Stasi Child

by David Young

  ‘Yes, Comrade Oberstleutnant,’ she said, shamefaced.

  Jäger’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘However, I did find it quite amusing. Now, there was something you wanted to ask me, and you still haven’t.’

  Müller nodded. ‘It concerns the limousine. Once we’d established it was unlikely to be from the East, we checked at the crossing points to see if any suitable vehicle had crossed from the West.’

  ‘And did you find one?’ asked Jäger.

  ‘Yes. There was one that crossed the night before the girl’s body was found at Grenzübergang Bornholmerstrasse. Two male occupants, allegedly taking the limousine to a friend’s wedding in the East, but it was travelling on fake plates.’

  Jäger sighed. ‘So does that mean we can’t trace it?’

  ‘Well, we think we may have located it. We’re only aware of one in the whole of West Berlin. It’s owned by a wedding hire company, so –’

  ‘So you want me to authorise, or arrange, an operation to recover that vehicle?’

  Müller nodded.

  ‘That’s possible, of course. But it will be difficult. I will have to –’

  Jäger suddenly pinched her arm through her coat. She was about to ask him why, then saw a man in a leather jacket approaching them. He looked as though he was going to come right up to where they were sitting on the fountain wall, but then diverted, to walk round behind them, through the arcade at the back of the fountain. When she was certain he was out of earshot, Müller asked: ‘Do you know him?’

  The Stasi lieutenant colonel nodded slowly. His face looked ashen.

  ‘He’s a Ministry for State Security agent. From Department Eight. My department.’

  ‘Your department?’ asked Müller, her voice laced with incomprehension.

  Another nod from Jäger. ‘It was a message to us, or rather to me. I did warn you, Karin, that this could get complicated.’ Jäger sighed, and started to get to his feet. Müller did the same, slapping the back of her coat to get the snow off, and to try to force some warmth back into her frozen thighs. ‘From now on,’ he said, ‘be very careful about ringing me. Just wait for me to get in touch. Do you understand?’

  Müller nodded twice in assent, then looked over the Stasi officer’s shoulder to the arcade, where the agent still lingered. The fairy-tale fountains had now taken on a far more sinister air.

  19

  Day Nine.

  Marx-Engels-Platz, East Berlin.

  Waiting in the office for Jäger and Tilsner to arrive, Müller wiped the sleep from her eyes. In the reflection of her face in the compact mirror, she noticed her finger shaking. Too many late nights, too much vodka and too much arguing with Gottfried.

  After the meeting at the fairy-tale fountains, Jäger had worked fast, summoning her to a briefing at the Marx-Engels-Platz office at eight o’clock in the morning.

  The door to the main office crashed open. It wasn’t Jäger, but Tilsner.

  ‘What are you doing here on a Saturday?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were spending the weekend with Koletta?’

  Tilsner smiled enigmatically. Then the door swung open again before Müller had a chance to quiz him further; there was Jäger, looking as fresh and fit as he usually did, and nothing like she felt.

  ‘Morning, both of you,’ said the Stasi Oberstleutnant. ‘I trust you slept well?’

  Müller hadn’t, but she nodded all the same.

  ‘I’ve got the necessary authorisations for the operation, but securing the manpower was more difficult.’ Jäger pulled up a chair at the long table under the noticeboard and urged the two detectives to do the same. Müller watched him glance up at the photographs of the girl’s body which were pinned on it, before he gave a sad shake of his head and reached into his briefcase. ‘I was hoping that the Main Intelligence Directorate – with which I have close links – would have been able to supply us with agents to go over to West Berlin and secure the car. They’re the foreign intelligence specialists and would have had the necessary experience in operating there. Unfortunately, at such short notice, they couldn’t spare anyone.’ He passed over two sets of documents. ‘So you two will be going.’

  Müller frowned at Tilsner. Neither of them had experience operating in the West. But her deputy simply shrugged and smiled as Jäger continued. ‘These are the authorisations you’ll need to show at the Republic’s checkpoints.’ Then he reached down into his bag again, pulling out two small forest-green booklets. ‘And these are your West German passports.’

