by David Young
Müller made a mental note of the director’s absence. She’d follow that up later. ‘We’re investigating a murder,’ she said, holding the woman’s gaze. With Frau Baumgartner the previous night she’d been more circumspect, wanting to tease information from the woman; but with deputy director Richter, she decided a direct approach might be better. Try to unnerve her from the start.
‘On Rügen?’ asked Richter. ‘It’s not often we get murders here on the island.’
‘No, Frau Richter – in Berlin. But there is evidence to suggest the dead girl may have come from Rügen.’
Richter creased her forehead with yet more severity. ‘But why is that relevant to the Jugendwerkhof ? All our girls are accounted for. No one has ever escaped from here.’
Tilsner raised an eyebrow. ‘Who said anything about anyone escaping?’
The interjection seemed to throw Richter. Müller noticed her blink repeatedly.
‘There’s no need to be concerned, Frau Richter,’ she said. ‘We just need to rule a few things out to help advance the inquiry.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as how did Irma Behrendt end up in the sanatorium after a fall?’
Richter gave a sharp intake of breath, then a slightly manic laugh. ‘What on earth has that got to do with your murder inquiry?’
Tilsner slapped his hand on the table. Richter flinched. ‘Just answer Oberleutnant Müller’s questions. You’ve seen our authorisation. It comes from the highest level.’
Müller waited, but Richter failed to say anything.
‘We don’t want to be here all day, Frau Richter,’ said Müller. ‘Tell us about Irma Behrendt.’
‘She was a very unruly, unstable girl. For some reason, she climbed out of the toilet window and jumped.’
‘When was that?’
Richter paused a moment as though to collect her thoughts. ‘It was spring or early summer last year. May, I think.’
‘And from which floor did she jump?’ asked Müller.
‘The fifth.’
‘The fifth! How on earth did she survive that with mere bruising?’
Richter looked flustered now, her eyes darting from Müller to Tilsner and back. ‘We did our best to help her. When we realised she was trying to get out of the window, a teacher thankfully organised a chain of children to bring down mattresses from the dorms to cushion her fall. Fortunately, the fire brigade arrived in time with their safety net and managed to catch her.’
Something didn’t add up here, thought Müller. If it had simply been a case of the girl getting out of the window and jumping, how would they have had time to pile up mattresses? How would the fire brigade have had time to get in position and set up the apparatus to catch the girl? ‘And who was the teacher who tried to help? Can we talk to him or her?’
‘It was a him. And no. He was just here temporarily from Berlin.’
Müller heard Tilsner gasp. He’d put two and two together. She gave him a gentle kick under the table to keep him quiet. But now it was her turn to be flustered. Why hadn’t Gottfried ever told her about that? Because presumably it was him whom Richter was talking about.
‘So a girl attempts to jump out of a window, yet the staff have time to pile up mattresses to save her. That sounds unlikely. Also, I’ve seen a recent letter from Irma Behrendt. She seemed to me to be a level-headed girl. In her letter, she worries that her friend, Beate, might do something stupid. So this isn’t adding up, Frau Richter.’ Müller could see the tendons bulging in Richter’s neck as she tried to hold herself in check. ‘I think perhaps we need to speak to Irma Behrendt and Beate –’
‘Ewert. Beate Ewert is her name. But I’m afraid it won’t be possible to speak to them, at least not here.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Tilsner. ‘We’ve already warned you about the need to cooperate with us.’
Richter, flicking her dyed-black fringe, didn’t answer immediately. Instead she rose to her feet and retrieved a file from the shelf to her right. She sat down again and leafed through its pages. ‘The information you want is here somewhere. Ah yes, 22 June last year.’ She turned the file round to show the two detectives.
Müller sighed, but didn’t bother reading the entry. ‘Just tell us what it says, Frau Richter.’
The woman seemed calmer now, more in control. ‘Both Irma Behrendt and Beate Ewert were transferred on that day to a special children’s home in Schierke, in Bezirk Magdeburg.’
