Stasi Child

by David Young

  Ignoring the road signs, Tilsner made a U-turn, so they could have another look at the KaDeWe from the southern side of the street. Müller marvelled at all the fashions in the window displays. She remembered that the KaDeWe was on the list of required shops they had to visit. She felt something akin to excitement, and then chastised herself. Those who could afford all this – who had they trampled on to reach the top of their businesses? At least east of the protection barrier, for all the shortages, they were trying to build a fairer way.

  Once they had reached Schöneberg, the hire company was relatively easy to find and all the documentation was ready for them to sign. Tilsner showed his fake papers and handed the salesman the hire amount and deposit in Deutschmarks from the envelopes Jäger had given them. He did it all with the smoothness of someone who was used to this level of duplicity, betraying none of the nerves that Müller herself felt. It reinforced her suspicions of earlier that morning. There was far more to Tilsner than met the eye.

  Her deputy was wearing gloves just in case the previous hirers had left fingerprints, but as it was winter, that didn’t attract the suspicion of the hire company staff. Müller very much doubted the person – or people – they were hunting had been stupid enough to leave prints. But maybe – if the murdered girl had still been alive by the time she was in the car, if indeed she had ever been in the car – they might find something to establish her identity.

  She reluctantly climbed into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes, and then followed Tilsner and the limousine out of the car park, after first warning him to drive slowly. After initially struggling with the unfamiliar gearstick and controls, she managed to keep pace with him round the ring road, before turning east at Westend. They cruised along Spandauer Damm, then Charlottenburg Palace emerged on their left. Müller risked a quick glance away from the road when they stopped at the traffic lights. It was a symbol of great wealth, of privilege, of everything the Republic was fighting against, but as she turned into Schlossstrasse where their hotel was situated, Müller had to admit the palace – with its central copper-domed tower, red-tiled roof and wing upon wing of sumptuous cream stone – was a beautiful building. Whoever had commissioned it, privileged or not, certainly had good taste.

  In the hotel, things took a strange turn. They’d agreed to have a couple of hours’ rest before setting off to buy the items on Jäger’s shopping list. Müller’s room looked out onto Schlossstrasse, and the angry repeated beep of a car horn drew her to the window. She edged back the curtain a fraction, and saw the Volvo limousine pulling out of the space where Tilsner had parked it. For an instant, she wondered if it was being stolen. She knew rates of car theft were higher in the West – or so Neues Deutschland claimed. But then she recognised Tilsner at the wheel, laboriously trying to manoeuvre his way out of the space. That was what had attracted the ire of other drivers. Where was he taking the vehicle, and why? Was she wrong about his loyalty to the Republic – could he even be using this as an opportunity to defect?

  She picked up the hotel phone and asked reception to put her through to Tilsner’s room. No answer. She wasn’t expecting one.

  She decided the best policy was to say nothing. If he wasn’t aware she knew he’d slipped away, it might be to her advantage. Turning away from the curtain, she moved to the bathroom and ran a hot bath – adding dollop after dollop of bubble bath. Müller slipped out of her new western clothes, the ones Jäger had given her from the bag in his car, enjoying their silky feel on her skin as they fell to the tiled floor. She smiled to herself. Some decadent western luxury, it was what she needed.

  22

  Day Nine.

  East Berlin.

  As he’d gone to get the newspaper, Gottfried had noticed the bread van parked on the other side of the street. It had seemed out of place. And the name of the bakery was unfamiliar.

  He’d already been exhausted by the constant rowing with Karin. Now it felt as though his whole world had disintegrated. He’d meant to get up early, to see her off and perhaps mend some proverbial fences. Instead, she had left on her secret weekend mission without saying goodbye, and he hadn’t woken. The row would now fester in her mind, just when he needed her most.

  It was about ten minutes later, when Gottfried was settling down to do some school marking, munching on a fresh Brötchen, that all hell broke loose. A hammering sound on the apartment door made him look up in shock.

  ‘Who’s that? What’s going on?’ he shouted, through a mouthful of bread. In the back of his mind, he already knew. His transfer to Rügen had been a warning. A warning he’d ignored.