  Müller saw the same eagle, flexing its wings, as there had been on the Federal Republic’s missing persons’ file. She read the accompanying words: Bundesrepublik Deutschland Reisepass. She picked hers up and flicked through it. A People’s Police ID photo from a couple of years ago had been used as the passport photograph, presumably taken from her police file. She looked at the name: Karin Ritter. Then did the same with Tilsner’s: Werner Trommler. She felt a sense of relief. At least they wouldn’t have to pose as a married couple.

  Jäger seemed to have read her thoughts. ‘No, you’re not married.’ He laughed. ‘But you are about to be. That’s why you’re hiring the limousine. For your wedding.’ He met her eyes. ‘So you will have to pose as a couple. Is that going to be a problem?’

  Tilsner laughed. ‘Of course not, Comrade Oberstleutnant.’

  Müller scowled.

  Jäger handed each of them an envelope. ‘Some West German marks. You’ll need them to go shopping for things for your wedding and forthcoming marriage – and also to pay for the car hire and a deposit. But don’t get any ideas. Everything will need to be accounted for with an expenses form, and everything will need to be brought back to the Republic. The items you buy will be useful for our agents when they’re operating abroad in the future. Each envelope has a list of what you should buy, and where from. Please don’t deviate from it.’

  Under Jäger’s watchful eyes, Müller opened her envelope and read the list. Specific brands and shops were typed out. Müller felt herself blush as she saw the list of women’s underwear she was expected to purchase – along with prices which would have bought ten times as many items in the East.

  ‘How long will we be staying in West Berlin?’ she asked Jäger.

  ‘One day only, I’m afraid. That should be enough time. You will however have a hotel room in which to freshen up. And – before you ask – you will have separate rooms.’

  ‘So we’re not allowed to get some practice in before our wedding night?’ Tilsner chuckled.

  ‘It’s not a joke, Unterleutnant,’ scolded Jäger, his voice as close to anger as Müller had yet heard. ‘This is a serious operation, and seems at the moment – in the absence of any leads to identify the girl – our best hope of securing some evidence, something, to build up a clearer picture about her.’

  ‘My apologies, Oberstleutnant.’

  Jäger, his face serious, nodded in acknowledgement. ‘You’ll be travelling in a Mercedes owned by the Main Intelligence Directorate, on false West German plates. Try not to get involved in any traffic accidents or anything like that, or it may blow your cover. Drive carefully and slowly. Don’t be seduced by the extra power it has compared to your usual Wartburg. One of you will have to drive the Volvo limousine back to the Hauptstadt tonight, and the other will need to drive the Mercedes. Are you both OK with that?’

  The two detectives nodded. Müller was a nervous driver, and always let Tilsner take the wheel whenever possible. He could have the limo, and she would drive the Merc. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

  ‘And you will be wearing western clothes, appropriate to your status as an engaged couple about to be married. I have the clothes in a bag in my car outside which I’ll give you in a moment. We checked your sizes from your personnel files. Again, they’re borrowed from the Main Intelligence Directorate. It goes without saying that we’ll need them back at the end of the operation.’

  Müller glanced at Tilsner. He looked unperturbed: clearly it didn’t
bother him as much as it did her that the Stasi appeared to have unfettered access to her Kripo employment record. But then there was his watch, the other luxury items she’d noticed in his apartment. He had access to extra money from somewhere. Was it from working on the side for the Ministry for State Security? It would explain why they’d been allowed to go to West Berlin without an obvious Stasi chaperone. Jäger’s protestation that there were no agents available had rung hollow. Perhaps there was one available, and he was accompanying her: People’s Police Unterleutnant Werner Tilsner.

  20

  Nine months earlier (May 1974).

  Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost, Rügen.

  I hear the sea, the waves crashing, and in my head I’m at Oma’s campsite house in Sellin. She’s whispering to me. Telling me it’s time to get up. My eyes open. She’s there at my bedside, but seems so much older. I try to raise my head. She shushes me. And then I remember. I am not a little girl at Oma’s. For some reason she is here visiting me.

