Stasi Child

by David Young

  The sense of foreboding she felt increased further once she’d climbed the stairs to the landing outside her and Gottfried’s apartment. Something was wrong. There was no noise – normally Gottfried could be heard singing along to one of his infernal western rock tracks, oblivious to what the neighbours might think. Especially at the weekend, on a Sunday evening, when he almost always stayed in the flat.

  A tingling feeling in her neck prompted her to turn round. Frau Ostermann’s door opposite clicked closed. Why was she nosing about again? And what was the smell? New paint? Had the decorators been in the lobby? On a Sunday? She touched the door just to reassure herself, even though she could see the usual old scuffmarks where the green had flaked away. Unnerved, she turned the key in the lock. It seemed stiffer than normal and as she opened the door the silence had her mind churning. Where was Gottfried? Her heart thudded in her chest as she rushed into the lounge. It was even messier than usual. Gottfried’s school papers scattered over the table, a cold, half-drunk cup of coffee and a half-eaten Brötchen. She lifted the bread roll up, sniffing it, rolling it between her fingers. Beginning to panic, she looked for other signs of where her husband might have gone. His overcoat was still on the peg, his briefcase on the sofa and his reading glasses were on the table. It didn’t make sense.

  ‘Gottfried! Gottfried!’ she shouted. No answer.

  She checked the bedroom. Then the bathroom. No sign of him.

  Against her better judgement, she went back out onto the landing and rang Frau Ostermann’s bell. If anyone would know what had been going on, she would.

  The door opened a crack, but Ostermann kept the security chain bolted.

  ‘You didn’t see my husband go out, did you, Frau Ostermann?’

  ‘Some men came by.’

  ‘Men? What sort of men?’

  ‘That’s not for me to say, Comrade Müller. You’re the policewoman.’ The woman didn’t seem to want to meet her eyes.

  ‘Were they workmen? There seems to be a smell of fresh paint, or something similar.’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you. As you know, I keep myself to myself. Will that be all?’ The woman started to close the door, but as she did so, Müller jammed her boot inside. Frau Ostermann regarded it with a look of distaste.

  ‘You’re quite sure you didn’t see my husband?’ asked Müller, aware of the panic in her voice.

  Then she heard her apartment phone ringing behind her. As she turned, Frau Ostermann immediately clicked her own door shut. Müller ran back into the apartment towards the phone, but when she reached it she made no move to pick up the receiver. Who were the men Frau Ostermann had mentioned? She was suddenly afraid. Afraid of what the person on the other end of the line was going to say. The phone was still ringing. Müller slumped down on the sofa, and finally reached across to answer. It was Jäger.

  ‘Karin?’ he asked. There was a peculiar edge to his voice.

  ‘Comrade Oberstleutnant. What can I do for you?’ She tried to keep her tone light, despite her apprehension.

  ‘We have a problem, Karin. We need to meet.’

  ‘This evening?’ asked Müller. ‘I’ve only just got –’

  ‘This evening. Immediately. Meet me in Das Blaue Licht, in Schwedterstrasse, in ten minutes’ time.’

  ‘But I’ve only –’

  ‘Ten minutes, Comrade Müller. Don’t be late.’ The Stasi officer ended the conversation without waiting for confirmation from her. His abrupt, formal tone had done nothing to dispel her unease. She realised as she replaced the receiver that her right hand was shaking. She clasped it with her left, and gripped tighter and tighter until the pain finally overcame the tremors.

  The temperature had fallen rapidly since dusk, and Müller felt the first flakes of a new snowfall melting on her face as she trudged down Schönhauser Allee and turned into Schwedterstrasse. It was almost refreshing; as with the colder temperatures, the usual Berlin smog had dissipated.

  As she walked along, she tried to work out what was going on. Why did Jäger seem so angry? Was it connected to Gottfried’s disappearance? Or maybe it was the damage to the Mercedes. That was the most likely reason, she told herself. Jäger had probably gone out on a limb to secure the car from the Main Intelligence Directorate – perhaps it had caused him acute embarrassment that it had now been returned badly damaged.

