by David Young
‘Yes, I know all that, but –’
‘Herr Müller!’ Hunsberger’s sudden shout startled him. ‘Sit down on the stool. Now. We have the power to keep you on remand for as long as we wish, and unless you cooperate you will be sent back to your cell, and we may not see fit to interview you for weeks . . . months . . . some people have been here years. Do I make myself clear?’
Gottfried’s shoulders slumped. At the very least, he needed to know what was going on.
‘I was asking you about your wife, Comrade Karin Müller. How has she seemed? How have you two been getting on?’
Where was this leading? ‘We have our ups and downs – like any married couple. She’s been very busy recently, because of the murder case . . . It’s a big thing for her.’
‘Very busy, yes . . . would you like to see a recent photo of your wife?’
Gottfried nodded cautiously, and Hunsberger passed him a black-and-white print. It was a photo of Karin with her deputy Werner Tilsner, lying side by side on a strange bed.
‘She does look busy, doesn’t she?’ asked Hunsberger.
‘What the hell is this, she wouldn’t –’
Hunsberger handed over another photo. ‘And even busier in this one, wouldn’t you say? Of course you can’t see exactly what her facial expression is. But her lips look . . . busy.’
Gottfried stared at the photo open-mouthed. Karin and Tilsner. Together. Jaws locked in what was certainly not just a comradely kiss – their hands pawing each other. He dropped the photo to the floor.
‘Is she a good kisser?’ asked Hunsberger, a smirk playing on his face.
Gottfried, riled by the officer’s mocking, leapt up. He attempted to strike the Stasi officer with his cuffed hands, but Hunsberger caught and gripped them tightly, making him wince with pain.
‘Don’t try it, Herr Müller. You’ll regret it very much. Why don’t you sit down there?’ Hunsberger pointed at an armchair. Gottfried slumped down into it.
The Stasi officer picked up the phone and began talking rapidly into it. Then he replaced the receiver. ‘You haven’t eaten yet today, Herr Müller, have you? I’ve just ordered you some food. You will have a choice. Some of your favourite things. That will make a change from bread rolls and margarine, won’t it?’
Hunsberger was smirking, rocking back on the two rear legs of his chair, his arms folded in front of him. Gottfried didn’t reply. The question had been rhetorical.
A few moments later, a guard knocked on the door and brought in two plates of food, which he placed in front of Hunsberger. On the left, despite what the Stasi man had promised, more bread rolls, margarine and jam. On the right, Gebackene Apfelringe – Gottfried’s favourite dessert, a speciality of Karin’s. Apple rings in choux pastry with vanilla cream and raspberries. Something they could usually only obtain a few times a year, when raspberries were fleetingly in the shops. Gottfried could feel his mouth watering. He knew Hunsberger had seen his eyes drawn to the right-hand plate. He swallowed the saliva down.
‘Just the way Karin makes it,’ whispered the Stasi man, reading the teacher’s thoughts. ‘But first you must answer some questions, and then I will explain your choice. Look at this!’ Hunsberger’s tone had changed from syrupy bonhomie to ruthless efficiency in a second.
The Stasi officer handed him another photograph. Again it appeared to be from a surveillance camera, and Gottfried immediately recognised it as the sanatorium at Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost – somewhere he’d have been happy to never see again in his life. It showed him standing by Irma’s bed, although the girl herself was obscured. He knew what was coming next – a photograph from a few seconds later. He knew it would show him kissing Irma on the forehead. But he was wrong.
‘What the hell is this?’ he screamed, dropping the photo back on the table. Gottfried recoiled from the image. It showed him apparently kissing a girl on the mouth, his hand mauling her breast. But the girl’s face was not Irma’s – it was Beate Ewert’s.
‘You tell me, Citizen Müller.’
Gottfried jumped up, picked the print off the table and began tearing it in two. ‘This is a fake! A fake! I kissed a girl on the forehead. That girl was Irma Behrendt, whose life I’d just helped to save. But this monstrosity –’ he threw the torn pieces of photo into the air, ‘– has been doctored to show me with a completely different girl. I certainly did not molest any of the girls.’