  A woman in a white coat enters: a nurse with an array of medicines on a metal tray.

  ‘She’s awake,’ says Oma. The nurse walks over and takes my pulse, then urges me to open my mouth and places a thermometer under my tongue. My head feels as if it is full of cotton wool. I can’t really get my thoughts straight. I glance towards the window and see the bars. They trigger a memory.

  Suddenly I’m pulling the thermometer out of my mouth. I throw it to the floor and begin shouting, crying. ‘Beate. Beate. I tried to save her. I really tried, Oma.’ My grandmother strokes my head, as the nurse prepares an injection. ‘Where is she? Where is she? She’s not dead, is she?’ Then a pinprick in my arm as the nurse holds me down. My head feels heavy. Someone answers my question but it doesn’t register. I try to ask them to repeat themselves but the words won’t come. A deep, drugged sleep pulls me under.

  Another voice at my ear I recognise, but this time I don’t want to open my eyes. I try to turn away from the voice, but hands move my shoulders back round.

  ‘Irma, we need to talk to you.’ The detestable voice. Richter’s voice.

  I open my eyes and realise I’m not at Oma’s. I’m not in hospital. I’m in the sanatorium of Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost, and in my vision is the face of Frau Richter. Behind her, on a chair in the corner of the room, is her one-eyed, scar-faced boss, Director Neumann.

  ‘Where is Beate?’ I ask her. I’m surprised how weak my voice sounds. ‘Is she safe?’

  Richter nods. ‘The fire brigade managed to bring her down.’

  I’m so relieved that I can feel tears welling up. I try to fight them back by thinking of something else. I try to move my legs, wiggle my toes. Everything seems fine except the fog in my head that won’t let me think clearly. The elation of knowing that Beate has survived is tempered by the knowledge that both of us are still caged in this hellhole.

  Neumann stands up now, so both he and Richter are in front of my eyes. ‘You are alright, Irma, but what you did was very stupid. Your friend survived, but no thanks to you. You could have killed yourself and her. That’s a very serious matter.’ The words soak into my cotton wool brain, producing no reaction. All I care about is that Beate is alive. I try to turn away from him, but Richter pulls me back. ‘Now, we are prepared to overlook all this, just this once,’ he says. ‘But you must never tell anyone about what happened. As far as your grandmother or anyone else is concerned, you simply had a fall when you were acting the fool. I don’t want to hear anything about Beate’s prank. Ever. Do you understand?’

  He is trying to blame me, trying to make me feel guilty. But his main concern is that nothing about Beate’s state of mind should get out to the authorities. Higher authorities than him. For the first time, I’ve some sort of hold over Richter and Neumann. I wonder if one day it might come in useful.

  ‘I understand, Herr Director,’ I answer in my most fawning voice. I see Richter smile. It’s not a pretty sight.

  I seem to be spending more time asleep than awake, but as the pain in my head and body clears, I realise there is no point giving anyone the impression I’m fully recovered. I still have to wear a neck collar, but they tell me that is a precaution. The sooner I’m completely well, the sooner I will be back in the daily grind of the workshop. I have only Richter’s word that Beate is alive, and I won’t believe that until I see it with my own eyes. I don’t even understand how I survived with just a jarred neck and bruises.

  My next visitor is another teacher. Herr Müller.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to him.

  ‘For what?’ he asks.

  ‘For the b—’ His eyes dart to the side urgently, and I see the nurse sitting there and manage to stop mid-sentence. I don’t think she notices. ‘For coming to see me,’ I say.

  He grins. ‘I’m glad I’ve got the chance,’ he says. ‘That was a very, very stupid thing to do. Brave, but stupid.’

  ‘I still don’t understand how I survived.’

  ‘We saw you about to fall, and we also saw that Beate had grabbed onto the downpipe. We’d piled up mattresses under Beate’s likely trajectory. Literally a few seconds before you fell, the fire brigade had readied their rescue net. They managed to move it a couple of metres under you. You still fell very heavily onto it. But the doctors say there is no lasting damage. You’ll be fine.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say again. He seems such a kind man. A bit bookish. A bit owlish. I still cannot fully understand why he is here working at Prora Ost.