  Or perhaps he wanted to talk to her about the evidence Schmidt had found in the limousine? The seaweed. The seedling. And then the two new breakthroughs Schmidt had made later in the day: firstly, some chalky white sand, with algae amongst it that again pointed to the Ostsee, and then, the woollen fibre. At first it seemed the few fibres that had survived the limousine’s deep clean hadn’t been particularly helpful. They were mostly polyester, common in all Republic fashions. But this sole woollen fibre, found late in the day, was what had got Schmidt most excited. Under the microscope, checking various books with Hasenkamp, he’d eventually managed to identify it as being from the rough-wool Pomeranian sheep. Very few of the breed remained – almost all on Rügen and the neighbouring island of Hiddensee.

  So, a connection with Rügen – to the northern Ostsee coast. Perhaps she could persuade Reiniger and Jäger to allow her, Tilsner and Schmidt to go there to chase up the leads. Although Jäger didn’t sound as though he was in the mood to be granting any favours. What about poor Gottfried? She couldn’t go if he really was missing. Before she went anywhere, she would discover what had happened to her husband.

  Schwedterstrasse itself was deserted. But as she neared Das Blaue Licht, the buzz of chatter, laughter and arguments grew into a roar. Müller used the reflective glass of the bar’s window to check her make-up and hair, and then opened the door.

  A fug of sweat, smoke and beer fumes enveloped her. Unusually for a Sunday evening, the place was packed. Müller had to fight her way through the mostly male bodies to get to the bar. If what Jäger had to say was so important, why had he asked to meet her here?

  A man suddenly barged into her from the side. She stumbled as he apologised, and as she regained her footing she saw Jäger had sat himself in the snug, a small glazed side room in the corner of the bar. She fought her way through the throng – half-wishing the crowd could swallow her up – and opened the snug’s door.

  ‘Karin. Sit . . .’ An unsmiling Jäger pointed to the chair opposite. He made no effort to get up in welcome. He had a half-bottle of schnapps ready opened on the table, from which he poured her a glass. Müller smiled, steeling herself, determined to ride out whatever problem the Stasi Oberstleutnant had discovered.

  Jäger downed the schnapps in one gulp and slammed his glass back on the table. Müller took just her usual sip, then placed her near-full glass down too.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve been fully open with us, have you, Karin?’ Jäger held her gaze.

  ‘About what, Comrade Oberstleutnant?’ Her mind raced. What was this about? All Schmidt’s lab tests had been conducted in the presence of Hasenkamp, the Stasi forensic officer, so there had been no question of keeping anything from Jäger.

  ‘About Gottfried, Karin. Your husband Gottfried.’ At the sound of his name, Müller’s courage evaporated. She took a deep breath, and tried to pull herself together. Say nothing, give nothing away.

  She looked back at Jäger flatly. ‘What about Gottfried?’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  Müller shrugged. ‘It’s the weekend. He may have gone to his parents. Or he could be out drinking with his mates and talking football.’

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Karin. I’m letting you run an important investigation. We both know I could have you removed just like that.’ Jäger clicked his fingers.

  ‘I’m sorry, Comrade Oberstleutnant.’

  Jäger reached into his briefcase and withdrew a black-and-white photograph, which he passed to Müller. It showed Gottfried entering what appeared to be the doorway of a church.

  ‘Do you know where that is?’ It looked vaguely familiar
, but Müller shook her head. ‘What if I told you it’s Gethsemane Church in Prenzlauer Berg?’

  Gethsemane Church. Where Gottfried had been going for his church meetings. Both the police and Stasi knew that opposition elements were part of the congregation. She had warned Gottfried against attending, but he wouldn’t be told.

  Now Jäger reached into his bag again, from which he withdrew yet more photographs. He handed her the next one. It showed Gottfried, inside the church this time, in conversation with Pastor Günther Grosinski, who Müller knew was already under observation for anti-state activities.