‘Does the entry say why?’ asked Müller.
Richter ran her finger under the neat handwritten note. ‘The entry was by Director Neumann. It says it was felt that to help Ewert and Behrendt, due to their nervous dispositions, they should be moved to a more remote institution, with a more relaxed regime. One of their friends was moved at the same time. One Mathias Gellman. On account of his good behaviour.’
‘Was her grandmother informed of the transfer?’
Richter shrugged. ‘I don’t have that information.’
‘And what about Director Neumann? What exactly is this project he’s involved with that’s taken him away from his main job?’ asked Müller.
Richter’s face reddened. ‘It’s a special Ministry project in the same area to which the girls were transferred. He spends part of the time here, part of the time there. But while he’s away, I’m in charge. I can give you all the help you need.’
‘Do you have his phone number? His address?’ persisted Müller.
Richter folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’m afraid I cannot divulge that, Oberleutnant. You would need specific authorisation from the Ministry of Education.’
Tilsner jabbed his finger at the letter from Mielke on Richter’s desk.
‘That’s all the authorisation we need. From the Minister of State Security.’
Richter smirked at him. ‘No, Unterleutnant. That’s where you’re wrong. As I say, you would need specific authorisation from the Ministry of Education. But perhaps your connections to the Stasi can help you. By all means call Comrade Mielke himself. I’m sure he would have a hotline to Comrade Volksbildungsminister Margot Honecker. I would need him to clear it with her. If you can’t manage to arrange that, there is nothing more I can do for you.’ With a thin smile, Richter shut the folder on her desk, and rose from her seat.
‘That’s not quite all, Frau Richter,’ said Müller. ‘I want to speak to everyone who would have had contact with Irma and Beate. I want to interview their teachers, and I want to talk to any children who witnessed Irma’s fall. Would that be possible?’
Richter sighed, and sat down again. ‘Of course, Oberleutnant. But it will take some time to arrange. Could you come back tomorrow?’
Tilsner banged his fist down on the table. ‘No. Not tomorrow. We’re doing it now. As we said at the beginning, this is a murder inquiry. If you don’t want a visit from this lot,’ he pointed to the Stasi headed notepaper, ‘then I suggest you start cooperating immediately.’
Richter didn’t reply, but just nodded slowly. She’d attempted to bluff them once by urging them to call Mielke. This time, the two detectives had called her bluff.
The teacher in charge of the packing room – where Müller and Tilsner established Irma and Beate had spent their last shift – seemed a very different character from the Jugendwerkhof’s deputy director. There was a nervous timidity about Frau Schettler, but also – it appeared to Müller – a touch more humanity and caring towards the children. What the two women had in common, though, was a tendency to pause and dart their eyes around before answering questions.
‘So their evening packing shift was the last time you saw the three children who were transferred?’ asked Müller.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Schettler replied.
‘How would you describe their mood?’
‘They were all quite excited. I gave them permission to go and watch the match if they reached their targets early.’
‘The match?’ asked Müller.
Tilsner interrupted. ‘It was the
evening we beat the Westlers in the World Cup.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Schettler.
‘But before that, in the days leading up to that – and before Irma’s fall. How would you describe their demeanour then?’ probed Müller.
‘I did notice that Beate seemed upset much of the time. And that Irma was worried for her. It earned her a spell in the bunker.’
‘The bunker?’ asked Müller.
‘It’s an isolation cell. For when children have been particularly disruptive and need to be punished.’ As she said this, Schettler had her eyes downcast, shame written legibly across her face.
‘But going back to the night of the football match: you saw all three children leave early and go to watch the game on television? You’re quite sure about that?’
Schettler paused. Müller noticed her eyes dart to the left. Then she looked down at her hands as she answered. ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘I’m quite sure about that.’ Müller frowned. She wasn’t convinced by the woman’s assertion.