  ‘Unfortunately, I’m going to have to leave you now, Irma. I hope you and Beate will be OK.’

  ‘Leave? You’ve only been here a couple of minutes.’

  He smiles again. ‘I didn’t mean right now. I can stay a bit longer. What I meant was I’m leaving the Jugendwerkhof. Apparently, Neumann has recommended to the education authorities that I’ve seen the error of my ways and am a reformed character.’ He lowers his voice. ‘I think he just wants me out of the way. More trouble than I’m worth, which suits me fine.’

  ‘I will miss your kindness. There’s not a lot of it around here. Will you miss us?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ll miss you, Irma. And Beate. Maybe one or two others. But to be honest, I shall be delighted to be back in Berlin. I’m a city boy at heart.’

  He leans over, as though to kiss me goodbye, and as he does so, he whispers in my ear. ‘Don’t forget what it says in the book,’ he breathes. ‘I’m sure there’s a way.’ Then a small chaste kiss on my forehead, and he’s gone.

  21

  February 1975. Day Nine.

  East Berlin.

  As they headed north through sparse Mitte traffic, the smell of the leather upholstery – together with Tilsner’s extravagant use of aftershave – made for a distinctive aroma in the Mercedes. Müller savoured it. It made a change from the smoky redolence of lignite smog: the trademark odour of the Republic. The roads as far as the Grenzübergang Bornholmerstrasse and the Bösebrücke bridge were familiar to them both. After that, Müller would be map-reading their way through West Berlin, towards Schöneberg and the wedding car hire company.

  As they approached the checkpoint, Müller saw the dyed-blonde major from Thursday’s visit walk towards the Mercedes. She looked at it disapprovingly, as Tilsner scrabbled for the button for the electric window.

  ‘Good morning, Comrade Major,’ said Tilsner. It brought a smile from the frosty blonde officer.

  ‘Good morning, Unterleutnant. The Ministry for State Security has approved your passage through, and we will be expecting you on your return. Do you know what time that will be tonight?’

  Tilsner looked towards Müller, raising his eyebrows.

  Müller leant in front of Tilsner, towards the open driver’s window. ‘I think it will be around one in the morning, Comrade Major. Something like that anyway. It’s all detailed in the authorisation that was telexed through to you by the Ministry for State Security.’

  The major gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head. ‘Good. We will be waiting for you
. Good luck.’ With that, Tilsner hit the window switch and the glass rose silently and smoothly. He pressed the accelerator, and the car glided away. Müller dreaded to think how many more marks this car had cost than the Wartburg.

  Müller looked out of the windows, comparing what she saw with her own eyes with what was marked on the map. They could have almost been anywhere in the Hauptstadt. The only difference was the style of street signs, more cars and trucks, and the actual makes of those cars. The ever-present Trabants, Wartburgs and Ladas from the East were nowhere to be seen.

  By the time they reached the wedding limousine hire company in Schöneberg, Müller had reappraised her snap judgement that the West looked pretty much like the East. Their route had taken them to the west of the Spree, swinging further west through Tiergarten, and then – just to see first-hand what they’d already seen in the photo of Silke Eisenberg – Müller directed Tilsner on a small detour to take in the exterior of the Kaufhaus des Westens. Tauentzienstrasse reminded her of the Paris boulevards she’d seen on western TV and in magazines, the throng of Saturday shoppers making her feel almost claustrophobic, even though they were safely ensconced in the comfort of the Mercedes.

  Tilsner took one hand off the wheel to point out of the windscreen towards a high-rise building with a revolving silver emblem on top. ‘The Europa Centre, commonly known as the Mercedes Building. That’s the Mercedes logo spinning round.’ To Müller it looked ostentatious, unnecessary. A symbol of the economic power of the West perhaps, but also a sign of the West’s glorification of business and the business of making money.