  Another photograph – this time of herself with Tilsner. On his and Koletta’s bed in his flat. Scheisse! What was this? Mein Gott! Tilsner and her under observation, from a secret camera in his own family apartment. Courtesy of the Stasi, presumably on Jäger’s say-so. It could wreck both their marriages, wreck both their careers. Clearly Werner wasn’t the informer she thought he was, if the Stasi were spying on him too.

  Her mind reeled, but she knew what was coming next, her hands shaking again as she reached to accept the final photograph from Jäger. There it was, the evidence. Lips locked with Werner, her hands all over him, his all over her, clearly trying to get under her Vopo skirt. Müller dropped the photo. She curled her fingers into her palms and dug her nails in, almost self-mutilating in an effort to stop her hands wiping the beginnings of tears from her face.

  She looked up at Jäger, silently pleading.

  ‘Your marriage is over, Karin,’ he said, pointing to the final photo. ‘As you yourself seem to have realised.’ And then he jabbed at the photo of Gottfried with the pastor. ‘But, more importantly, we cannot afford to have our leading Kriminalpolizei detectives consorting with enemies of the state. This has put me in a very difficult situation. Your husband is under investigation and for the time being you will not see him. It’s not something I initiated but, equally, it’s not something I can tolerate.’

  ‘Can you at least tell me where he is?’ she asked. Her voice sounded feeble, defeated.

  ‘No, Karin. Not at present. In any case, you are leaving Berlin.’ He reached into his bag again, and handed Müller a brown envelope. ‘Railway tickets. You’re booked on the early morning train to Bergen auf Rügen. Although the evidence Schmidt and Hasenkamp found is by no means conclusive, you, Tilsner and Schmidt still need to follow it up and see if it gets us any closer to identifying the dead girl. We’ve also had information through on the teleprinter from our local Ministry office in Bergen, which may or may not be connected: a complaint about a teenage girl that was referred to them by the People’s Police. It’s not much to go on, but added to the evidence Schmidt and Hasenkamp found . . . well, I think it just about merits you going there. And at the present time, you being out of Berlin may be to your advantage, especially given what happened in the Mercedes last night.’ Jäger paused and refilled both their glasses.

  Once again, Jäger seemed to have inside information about what had gone on during their trip to West Berlin. ‘I’m sorry about that, Comrade Oberstleutnant. Do you have any explanation for what happened?’

  Jäger shrugged. ‘Officially, no. But I can guess. It wasn’t your fault. But I warned you when all this started – this was likely to be a difficult case. The incident in West Berlin proves it. There are people who would like this investigation shut down, closed. The official explanation for the girl’s killing remains just that. Some people would prefer, I’m sure, that she is never identified; I am determined that she should be.’ He met Müller’s eyes and held her gaze. ‘So, I hope, are you. But a People’s Police detective with a husband who is engaging in anti-state activities will just give those who want the case closed more ammunition. So you will be going to Rügen for a few days. In the meantime, Oberst Reiniger and I will look after the case in Berlin.’

  ‘Could I at least talk to Gottfried before I go? Or write him a letter? Something. Anything. He’s not a bad man. I’m sure it’s just a mistake.’

  Jäger shook his head, a solemn look on his face. He was nothing like a western newsreader now, thought Müller.

  ‘No, Karin. you will not be able to have any contact with your husband before you go. I need you to stay on the case, and that’s incompatible with you being in touch with an enemy of the state. Especially one you’re married to. On the way to Rügen you will have plenty of time to think about your future. Do you want to remain with the Kriminalpolizei, remain on this case, and perhaps in a few years’ time get a promotion? Or do you want to stay with your husband, a criminal, and be thrown out of the force?’

  Müller looked at the Stasi officer. In his other guise, he’d seemed so pleasant. At the cemetery, the Kulturpark, the Märchenbrunnen. She’d almost found herself trusting him. What a mistake that had been! Now she wanted to grab him. Tear at his clothes, tear at his face. Instead, she meekly put the envelope containing the train tickets into her handbag.

  ‘You’d better get home and get some sleep. The train leaves at seven in the morning. Tilsner and Schmidt will be at the station to meet you.’