‘The evidence says otherwise, Herr Müller. The evidence which you’ve just destroyed.’ He bent to pick the torn pieces of photograph from the floor, and then started arranging them on the table like a jigsaw puzzle, until the image of Beate reappeared. ‘But it’s easy to put it back together, as you see. And we have copies.’
Hunsberger wasn’t finished. He reached into a file and pulled out another set of photos. ‘What I showed you in the Jugendwerkhof is of course very serious. But not as serious as this.’ With a flourish, he passed the next photograph to Gottfried. The black-and-white print showed the teacher about to enter Gethsemane Church. ‘You know where this is, don’t you?’
Gottfried declined to answer. But yes, he knew. And he thought he knew when it had been taken, and suspected he knew who had taken it. That Tilsner bastard. The arsehole had been spying on him. Rather than look at the photo or the Stasi officer, he stared at his hands in his lap, watching the ends of his fingers shake. The next photograph was one of him with Pastor Grosinski.
‘That man is under surveillance for alleged anti-state activities,’ said Hunsberger. ‘Yet here you are consorting with him.’ Hunsberger now took two further pieces of paper from the file. They looked like official documents. He handed one to Gottfried. ‘Could you read this, please?’
Article 96 of the DDR’s constitution, highlighted in red marker pen. But Hunsberger read it out to him anyway from his own copy. ‘This is the relevant part, Herr Müller.’ He leant over and traced his finger along the red highlighting on Gottfried’s copy. ‘Whoever is convicted of undertaking to undermine the political or social order of the DDR can, in severe cases, be sentenced to death.’
Gottfried started to protest. ‘What? I was just meeting a priest.’
‘Who is going to believe you, a pervert who molests schoolgirls when they’re ill in bed?’
‘I didn’t –’
‘Silence!’ Hunsberger moved the plate with the Gebackene Apfelringe to the centre of the desk. ‘You’d better start telling us the truth, Herr Müller, otherwise it will be dangerous for you and your wife. We will question the relevant people, but it seems to me you are guilty and we will find the evidence to prove it. And the penalty, in the most serious cases, is the ultimate penalty.’ Hunsberger rotated the plate of dessert so that the raspberries were under Gottfried’s nose, but instead of continuing to make his mouth water, he could feel bile rising in his throat.
‘Have a good look at this plate of food, Herr Müller. Before carrying out any death sentence, the prisoner is allowed to request a last meal.’
A flash of light. The entrance to Gethsemane Church. A flash of light. He and Grosinski deep in conversation. A flash of light. The photo of lips-locked Karin and Tilsner. A flash of light. The image of him kissing Beate, his hand on her breast. A flash of light. The blood-red raspberries, vanilla cream and puffed-up dough around the apple rings.
He pulled the blanket over his head, turned on his side, tried to hide from the ever-flashing light and the ever-present images. Ever since he had left Hunsberger and been led back to his cell, utterly defeated, the torment had begun again. But then came the rustle of keys, the clang of the door.
The fat-faced female guard was back. ‘Hands off the blanket. Blanket off your face. And lie on your back!’
Same words. Another night. Another day. Another night. How many more before that last-ever plate of Gebackene Apfelringe would be brought to him? He thought of Karin. He didn’t blame her for being tempted by Tilsner. He was sure that was just a mistake on her part, and he had been stupi
d and risked getting her into trouble, risked wrecking her career. If only he could talk to her; he was sure she would be able to clear this up and get him out of this hellish place.
29
Day Eleven.
The train to Stralsund.
Sleep last night had come fitfully for Müller, punctuated by various nightmares featuring Gottfried, Jäger, Tilsner and the girl’s body on the autopsy table, all jumbled together in a montage of horror. Now, as she rocked from side to side with the motion of the train, her body craved a nap – but her brain, racing full of thoughts and theories, wouldn’t let her. She glanced across at Tilsner and Schmidt on the other side of the aisle, heads slumped and snoring loudly.