  As he got up to move towards the door to open it, he realised he didn’t need to bother. With a splintering sound, the door burst open and half a dozen leather-jacketed men surrounded him. Pinning his arms. Cuffing his hands behind his back. Ignoring his frantic shouts and questions, and dragging him down the stairs.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he screamed. ‘My wife’s a police officer. She’ll report you to the authorities for this.’ As soon as the words left his mouth, he realised his threat was empty. For all he knew, Karin may have been already aware that this was going to happen. May have even ordered his arrest. It was a frightening thought.

  One of the thugs yanked his cuffed arms further up towards his shoulder blades. The pain pulsed into his head.

  ‘Keep quiet, citizen,’ he hissed into Gottfried’s ear. ‘If you know what’s good for you.’

  Despite his desperate situation, Gottfried still found himself checking that no neighbours were watching as he was forced across the pavement towards a Barkas van – similar to the bakery van but a different colour, a different company name on the side. He didn’t want anyone to see his shame, his humiliation.

  The aroma of fresh bread from breakfast was still in his nostrils, the taste on his tongue. But they were instantly replaced by the smell of piss and shit as he was bundled inside and forced into one of several tiny holding cells in its rear.

  The door to the cramped cell was slammed shut. Seconds later, he heard the engine roar to life. He was being taken somewhere. He just didn’t know where, or why.

  23

  Day Nine.

  West Berlin.

  Oberleutnant Karin Müller found herself sweating inside her new western clothing provided by Jäger as she browsed the KaDeWe’s shoe department. The skirt was wool, the blouse silk, the knickers and bra cotton – natural, expensive materials. On her, they just didn’t feel right. Like a painting in an incongruous frame. And it didn’t help that the heating inside the department store seemed to be on too high. She looked down at the fur-lined winter boot that the male assistant was levering her left foot into. Almost 300 marks’ worth of footwear – the pair cost virtually the same as Müller’s weekly wage.

  ‘Would madam care to take a walk? Perhaps look at them in the mirror over there? They suit you very well.’ Müller reddened at the man’s compliment, but played the part and walked towards the full-length mirror. She was glad Tilsner wasn’t here to add to her discomfort; they’d agreed to meet up later in the hotel in Charlottenburg, and meanwhile he’d gone to the sports department to buy some Hertha Berlin football paraphernalia from Jäger’s shopping list.

  She fussed with her hair in the reflective glass. It was hanging limp and greasy. Then her eyes moved down to the boots. Black suede, ending just below the knee, with grey fur turnovers. Over her shoulder she could see the assistant, waiting eagerly.

  ‘I’ll take them,’ she said, smiling. The man returned her smile, but there was something about his that seemed unctuous and false. He just wanted the sale, she thought. That’s what it’s all about here.

  Müller lay back on the hotel bed and stared up at the ceiling. She couldn’t help feeling something was badly wrong when she’d been able to enjoy – if that was the right word – an afternoon’s shopping in West Berlin’s most iconic department store, while the dead girl she was supposed to be trying to identify lay in the cooler of the Charité
Hospital mortuary. Could they, should they, be doing more in the Republic? Knocking door to door, on every apartment with a teenage girl the right age? But that would be a Sisyphean task. Reiniger and Jäger would never authorise such a campaign.

  There was a rap on the door. Müller jumped up and opened it to find Tilsner dressed in various blue-and-white striped items. She ushered him in.

  ‘Do you like it all? I’ve got the figure of a footballer, don’t you think?’

  Müller laughed at the too-tight replica Hertha Berlin football shirt. ‘No, I don’t.’

  Tilsner attempted to flex his pectoral muscles. She just shook her head. He looked ridiculous. A blue-and-white knitted hat and striped scarf completed the ensemble. ‘I feel a bit disloyal. I’m a Dynamo fan, after all. I’d better not show Marius. I don’t want him transferring his affection to a western club.’

  Müller sat on the bed and said nothing. It was well known in the Hauptstadt that Dynamo was a Stasi-backed team, Mielke’s pet project.

