blared his horn, but shouted in anger at Tilsner. ‘Get out of the way, idiot. You’ll get run over.’ But the policeman held his ground, and the scheme had succeeded again. The limousine driver had to mount the kerb on the far side, but the driver’s side tyres made a third distinct set of tracks.
After the three limousines had disappeared around the corner towards Normannenstrasse, Müller and Tilsner put the diversion signs back in place, and Schmidt arrived at a half-run, panting.
‘Sorry, only three cars, Comrade Oberleutnant,’ he said apologetically. ‘Maybe they only service and clean the limousines that have actually been used in the previous week.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s better than nothing, Jonas. Well done for getting the information. Take your photographs of the tyre imprints, and then let’s get out of here before anyone realises what’s going on.’
13
Nine months earlier (May 1974).
Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost, Rügen, East Germany.
My three days of isolation are over. Last night I was back in the dorm, and thankfully, despite their threats, Neumann and Richter haven’t separated me from Beate. Last night she slept well for once.
I’ve survived the bunker. I try to remember that saying from school: ‘that which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’. I think that’s what it was. I feel stronger for having got through it, even though my task in the workshop today is considered physically the most demanding. It’s packing. Packing and carrying. But although it’s the most tiring – because of the heavy lifting when the boxes are ready – I still prefer it to the drilling and cutting workshop, which is just so boring, and it’s easier to make a mistake and get into trouble. Here, the precision-cut strips of wood and chipboard have to be carefully placed into the cardboard boxes interleaved with protective paper, and then sealed and wheeled out of the factory to the yard and loaded onto pallets. But going where? That’s what intrigues me now. Herr Müller had been about to tell me, I was sure of that.
‘Get a move on, Irma. Stop daydreaming. You don’t want to be sent back to the bunker now, do you?’ The admonishment comes from Frau Schettler, who supervises the packing room after her breakfast shift. But she’s smiling as she delivers it, so in return I knuckle down and speed up. Kitchen cabinet door, left side, right side, cabinet back, shelves, top, bottom. And don’t forget the corrugated paper between each layer, or the plastic bag of fixings. Then tape up the box and load the forks of the trolley. It’s repetitive, dull, but you can’t go wrong, really. Another self-assembly kitchen unit safely despatched. Frau Schettler is generally kind, and she has a soft spot for me, treats me a bit like a naughty daughter. I look up at her, grin, and she smiles back in return.
One reason I feel happier today is I actually got the full breakfast this morning. The whole works. Fresh bread roll, sausage and cheese. Richter was right about that. Working on a full stomach is better.
I notice Schettler going into the office to check something. I look to my left and right – Mathias Ge
lman one side of me, Bauer on the other. Both seem to be concentrating on fulfilling their packing quotas. I take the chance to glance at the small pocket book Herr Müller gave to me at breakfast time. ‘It’s to help you with your studies, Irma,’ he’d said. I pull it out of the front of my knickers – no one would look there, I hope. A History of Rügen. A strange book to give me. I flick through the pages, not really understanding why a maths teacher would give me a local history book. Then I spot Schettler returning with some papers, and quickly hide the book away.
‘What was that?’ a male voice asks.
I turn my head and realise Mathias has seen it. Heartthrob Mathias. Every girl’s dream. That’s the other advantage of the packing room. You get to meet boys. The only chance in Prora Ost – other than at mealtimes. That’s why Beate likes it too. She will be so jealous I’m here next to Mathias – I’ve seen the way they look at each other. I think she’s sweet on him. Maybe he’s turned her down? Maybe that’s why she’s crying all the time? Perhaps I have a chance with him.
‘It’s just a book.’ I feel myself blushing under his gaze, as I realise I’m being disloyal to my friend. And what would Mathias Gelman ever see in me, anyway?
‘What book?’
‘Oh, just something Herr Müller gave me at breakfast. A history of Rügen. He knows I’m a local.’
‘A local yokel from Rügen,’ snorts Mathias.
