Stasi Child

by David Young

  Müller felt as though her whole body was collapsing in on itself. She couldn’t believe this was something Gottfried would do; yet now those pictures were indelibly etched on her brain. Shocking images. If she accepted them as fact, she knew she had to accept that she had married a pervert. She and Gottfried had their problems, and their marriage had long been teetering on the edge of breakdown, but surely he wouldn’t have stooped to that?

  With tears beginning to pool in her eyes, she raised her head and looked first at Schiller, then Hunsberger. ‘I need to talk to him first. Whatever evidence you have, whatever photographs you have, I need to hear it from him. You must at least allow me that.’

  The two Stasi officers looked at each other, then Hunsberger nodded. ‘We will let you see your husband now.’

  They seemed content to leave her alone in the interrogation room until Gottfried was brought to her. But judging by what had happened so far – the photographs she’d been shown – she was under surveillance anyway.

  She fiddled with the buttons on her jacket as she waited. What she’d seen – Gottfried molesting Beate – it didn’t bear thinking about. It was scarcely credible. And yet the evidence was there.

  As Gottfried was finally brought into the room by one of the guards, she found herself moving back in her chair towards the window, edging away. He hadn’t looked up, and his cowed demeanour indicated that he believed he’d been brought in here for another bout of questioning. She noticed a bruise on the side of his face. Apart from that, his skin was deathly pale, his eyes sunken into their sockets. Finally, as the guard cuffed Gottfried’s hands together, her husband raised his head.

  ‘Karin!’ he said, clearly shocked at her presence. She didn’t react, just continued to stare at him. Part of her wanted to reach out to him, to hug him close, to give him comfort. Part of her wanted to tear his hair out. How could he have done such a thing? Gottfried had always been so considerate, so attentive to her needs. The first time they’d made love he had immediately sensed that she’d been damaged, that she needed tenderness. Yet the photographs now in the hands of the Ministry for State Security told a very different story.

  ‘Karin, they’ve done a terrible thing to me. To us. The photo of me with the girl. You know it’s faked, don’t you?’

  Müller shook her head, sadly. ‘Why would anyone fake that, Gottfried? How could anyone fake a photograph like that?’

  ‘Please, Karin. Believe me. You must believe me. You know they’ve done it – you saw the fakes they made of you kissing Tilsner,’ he continued. ‘I know I’ve been very suspicious and possessive, but in my heart I know you wouldn’t do that to me.’ Müller said nothing, and Gottfried continued, a half-crazed look in his eyes. ‘I knew it couldn’t be true, but they made me sign a document asking for a divorce. At first I believed it must be true, but then they showed me the doctored photo of me with Beate. It’s disgusting. It never happened. What are they trying to do to us? Can’t you do something?’

  Müller closed her eyes for a few seconds, and clasped her hands tightly together in an attempt to stop them shaking. She didn’t know what to think. Everything just seemed to be falling apart. Did she believe him? He was obviously capable of deception: the condom packet hidden on top of their wardrobe in the apartment was sufficient evidence of that. She gave a long sigh. ‘And the photograph of you at the church with the Pastor? That’s a fake too, I suppose?’

  She watched her husband’s head drop to his chest.

  ‘No,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper. ‘I shouldn’t have done it. I put you in an embarrassing position. I’m sorry.’ Then he lifted his head again, his eyes still full of paranoia. ‘I didn’t even visit Beate in the sanatorium; it was Irma, her friend. They’ve doctored the photograph, just like with you and Tilsner –’

  Müller felt the moisture gathering in her eyes. Gottfried tried to reach out to her, but she pushed his hand away. ‘The photo of Tilsner and me is accurate. It’s what happened,’ she said flatly.

  She saw in his eyes, his expression, that he felt she’d betrayed him. All of a sudden, the fight seemed to go out of him. He slumped in his chair.

  ‘They’ve asked me to sign the divorce papers –’

  ‘– no, no, please Karin, please help me, I –’

  ‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Müller. She met his eyes and stared hard into them. ‘If what you say is correct, it calls into question the very methods of the Ministry for State Security. So be careful what you say out loud, whatever you believe.’

  ‘But will you help me?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t even know if I can. I’m just an Oberleutnant in the People’s Police – people far more senior than me are in charge.’