  ‘So, what are we going to do to while away the time?’ asked Tilsner. She watched him look at all her shopping bags. ‘Shall we give each other a fashion show?’

  Müller shook her head. ‘No, let’s not bother. I’m tired.’ She rubbed her stockinged feet and then lay back on the bed again. ‘I thought I might get some sleep, then we could perhaps go out and get something to eat?’

  Tilsner shrugged. ‘OK.’ He laid his hand gently on her nylon-clad leg. ‘You wouldn’t like me to lie on the bed with you?’

  Müller rolled her eyes and sighed. ‘No, Werner. Just forget about that. I’m married. You’re married. I’m your boss. You’re supposed to be my deputy. Let’s just keep it all straightforward. OK?’

  Getting to his feet and stretching, Tilsner moved towards the door, and then met her eyes. ‘OK, Karin. Have it your way.’ He opened the door and slammed it behind him.

  Müller let her head fall back on the pillow, and closed her eyes.

  The strained atmosphere between the two detectives continued into the evening. Perhaps a pre-marriage tiff was authentic, and Tilsner had certainly lapsed into a morose sulk. When it came to paying the bill, they realised that between them they barely had enough of Jäger’s cash left.

  As they left the restaurant, Müller looked up at the neon advertising signs, flashing with false bonhomie, and the Mercedes building’s star. It rotated amid a fluorescent glow, casting eerie flickers into the night sky.

  Back in Charlottenburg, they packed their respective purchases into the limousine and the Mercedes.

  ‘Will you be OK driving the Mercedes at night?’ asked Tilsner, a sullen note in his voice.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ll follow you. Just don’t go too fast and keep a look out in the rear-view mirror.’

  They began the return journey, car horns sounding regularly as Tilsner attempted to negotiate the traffic. Müller kept as close as possible to the rear lights of the Volvo. It was all very well driving an unfamiliar vehicle in the daylight, but it was already well past one in the morning. She knew the Hauptstadt would be virtually traffic-free by this time, but here in the West it was still surprisingly busy. Jäger had been mistaken in his insistence that it would be quieter after midnight.

  Soon after they turned onto the ring road at Westend and began to head north, Müller got the sense that they were being followed. The headlights of the car behind were on full beam, alternately coming right up to the rear of the Mercedes and then dropping back again. She tried to ignore them, and flipped the tab on the rear-view mirror to its anti-glare position.

  Then the car behind pulled out, and she was conscious of it directly alongside her, so close that it felt as though the two cars would touch at any moment. Müller took her foot off the accelerator slightly. The car alongside did the same. She risked a glance across. There was a man with sunglasses, gesturing at her to pull over. It didn’t look like a police car. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, trying to stop her hands shaking. She was determined to ignore the other driver and just concentrate on the Volvo’s rear lights.

  Suddenly a crash. The other car had buffeted into her, and she felt the Merc’s steering wheel torn from her grip. Müller fought to control the unfamiliar car. Then another crash. She saw sparks flying. Heard the groans and grinding of metal tearing against metal. The Merc’s wheels slid, whiplash threw her forward and her body jolted against the seat belt. Then . . . nothing. Just the hiss of the radiator.

  Disorientated, Müller switched off the engine. She felt pain from her left breast where the seat belt had cut into it, but otherwise seemed unhurt. She opened the driver’s door and climbed out. Immediately, she was dazzled by onrushing cars, blaring their horns but failing to stop. She flattened her body against the side of the car and then edged round to the front. Steam rose from under the bonnet. Müller tried to investigate the passenger side but the car was wedged tight against the crash barrier, the front wing dented where it had hit. Tilsner and the other car had already disappeared to the northeast, around the ring road. No sign of either of them. She looked the other way: blue lights and sirens in the distance. Scheisse! Then she realised a vehicle was pulling into the hard shoulder behind her. She shielded her eyes from the glare, momentarily blinded, and thinking in that split second that she now knew exactly how a rabbit in the headlights felt. Paralysed. Thinking that perhaps she should run, rather than stay and meet her fate.