‘As you know, Frau Schettler, this is a murder inquiry,’ she continued. ‘Now it’s very likely that the victim has nothing to do with this Jugendwerkhof, although we believe there is some sort of link with Rügen. However, if you feel able, we’d like you to look at a photograph of the dead girl. I have to warn you that she was badly mutilated. Her face, in particular, doesn’t look much like a face anymore.’ Schettler gasped, and clasped her hand to her chest.
Tilsner pulled the autopsy photo from his briefcase, and handed it to Müller, who in turn passed it to Schettler.
The woman sharply sucked air through her mouth, and then covered it with her hand. She dropped the black-and-white print on the table, and shook her head.
‘What, Frau Schettler?’
‘It’s . . . it’s just so horrible. Seeing . . . seeing someone like that,’ she said. Eyes to the left again, noted Müller.
‘Seeing who like that?’
‘I’m . . . I’m not sure I know what you mean,’ said Schettler. ‘I’ve not seen this girl ever before in my life.’ She pushed the photo back towards Müller, turning her head away.
‘You’re quite sure of that?’ asked Tilsner.
The woman gave a small nod, but didn’t meet either of the detectives’ eyelines.
‘I’m sorry we had to do that, Frau Schettler. But I hope you understand why,’ said Müller.
Schettler again jerked her head up and down, but kept her eyes fixed on her clasped-together hands, not wanting to look at the photograph again. Picking the photo up, Müller and Tilsner rose from their chairs and said their goodbyes.
They walked back to the Trabant via the exercise yard where Irma had nearly fallen to her death. It seemed bizarre to Müller that the girl had only been saved in part due to the quick thinking of her husband Gottfried. Something was horribly awry there, thought Müller. Caring hero one moment, then enemy of the state just months later. It made her all the more determined to help him. Surely if she took the story about his bravery to Jäger he could intervene?
‘What do you think, boss?’ asked Tilsner. ‘We seem to be back to square one if it was neither of those girls.’
‘What I think, Werner, is that they’re lying.’
‘Who?’
‘Richter and Schettler for starters. Possibly for different reasons, but they were both lying. However, if Schettler was lying about the photograph, that’s easy to disprove. We know it’s not Irma, but I think it’s still worth checking with Beate’s relatives. And at least we have a name now. We can get one of the relatives to look at the photographs, and the body.’
‘But according to Frau Richter, both girls are supposedly alive and well in this home in Schierke. Shouldn’t we check there first?’
Müller knew he was right. A check with the home would be simple enough. They could probably put the call in from the People’s Police office in Bergen. They started to wander back towards the car. When they reached the main gate, they buzzed the intercom for the staff to unlock it automatically and let them out. Müller took one last glance back up at the fifth floor, from where Irma had fallen. What sort of a place would drive a girl to jump to what would have been – if it hadn’t been for the intervention of her husband and the fire brigade – an almost certain death? It didn’t bear thinking about.
Schmidt had already set himself up in the back of the Trabant, examining some sand he’d obtained from the beach.
He looked up from the microscope as the two detectives climbed into the car. ‘It wasn’t that easy . . . Nearly got myself arrested by the People’s Army. They were OK once I showed my ID, but I had to get the sample from a slightly different section of the beach.’
‘But does it look like it matches the sample from the Volvo?’ asked Müller.
‘Yes, Comrade Müller. I’m pretty sure it does, but I’ll need to do some more detailed analysis in the lab once we’re back in Berlin. What about you two? Any progress?’
‘I think so, Jonas,’ said Müller. ‘I think so.’
Tilsner started the engine. ‘Where to, boss?’
‘Let’s go to the People’s Police headquarters in Bergen. From there we can wire or phone Jäger to get him to ask for authority to interview Neumann. We can also contact the children’s home in Schierke to check if the children actually are there as Frau Richter claims. And we need to track down Ewert’s parents – if they’re not in jail – and have them examine the body.’
Tilsner killed the engine again. ‘Hang on a minute, I’ve got an idea.’ He reached under the dashboard and opened the glove compartment. ‘Aha. Good.’ He pulled out a small book, covered in red plastic. Müller read the cover. Deutsche Demokratische Republik Verkehr: a road atlas for the entire country. Tilsner was examining the index at the back. ‘Where did she say that children’s home was?’