I punch him on the arm. ‘Don’t make fun of me, Mathias.’
‘Why do you want a local history book if you’re from the island? Don’t you know it all already, you local types?’
‘Oh, just piss off,’ I say, and turn back to my work.
But Frau Schettler has seen the exchange. ‘Behrendt! Gellman! Come here. Now.’ We leave the packing bench and move forward, the book chafing between my legs. I try my best to look shamefaced. But Mathias keeps his head held high.
When we’re next to her, she lowers her voice so the others can’t hear.
‘Look, Irma, I like you but you’re making things difficult for me. Director Neumann and Frau Richter will be watching you closely, monitoring your output, and if you’re found to be slacking it will be back to the bunker, or worse.’
‘You’ve been in the bunker? Wow,’ says Mathias, as though I’ve done something hugely impressive.
‘She’s just got out, Mathias. So you can help her. Don’t start chatting to her or distracting her.’ She looks at him sternly, but there is a softness behind her frown. ‘And maybe if you get ahead of target, you could help Irma catch up?’
Mathias nods, and smiles at me. We go back to the packing bench.
‘You’re lucky I didn’t tell on you,’ he whispers, first making sure Schettler isn’t looking. ‘You owe me one.’
I don’t dare to read Herr Müller’s book in the dormitory. After the close shave in the packing room, I wait for a chance to go to the communal toilets before we’re locked up for the night. In the dorm, there is just a bucket to sit on, and the stench of piss and shit is ever-present, stinking out our dreams; but here in the washroom, the toilet cubicles do have doors. I take the book out as I lower my knickers, first examining the folds of my lower stomach. They sting from where the plastic cover has been rubbing against my skin. I’m still too fat, I know that, even though the food in the Jugendwerkhof is often so revolting. I know I have to do something about it, but Oma always used to feed me up, perhaps to make up for the fact that she felt Mutti didn’t pay me enough attention. And once you start eating too much, the habit’s hard to break. Even in somewhere like this.
I quickly skim through the book, knowing that Richter or someone will come knocking on the door if I spend too long in here. I turn each page carefully; I don’t want the rustling of paper to alert anyone. Much of the book’s content is familiar from school lessons in Sellin – the way the island has been under different rulers down the years. The West Slavic Rani. The Danish princes of Rügen. Swedish Pomerania. The unfinished, then abandoned, town of Gustavia, built by King Gustav IV of Sweden. And then this place, Prora – Hitler’s intended holiday camp in the Nazi era – now a concrete monstrosity filled with army construction workers at one end, and the Jugendwerkhof at the other.
All very fascinating, but, as Mathias said, I know all this already. I begin to close the book, and just as I do so I notice a pencil mark in the margin, highlighting the section about Gustavia. The word Sweden is underlined too. I flick through again, excited now, the pages fanning cool air on my face. I spot one more piece of highlighting in the margins, right near the end of the book, in the section on DDR local history. It’s about the construction of the new port at Sassnitz. Once again, a mark in the margin, and the word Sassnitz underlined. A third time I flick through, back to the front of the book. Checking there is nothing else. But those are the only two marks in the margin. The only two words underlined. Sassnitz. And Sweden. Herr Müller’s message to me.
I realise the book is dangerous. If I can understand the message, so would Richter or Neumann. I flush the toilet, rearrange my clothes and put the book back where it was in my underwear. As I exit the cubicle, I look left and right. No one else is here. I glance round the corners of the room, up to the light fitting. There’s nothing that looks like a camera. I quickly check the corridor. Empty. Then I go back to the washroom and over to the window, trying to prevent my footsteps being heard on the cold hard floor. It’s barred, but I can still open it. I take the book out and slide it along the ledge, out of sight. No one will be able to link it to me anymore. And as long as a gale doesn’t blow, it should just stay sitting on the ledge day after day, week after week, the rain slowly turning it back into pulp.
14
February 1975. Day Seven.
Schönhauser Allee, East Berlin.