  ‘Please, Karin. Please. I swear to you I’m telling the truth.’

  Gottfried got down on his knees. She tried to pull him to his feet, and then bent to whisper in his ear. ‘I don’t know if I can help you, but I will try. But if it turns out you’re lying, and if that ends my career –’ She didn’t complete the sentence. Instead, she gently moved his chin up, so he had to meet her eyes. In doing that, she felt his weakness, felt that he was a broken man and felt that they still had some connection, no matter how badly it had been strained.

  ‘Guards,’ she shouted. The guard waiting outside the door unlocked it and strode in. ‘Please take this prisoner back to his cell.’ She turned away from Gottfried, and stared out of the window.

  ‘Karin! Karin!’ he shouted. ‘At least get someone to examine the photographs.’ She didn’t turn round. Not until she heard the metallic clang of the door being closed. Then she picked up the black-and-white prints that Hunsberger had left on the desk, and rang for Schiller to escort her out.

  As Schiller drove past the barrier that signalled the edge of the restricted area, he asked Müller where she wanted to be taken. She thought about it for a moment. In many ways, she didn’t want to go back to the flat – it would seem cold, empty, lonely, and in her current mood she wasn’t sure she could cope with it. The only way she would survive this would be by throwing herself into her work, so maybe she should go to the office. But the empty apartment would have to be faced some time.

  ‘Take me to Schönhauser Allee, please.’

  36

  Day Fourteen.

  East Berlin.

  If Jäger had indeed been moved to another department, he didn’t seem to have lost any of his power, because he was still able to order a Ministry of State Security motorcycle messenger to deliver a summons to Müller for a meeting.

  She found herself on the same tram she’d taken to the Märchenbrunnen, but this time, instead of getting off at the Friedrichshain People’s Park she continued her journey towards the outer suburbs of the Hauptstadt. Jäger wanted to meet in another park, but further out, in Weissensee – at the boathouse of the actual Weisser See from which the area took its name. When she reached it, she saw the Stasi lieutenant colonel in a small boat, rowing towards the shore. He stood and steadied the craft alongside the jetty, and then held out his hand. She took it, stepped in and sat on the bench opposite him.

  When she tried to greet him, he mouthed a ‘shhh’, and continued to row silently towards the centre of the lake. Only when they were equidistant from each shore did he pull in the oars and begin to speak.

  ‘I’m sorry for having to meet in another out-of-the-way place,’ he said. Then he drew in a slow breath. ‘Things have got significantly more complicated.’

  Müller nodded. ‘You know Tilsner and I have been taken off the case?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry if it’s caused you problems. That wasn’t the intention, though I warned you at the start that it wouldn’t be straightforward.’

  ‘And I understand you’ve been reassigned, too?’

  ‘Yes . . . and no. In our Ministry, people are always trying to pull strings, get one up on each other. In some ways, that’s what this is all about. But I can’t tell you more at present.’

 
Müller wiped her hand across her face and kept her eyes closed for a second. Then gave a long sigh. ‘To be honest, being taken off the case is the least of my worries.’ She paused. ‘I wanted . . . I wanted to talk to you about my husband.’ Jäger nodded slowly. ‘I need you to help him, to see if there is some way you can get him out of jail.’

  Jäger placed the handholds of the oars in the rowlocks again, and gave a couple of pulls to stop the boat drifting back to shore. Müller trailed her finger in the icy water. It felt so fresh, so clean. The exact opposite of her life at present.

  ‘If I did that,’ he said, ‘what could you do for me?’

  Müller looked him in the eyes. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Have you still got the letter of authority I gave you? The one signed by Mielke himself?’

  She knitted her brow. Despite having to appear before the panel of senior officers, despite her career hanging by a thread, she knew she still had it. She patted her jacket pocket. ‘Yes. But what good is that now? I’ve been taken off the case.’

  ‘Don’t lose that letter. You will almost certainly still need it; I want you, and Tilsner, to continue to help me, to continue to work with me.’

  ‘On the investigation into the killing of the girl?’

  Jäger nodded.

  ‘But I would be risking being thrown off the force for good. My career would be in tatters.’