  ‘Are you OK, Karin? What happened?’

  It was Tilsner! She ran forward, and crushed him in a hug.

  ‘Thank God!’ she said. ‘I thought the others had returned.’

  ‘The others? What do you mean?’

  ‘You didn’t see the crash?’

  ‘No. I just realised that you’d stopped following me. I thought I’d better double back and check you were OK. Are you?’

  Müller was conscious that he was patting her, rubbing her back. It was the first time she’d known him to touch her in a platonic way. She breathed in deeply.

  ‘I think so,’ she replied, finally. ‘But I’m not sure about the car. Someone deliberately forced me off the road. It was terrifying. You didn’t see them? A black car? A man with sunglasses?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’ He looked at the Mercedes doubtfully. ‘We need to try to move it before the police spot us, even if we have to tow it back with the limo.’

  Tilsner asked her for the keys; she gestured with her eyes to indicate they were still in the ignition. He climbed in, started the car and then shouted from the door. ‘Mind out of the way. I’m going to try and reverse.’ She heard him rev the engine, then a groaning sound, and finally the tearing of metal as he forced the car away from the barrier. Well, most of the car. Part of the wing had come free and was still stuck at the roadside.

  He climbed out, yanked the torn-off metal away from the barrier and then put it in the car’s boot. ‘It’s still driveable . . . I think. Do you want me to drive it and you take the limo? Only this time don’t have any tangles with imaginary assailants.’

  ‘I wasn’t imagining it – they tried to force me off the road. Who do you think it was?’

  ‘I don’t know. Look, if you want, I’m happy to say I was driving. I get on well with Jäger. We know each other from way back. He won’t hold it against me.’

  Müller said nothing, but gave a small nod.

  After a few near misses, Müller successfully negotiated the limousine to the Bösebrücke and the Grenzübergang. The western police just waved them through. On the eastern side, the dyed-blonde major was nowhere to be seen. But when Tilsner – ahead in the mangled Mercedes – flashed their authorisation, they were immediately let through.

  Müller felt a definite sense of relief as they entered the Hauptstadt. This was home. This felt right. The after-effects of shock from the crash were lifting. It was somehow less tense away from the freneticism of the West.

  By the time they had delivered the limousine to Schmi
dt at police headquarters and debriefed Jäger over the phone about the Mercedes, it was nearly two in the morning. Müller wondered if she ought to go straight back to the Schönhauser Allee apartment, and try to make her peace with Gottfried. If she let the tensions between them fester then a break-up was inevitable. Was that what she really wanted? To throw away her marriage? She glanced at her watch again. The trouble was, given the time, he would be fast asleep and in no mood to be wakened. She couldn’t face another argument.

  Müller made up her mind. She asked Tilsner to take her back to the office in Marx-Engels-Platz. It would be the emergency blankets and pillow from the cupboard, then an early start. She would work the Sunday. The way things were, it seemed easier than returning home.

  In the office, she allowed herself one reminder of the West. She piled the shopping bags on the long table, under the noticeboard, and then lifted out the large shoebox that contained the boots. She opened it, and peeled back the protective tissue paper. Then she removed one boot, and caressed the fur-lined top, as though stroking a cat. A small touch of luxury. Then she looked up at the photographs pinned to the noticeboard. The dead, nameless girl. The girl without teeth. The girl without eyes.

  Müller dropped the fur-lined boot as though it was infected.

  24

  Day Nine.

  The near total blackness and smell of urine and faeces closed in on Gottfried Müller. The movement of the vehicle jolted his body from side to side, up and down, the bile of panic and nausea rising in his throat. He made to reach with his hand to try to cover his mouth, fighting with the steel cuffs that chafed at his wrists. But there wasn’t enough room to move.

  Taking a long breath of the putrid air, he tried to stand from his contorted half-sitting, half-crouching position, but gave up as his body pressed against the walls, the floor and the roof. It was like being in an upright, foreshortened coffin, a space less than a metre square in width and depth, and perhaps a little over a metre and a half high.