  Müller cleared her throat. ‘Does Tilsner know anything about this, Comrade Oberstleutnant?’ She wasn’t meeting Jäger’s eyes. Instead, she stared at her hands, gripping the handle of her bag until her knuckles went white.

  ‘About Gottfried being investigated? No, Karin, why should he?’

  ‘I’d be very grateful if you could keep it that way, Comrade Oberstleutnant.’

  ‘Of course. But let this be a warning. At this stage I intend to take no action in respect of your extramarital relations with one of your subordinate officers, but I want to emphasise how fortunate you are that I’ve decided to be lenient.’

  Müller felt herself burning up inside. She wiped the sweat from her forehead. ‘I assure you nothing really happened. It was a mistake, Comrade Oberstleutnant. It won’t happen again.’

  Jäger pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Just so long as we understand each other.’

  28

  February 1975.

  A Stasi prison, East Germany.

  Morning, and natural daylight, brought Gottfried Müller some relief from the blinding electric light in the hole in the cell wall above the door, which had been turned on and off by the guards in some manic pattern throughout the night. The cell door opened briefly, and a metal washbowl was thrown inside, a hose pushed through the hatch, and then he was catching the water in it and savouring the refreshment of a first wash in twenty-four hours.

  Day followed night, followed day, and no one spoke to him, told him what he’d done, or even where he was. He thought of Karin and wondered what she would know. Had she been arrested too? Had the school been told? Who would be taking his class?

  On the third day the routine suddenly changed. There was no evening meal of stale bread and margarine, and no explanation why.

  Night-time: light on, light off, on, off, on, off, every few seconds. He tried to get to sleep, but hunger gnawed at his stomach. Finally, he dozed sporadically for what seemed just a few seconds at a time between the light’s flashes. He was woken by the sound of keys being turned in the lock. A male guard roughly pulled him from the bed and cuffed their hands together. The metal bit into Gottfried’s wrist. The guard might as well have been deaf and mute for the way he ignored all questions as they went along corridor after corridor, up and down staircases, and past red light after red light. They encountered no other prisoners and no other guards, and Gottfried could only conclude that the lights were some kind of warning system that the corridor was occupied by a prisoner – him. Finally, he was ushered into a room containing an officer in plain clothes, sitting behind a desk with a single telephone and typewriter. The guard uncuffed his wrist, and then shackled Gottfried’s hands together before refastening the cuffs. He locked the door behind him as he exited, and the plain-clothes officer gestured at a stool. ‘Sit, Herr Müller.’

  Gottfried felt almost joyful at hearing his surname. He obeyed, and perched on the s
tool.

  The officer looked up from the papers on his desk, and pushed his glasses back up his nose. ‘I am Major Hunsberger. As you’ve probably guessed, I work for the Ministry for State Security.’

  Gottfried stared back at Hunsberger. He wanted to ask so many questions. What was he supposed to have done? Why was he here? But although he tried to speak, nothing came.

  ‘How is your wife Karin?’ the officer asked.

  The question momentarily confused Gottfried. Of all the things they might have asked, why were they talking about his wife? He struggled to form the words of his reply. ‘I . . . I . . . I haven’t seen her for several days.’

  ‘No, no. I can understand that. You’ve been locked up here after all. But before that, how was she? How were relations between you two? Is it hard to keep a younger woman satisfied?’

  Gottfried frowned – what was the Stasi man driving at? ‘I don’t understand. Why are you asking questions about my wife? Can you please just tell me why I’m here, get me a lawyer and release me?’ He emphasised the point by slapping his hand on the table, causing the phone to jangle. Immediately, he regretted the flash of petulance. He needed to stay under control. There was no point riling Hunsberger unnecessarily.

  The officer rose, wandered towards the window, then turned back towards Gottfried and held his gaze. ‘You will understand quickly, Herr Müller, that we ask the questions here. Not you.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Please let me finish, Herr Müller. I can assure you it is in your own interests. You are in a remand prison of the Ministry for State Security. You are fortunate that within less than a week, we have seen fit to interview you. That’s mainly because your wife is an important detective in the Kriminalpolizei –’