  The Stasi lieutenant colonel shrugged. ‘That’s the price, I’m afraid. If you want me to help your husband, you need to help me. Don’t worry about Tilsner. He won’t be a problem. He owes me.’

  ‘Owes you? Owes you how?’

  ‘Let’s just say we go back a long way. So Tilsner will help, but I need you too.’

  She held her head in her hands, thinking of Gottfried’s pathetic pleas in the Stasi jail, the revolting photographs that she hoped must be fakes. But what if they weren’t? She raised her head, and looked directly at Jäger, his western newsreader visage unperturbed and unreadable. How much did it matter to him? Why did this case matter to him? Could it be as simple as his somehow feeling personally moved by the image of the girl in the cemetery? The girl could have been his daughter. She could have been Müller’s daughter.

  She breathed out slowly. ‘Alright,’ she said finally. ‘But please don’t let me down.’

  ‘I will do my best, Karin. I can promise you that much. But I cannot promise you that the outcome will be favourable. Your husband is in serious trouble.’ He began to row again, this time in a circular pattern, the splashing as the tips broke the surface feeling almost sacrilegious to Müller in the way it disturbed the eerie calm of the dark water. ‘Now,’ he said, after a few moments. ‘Fill me in with everything you found out on Rügen.’

  Jäger said nothing as she talked, and gave little away in his facial expression, simply continuing to row round in a large circle, using the right oar to do most of the work, occasionally trimming with the left if they started to drift from the centre of the lake. His lack of reaction made Müller wonder if none of this was news to him – as if she was simply confirming information he already knew, or at least suspected. His concentration seemed to be as much on the rest of the lake, and the shoreline, as on her – his eyes scanning the handful of people strolling at the lakeside. Was the agent from the Märchenbrunnen among them?

  ‘That’s about it,’ she said, as she came to the end of her update.

  Jäger rested the oars on the rowlocks again, and held her gaze. ‘So do you think this is all connected to the dead girl in the cemetery?’

  She held her palms outwards, and shrugged. ‘I just don’t know. The clues in the car all pointed to Rügen or the Harz, but they all seemed terribly convenient.’ She stared hard at him. ‘As though they could have been planted.’ Jäger’s face didn’t change from its neutral expression – if he knew it was all a set-up, he wasn’t revealing that to her. ‘Of course, it could all just be coincidence,’ she continued. ‘If the teenagers are safely at the home in Schierke, then it takes us no further.’

  ‘I can check the Ministry of Education records. But what is written there is simply that. I will try to track Neumann down. Do you have photographs of him and the children?’

  ‘The children, yes. We got some from the Jugendwerkhof, and others of Irma Behrendt from the grandmother. But she has natural red hair. The girl in the cemetery is not her. The other girl, though, Beate Ewert –’

  ‘You think it could be her?’

  ‘It’s a possibility, yes. Although, as I said, the Jugendwerkhof staff insist she’s safe in Schierke. And the murdered girl’s face was so badly mutilated no one on Rügen was able to identify her.’

  Jäger started to row back to the lakeside. She noticed him glance warily at a figure seated outside the Milchhäuschen café. Jäger seemed to deliberately change course after spotting the man.

  ‘This is useful information, Karin. We already had suggestions – from our own inquiries – that this case was perhaps linked to the Ostsee coast, somewhere. It makes sense. I will see what I can find out about the whereabouts of the children, and let you know. I will also see if I can trace Ewert’s parents, and try to get one of them to identify the body in the morgue.’

  He steadied the boat by the jetty, jumped out and then held its rope taut with one hand, while helping Müller climb out with the other.

  She looked into his eyes. ‘And you won’t forget my husband, will you?’

  ‘No, Karin, but sorting that out – if indeed I can – may take some time. It won’t be overnight.’

  ‘Is there a number on which I can reach you?’

  As they started to walk back to the park exit, he shook his head. ‘No, wait to hear from me in the usual way. With a sealed telegram. There are still some Ministry of State Security messengers I can trust.’

  37

  Eight months earlier (June 1974).

  On board the cargo ship.

  My delight at reaching the West is starting to wear thin. Mathias and Beate continue to whisper sweet nothings to each other and share meaningful glances. While Beate regularly makes the effort to talk to me, I can see that – to Mathias – I am nothing. Just the thorn between two roses. But if it hadn’t been for me, neither of them would have escaped.