Müller consulted her notes. ‘A village called Schierke, in Bezirk Magdeburg.’
‘Map 11, square C,’ said Tilsner. He leafed back to map 11, near the front of the book, and then traced his finger down to square C. He squinted at the page for a moment, and then shouted excitedly. ‘There!’ Müller looked to where he was pointing and saw the corresponding village name. Then Tilsner moved his finger about a centimetre to the northwest: the Brocken, the highest mountain in the Harz, and the only one with subalpine soil.
As soon as the three of them arrived back in Bergen auf Rügen and the People’s Police office, Müller knew something was wrong. Two uniformed officers were waiting for them, and escorted them directly to Drescher’s office.
The People’s Police colonel failed to stand as they entered the room, and didn’t ask them to sit. He looked up from the documents on his desk with a stern face, and addressed Müller.
‘I’m afraid you three will have to go back to Berlin immediately. I have been given instructions by the Ministry of the Interior.’
Müller started to protest. ‘We just need to telephone –’
Drescher held up his hand. ‘I don’t think you understand, Comrade Oberleutnant. This isn’t a request, it’s an order. You have –’ Drescher glanced down and read from the document on his desk ‘– “exceeded the terms of your inquiry” .’ He looked up and held her gaze. ‘And I have been instructed to provide two officers to accompany you on the train journey back to the Hauptstadt, to make sure you go directly to the People’s Police administration building there.’
‘Are we under arrest?’ asked Tilsner.
‘Not at this stage,’ replied Drescher. ‘But you will be if you don’t comply.’
33
Eight months earlier (June 1974).
At sea.
My temporary joy at feeling the swell of the sea in harbour soon gives way to terror. In effect, I am trapped in little more than a makeshift coffin, and so too – presumably – are Beate and Mathias. Panicking will not help. But Beate is more fragile. I have no way of communicating with her even if, as I hope, she’s on board like me.
After perhaps a couple of hours of machinery noise – I assume this is the ship being loaded – the background sounds and motion change. A low hum begins, and the box vibrates. The motion of gentle rocking becomes ferocious lurching. My only comfort is that this must be the open sea. I feel as though the chipboard panels enclosing me could break at any moment, so violent is the motion. The airflow is minimal from the holes punched in the cardboard with the pen. All I can smell is my own sweat, and the sharp sweetness of urine where I’ve wet myself. Beate and I had deliberately cut our food and liquid intake in the days before the escape attempt to the bare minimum, but the body’s functions cannot be completely stopped. At least Beate and Mathias had their smuggled bottle of cola and chocolate bar; nothing to eat or drink for me.
As each wave crashes into the boat, as the vessel slams into the next trough, I feel a corresponding spasm of nausea. Saliva pools in the insides of my cheeks. I manage to swallow the first retch down, but then bile erupts from my mouth. I fight to spit it out. To breathe. I’m choking. Finally the attack subsides, but the stench is worse.
I don’t dare break out of the cardboard tomb, not until we’ve reached port on the other side of the Ostsee and the waves have subsided. As hour follows hour, that possibility diminishes. I have no guarantee that we are even heading for Sweden. Or the West. What if this ship is taking a consignment to the Soviet Union? I feel sure I would be dead long before we reached there. Through thirst, suffocation or choking on my own vomit. Why did I ever take any notice of those markings in the book from Herr Müller?
At some point the weather changes, because it becomes calmer. A gentle rocking, only slightly more pronounced that when we’d been in harbour. The blackness inside the cardboard box heightens my awareness. Every noise, every creak of the boat, is amplified and dances around my head. Every hair on my body detects the tiniest movement.
Sleep comes in fits and starts, but I try to fight it because that moment between sleep and wakefulness is so terrifying. Not knowing where I am, not knowing what will happen: a deafening uncertainty.