Bright winter daylight filtered through the blinds of the apartment’s lounge windows, warming Karin Müller’s face, coaxing her awake. Müller yawned and stretched, rubbing the dull ache in her back, the result of sleeping scrunched up on the sofa. It had been the early hours of the morning when she’d finally got back to the apartment, and so she hadn’t wanted to wake Gottfried. She’d used her old People’s Police coat and the tablecloth as blankets. She couldn’t face another slanging match.
Her back spasmed as she rose from her makeshift bed. The flat was shrouded in near silence, the slow ticking of the mantelpiece clock and her own breathing the only sounds other than the usual traffic noise outside. Where was Gottfried? She assumed he’d be asleep in bed when she’d got in, but hadn’t checked. And now she saw the bedroom door was open, and the room itself empty. Was he trying to play her at her own game? Or was this something worse? She felt her heart rate increase, and returned to the living room. His coat, scarf and gloves had gone from the peg. Had he been here at all? Then, on the dining table, she spotted a torn-off piece of paper:
Karin. If you can’t be bothered to let me know where you are, then perhaps it’s best if you don’t know where I am either, but at some stage we’re going to need to talk. If it’s divorce you want, you’re going the right way about it.
The writing was not in Gottfried’s usual neat schoolmasterish script. Instead it looked like it had been scrawled quickly, angrily. What exactly was he up to? And where had he gone?
Müller returned to the bedroom, looking for clues there. The bed was unmade but had clearly been slept in. Her side still pristine; his with the covers thrown back and the pillow at an angle. She looked at the wedding photo on Gottfried’s bedside cabinet. The beaming smiles showed how happy they’d been. Where had it gone wrong? Were his suspicions about her and Tilsner the result of some sort of guilt on his part? Though she had to admit to herself they were perhaps justified given the way she’d acted so stupidly that night in Dircksenstrasse.
If he had anything to hide, where would he hide it? Probably not in the flat. But she opened his bedside drawer in any case. There were a few papers. She riffled through them. Most were to do with the school. She read the origi
nal official warning which had led to his ‘exile’ at the Jugendwerkhof in Rügen, a period that seemed to have changed him so much. He’d apparently supported a boy who had withdrawn from the communist youth movement, grown his hair and started a rock band. The boy had been referred to a youth court – there was nothing further about what had happened to him. But for Gottfried, the recommendation was that he should spend some time teaching within the Republic’s children’s-home system: that in participating in the re-education of youths into fully fledged socialist personalities, some of that re-education might actually rub off on the teacher himself.
Müller sighed and replaced the letter. Perhaps she hadn’t done enough to support him, but in playing the rebel – or at least the supporter of rebels – he’d put her own position at risk. She had another quick look through the papers. Nothing of interest, except a pamphlet about the meetings at Gethsemane Church.
Thankfully, though, there was no evidence of another woman. Frau Eisenberg had kept Silke’s letter from the West in the girl’s bedside drawer, but Gottfried, she knew, would be a lot cleverer than that.
She glanced around the room, her eyes drawn to the top of the wardrobe. She dragged the bedside chair towards it, then stood on the seat and stretched her hand up to reach along the top surface, hidden by the wooden profile above the doors. At first, she could just feel her fingers sliding through the dust and dirt, and then they clawed something. A small cardboard container, about four centimetres square. Müller lifted it down and examined it. Mondos Luxos spelt out in gold lettering, on a vivid purple background. Sweets? Pills? She frowned, and flipped the small packet over. Immediately, the instructions on the back ended her confusion. A condom packet. Condoms? He knows I can’t –
She stopped the thought, as realisation dawned. He didn’t need condoms for making love to her, but these obviously weren’t intended for her. Müller panicked, her heart racing. She climbed back onto the chair, and began scrabbling about the top of the wardrobe again. Maybe he was the guilty party all along. The guilty party deflecting the blame by attacking someone else, by making insinuations about her and Tilsner. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book: one of the first things she’d been taught in police college.