Müller felt disloyal to Gottfried. Should she have refused to come to Rügen and have insisted instead that they allow her to visit him? She couldn’t have done that without at least risking a reprimand.
Schmidt’s progress in the lab, the clues from the car, all seemed to offer hope of a genuine breakthrough. But something nagged at her. If the limousine had been cleaned, as Schmidt maintained, why did this evidence remain? Evidence so clear-cut it almost felt as though it had been planted. If so, by whom? The Stasi? After all, it was Jäger who was sending them up north to Rügen. But why?
She sighed and took a sip of the train coffee that Tilsner had fetched earlier from the buffet car. It was lukewarm by now, and its bitterness made her recoil. She reached for another sugar sachet and stirred it in.
The other major problem was that there were no reports of missing girls from either the Harz or Rügen – certainly none that fitted the dead girl’s profile. There was just this single mysterious complaint about a teenage girl which had been referred to the Stasi. The one Jäger had mentioned in the bar. She’d even disturbed Tilsner’s weekend by ordering him to go over all the files again. He’d found nothing, but had brought along the files for Müller to double-check.
She took the folders out of her bag. Three of them: one for each of the Republic’s most northerly Bezirke: Rostock, Schwerin and Neubrandenburg. She started with Rostock, lifting it onto her lap and leafing through the pages. It was their best chance. The Rostock district included Rügen and all of the DDR’s Ostsee coast.
The train rocked violently, and her coffee sloshed onto the dirty floor. Tilsner woke with a snort.
‘Must have drifted off there, apologies,’ he said, wiping his hand across his face. ‘Mind you, you did get me to work on a Sunday.’ She saw him peering over the folder she had in her hands. ‘There’s nothing there,’ he said. ‘I told you yesterday. Not a single girl matching the profile of our body.’
Müller continued to read through the files. There were older girls, taller girls, young women, men, pensioners. Many of them were marked as suspected Republikflüchtlinge, but Tilsner was correct – there was nothing matching the dead girl’s profile.
‘We need something else to go on, Karin. We need another lead.’
‘What about if a girl has gone missing from Rügen. But it simply hasn’t been reported, so it doesn’t appear in these files?’
Tilsner rubbed his chin, which was now covered in several days’ stubble. ‘I don’t see how that’s possible. Surely the authorities would find out?’
Müller nodded. ‘But it’s not Berlin, is it? Say it was some remote farm. Maybe a domestic fight. Maybe a single parent, a farmer with a rebellious teenager. He goes loopy, strangles the girl in a rage, dumps her body by the Anti-Fascist Protection Barrier in Berlin –’
‘– and then goes to the trouble of shooting her in the back after she’s dead, throws on a bucket of animal blood, and all to try to make out she’s been shot from the West? And hires a limo in the West to try to point the finger at the authorities? And what about the rapes?’ Tilsner shook his head. ‘Sorry, that wouldn’t make any sense at all.’
They fell silent. Müller knew he was right. She picked up another of the files and began to leaf through it. She couldn’t concentrate and instead began to worry about Gottfried, before the motion of the train and Schmidt’s rhythmic snoring started sending her to sleep too.
Müller slept virtually the entire remainder of the journey, and had to be woken by Tilsner just before Stralsund Hauptbahnhof and their change of train to Rügen, the Republic’s largest island. As the new train crossed the Strelasund strait on the rail bridge from the mainland, Müller’s initial impressions were disappointing. She was expecting a rural landscape, but the view was industrial – like many parts of the Republic. Only when they got further onto the island could she see the gently rolling landscape and farms that she’d imagined from her only previous visit to the Ostsee coast – the countryside she remembered from her honeymoon spent camping amongst the dunes of Prerow, further to the west. She remembered lusting over Gottfried’s toned and tanned body. He didn’t look like that now. The memory triggered an abrupt resurgence of guilt, and fear for her husband. Why was she thinking ill of him in his current predicament? She should instead be trying everything she could to help him. He’d been stupid getting involved with the church group, but he wasn’t a bad man and the memories of their honeymoon reminded her that they had loved each other. In the early days, the early years, of the marriage.