  We take turns to make occasional forays to the porthole on the stairwell, but the canal we’re travelling down seems tens of kilometres long.

  None of the crew come down here to the hold. Why would they? As far as they’re concerned, all that’s here is hundreds, thousands of cardboard boxes full of self-assembly beds. But we still think it’s safer not to venture beyond the bounds of the stairwell – despite our hunger, despite our thirst.

  We sit in the near-darkness of the hold, listening to the hum of the engines and the creaking of metal, with our backs slumped against the pallets of cardboard boxes. A small shaft of daylight illuminates Mathias’s face for a moment, and I see it fused to Beate’s.

  ‘Should we check the porthole again?’ I ask. ‘To see where we’ve got to?’

  Mathias sighs, and pulls his lips free.

  ‘You go if you must, Irma. It will give Beate and I a few moments of privacy.’

  Beate gives him a playful slap. ‘Mathias!’ she says, but the scolding is only mock-scolding.

  ‘Will you come with me, Beate?’ I ask, hopefully.

  ‘OK. In a moment,’ she says. I watch Mathias turn her face back to his. The faint sound of lips and tongues duelling makes me feel slightly ill.

  My legs feel shaky as I stand. Whether it’s the effects of lack of food, lack of water or just plain old seasickness, I’m not sure. I head to the stairwell and the porthole on my own.

  Sitting there, watching the occasional house or car glide by, I worry about why I feel so sad. Wasn’t this what I wanted? To leave the Republic behind? To leave the horrors of the Jugendwerkhof for good? But I suppose I expected I would be doing it with my best friend, that it would be a huge adventure. It’s not quite wo
rked out like that. I feel lonely, jealous and just a little afraid.

  The sun is starting to set, and in the last rays of the evening, everything on the canal side is thrown into sharp contrast. It all looks so clean, so new, compared to the Republic. And now we’re entering another town. From the lights, the cranes, the warehousing, it appears to be a port. I have no idea where, but I guess it is still West Germany. Any signs I do see are still in German.

  The vessel slows and the hum of the engines dies down. Is this it, have we arrived? I rush down the stairwell to tell Beate that we should get ready, that we should try to jump on the quayside before any officials can stop us.

  I hear it before I see it, as I move quietly back into the hold. Mathias panting rhythmically. Answering breaths from Beate. I stand, rigid, in the shadows. Watching. I feel rage, jealousy, confusion.

  I don’t think they’ve seen me. I retreat to the peace of the stairwell, climb the two flights and slump down once more by the porthole, more alone than ever. The engine noise and vibrations have increased again. Lights still shine through the dusk on the shore, but they’re further away now, dancing up and down in the porthole. I clutch my stomach as the boat hits a wave, or trough; I’m not sure which. We’re at sea again. Nausea takes hold, but there’s nothing left in my stomach to regurgitate. No, no, no! Surely we can’t have got so near to the West to then be denied our escape?

  We seem to be hugging the shoreline, because the lights never completely disappear, a continuous galaxy of western freedom, each one signalling a family home, a business, a street where the Republic has no influence – where its rules count for nothing. That’s what I assume, anyway. That’s what I hope.

  In less than an hour, the motion of the ship has calmed – just a gentle rocking and a steady hum that slowly lulls me to sleep.

  I wake with a start, shivering from the cold, disorientated, the hunger from days without food gnawing at my stomach. Thinking I’m back at the Jugendwerkhof, trying to push my body further into Oma’s hand-knitted Strickpulli. Already June, but summer stubbornly refusing to arrive. The engine noise has changed, the sea – if it is still the sea – a flat calm. Outside the porthole, it’s now a black sky, but the lights are brighter, closer. Cranes tower up like giant metallic daddy-long-legs, throwing irregular-shaped shadows across a port. Floodlit ships at the quayside, being unloaded, even at this time of night. Where? I try to find a sign, scanning from left to right. Then I see it in white lettering on a blue-and-red background – a huge notice lit up above a warehouse: Hamburger Hafen- und Lagerhaus-AG. We’ve reached Hamburg! All of a sudden, the shroud of sadness and jealousy I’ve been wallowing in lifts, and I’m running down the stairs, the metal clanging and echoing under my footfall.