At Bergen auf Rügen station they were collected by a Volkspolizei officer and taken to the local People’s Police headquarters to be briefed on the arrangements that Jäger had made for them in advance.
They were led into a room at the back of the police station. ‘Oberst Drescher will be with you in a moment, Comrade Müller,’ said the policeman, and left the three Berlin officers alone.
‘Has Jäger sorted accommodation?’ asked Tilsner.
‘As far as I know, yes,’ said Müller. ‘That’s what it said in his note with the tickets. They should be providing us with a car too.’
‘Hmm. No doubt with one of their goons to accompany us everywhere.’
As Tilsner finished speaking, a side door opened, and in strode an officer in a police colonel’s uniform. The three Berlin officers made to stand, but the Oberst waved them to remain seated.
‘This is a pleasure, Comrade Müller. Oberst Marcus Drescher, of the Rügen People’s Police. And these officers are –?’
Müller introduced Tilsner and Schmidt, and then Drescher urged them to move their chairs from the side of the room to a central desk. ‘We’ve been told by the Ministry for State Security in Berlin to provide you with accommodation and transport, and that’s something we’re glad to help with. But I read about the case you’re working on in Neues Deutschland. I thought the girl was supposed to have escaped from the West into the East?’ The colonel was smirking slightly as he asked the question. ‘It would appear now that that’s perhaps not the case,’ he continued. ‘Are you now thinking the girl is from Rügen itself?’
‘Possibly,’ said Müller. ‘Certain evidence discovered at the scene points to that, but it’s just one line of inquiry we’re following. However, it seems as though there are no girls missing from Rügen who match the dead girl’s profile.’
‘You’ve checked all the files?’ asked Drescher.
‘Yes,’ interrupted Tilsner. ‘I performed that fascinating task.’ Müller frowned at his flippancy.
‘What I was wondering,’ asked Müller, ‘is whether there might be anything short of a formal missing person’s report that might be worth following up? You know the sort of thing: a neighbour gets suspicious about a family and reports them, or the police are called out to a domestic disturbance, or a girl’s been beaten up or mistreated.’ Müller already knew from Jäger that there was something worth following up. But she held that back initially. She wanted to test how open with his help and information the Rügen People’s Police colonel was prepared to be.
Drescher shuffled forward, pulling his chair closer to the table. ‘The trouble is that not all of those sorts of reports would come to us. Some would go to the local office of the Ministry for State Security, but then they would send them to Berli
n, and no doubt your Oberstleutnant Jäger would have access to them.’
Müller nodded. It didn’t look like Drescher was going to volunteer very much without further prodding. ‘The Ministry has indeed informed us about one incident that was referred to them, a complaint about a teenage girl. We’d like to see any details on that, and anything else that may be relevant.’ She watched Drescher’s face for a hint of reaction. But he appeared as though he had nothing to hide.
‘Of course, of course. I will get one of my officers to bring you the files. Off the top of my head I don’t know about that incident, but the details should have been noted. You can go through them here, and then we will show you the car we’re providing for you and give you directions to your accommodation. We’ve found you a place in one of the coastal resorts. I thought you’d prefer that to staying here in Bergen. It will be more comfortable for you, and more of a change from Berlin.’
The files were arranged month by month. They decided to look through a year’s worth of entries initially. Müller took March to June of the previous year; Tilsner July to October; Schmidt started on the ones from November to the current month.
Müller leafed through the pages, quickly discarding irrelevant entries. Theft of a car. Theft of some wood. Someone who wouldn’t repair their smallholding’s fences so sheep kept escaping. A fight in a pub in Bergen. A fire which someone claimed had been started deliberately by a tenant to try to secure better accommodation.
‘There’s nothing here,’ she complained. ‘What about you two?’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary in mine,’ said Schmidt.
‘Ha! This is a good one,’ said Tilsner. He ran his finger under the words of the report, from left to right. ‘Frau Probst of Am Hafen street in Gager rang up the People’s Police station in Göhren complaining about children fishing from the pier. She said this was an anti-socialist enterprise and the police should either stop them or collectivise the activity.’
