by David Young
As they continued to carefully follow the Wernigerode officers, the two detectives could see tracks in the snow on the road ahead, presumably where the police had been back and forth, sealing the area, taking photographs, removing the body.
After about three kilometres, the tracks came to an end – the road blocked by a red-and-white barrier. Baumann pulled over and parked, and Tilsner followed. The Hauptmann and his assistant, Unterleutnant Vogel, walked back to Müller and her deputy, who themselves climbed out.
‘It’s about fifty metres into the forest, just there.’ Baumann pointed to where the snow had been trampled into a makeshift path by the repeat journeys of various police officers; their boot prints disappeared down an old forest track. He saw Müller examining the snowy ground. ‘The footprints all belong to us, I’m afraid.’ Baumann strode off with Vogel alongside him, and Müller and Tilsner immediately behind. ‘However, my officers were very careful not to disturb the tracks they did find. They made sure they photographed them before they could be contaminated.’
‘What sort of tracks?’ asked Müller.
‘Tyre tracks.’
‘Have you identified the make of tyre?’ asked Tilsner.
Baumann glanced at his young Unterleutnant. ‘Any progress on that, Comrade Vogel?’
‘No,’ admitted Vogel, scratching the tight dark curls of his hair. The younger detective was a stark contrast to his superior. While Baumann was all agrarian ruggedness, Vogel looked slightly out of place – almost like a younger Gottfried, thought Müller. As though he should still be at university. ‘We haven’t been able to find a matching pattern,’ said the Unterleutnant. ‘To be honest, we were hoping you lot from Berlin might be able to help with that.’
Baumann nodded his giant head. ‘That’s partly why we contacted you, Comrade Müller. We’d read about your case in Neues Deutschland. This seems, on the surface, to be a similar killing.’
‘But the tyre tracks at our site weren’t mentioned in that report,’ said Müller.
Baumann shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, there are similarities I’m sure you can help us with.’
The two local detectives started walking down the track again, with Müller and Tilsner following. In a few metres, they came to a small clearing. Sunlight streamed through overhead, throwing sharp, knife-like shadows from the spruce trees; the shadows appeared as sentries, standing guard over the small patch of ground. The purity of the forest had been violated here, thought Müller, just as the sanctity of St Elisabeth cemetery had been violated in Berlin. The difference was that here the West Berlin traffic noise was replaced by virtual silence. There was the odd howl of what Müller assumed were guard dogs at the border – but far more distant and irregular than in the Hauptstadt.
‘Do you have the photographs of the body?’ asked Müller.
Vogel reached into a grey canvas bag he carried over his shoulder and produced a series of black-and-white prints, enclosed in cellophane. He handed them to Tilsner, who divided them approximately in half, and in turn handed one half-pile to Müller.
Müller’s first photo showed the body as discovered by a local forest worker. The teenager had been left in a similar position to his female counterpart in Berlin: on his front, facing east. Bullet holes in the back. A bloody T-shirt. Broken and twisted leg. There was nothing to confirm this was Mathias Gellman – the face had again been badly mutilated, but Tilsner had already established in his initial radio conversation with Wernigerode the previous day that his physical characteristics matched.
‘Here, boss,’ said Tilsner, drawing her attention to one of the photos from his bundle. ‘Training shoe footprints, apparently running away from the direction of the border.’ She held up the photographs against the real-life background, comparing the two, trying to imagine the scene. It was all depressingly, disturbingly consistent.
Whoever had done this was capable of pure evil.
They had to find him. Stop him.
Before he killed again.
41
Eight months earlier (June 1974).
Hamburg, West Germany.
The female customs officer convinces me that her dog is harmless, and I agree to come out of the self-assembly-bed box. She helps me get my shoulders free, and then slides me out. I can see her recoil slightly from the smell, but her dog leaps up, licking my face, until she orders it to heel.
I follow her up the stairwell and out onto the deck.
‘You must have had a horrible journey,’ she says as we walk along the deck to the gangway. ‘How long were you on the boat?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I reply. ‘It felt like days. Maybe it was only a couple?’
She looks me up and down and sniffs, a faint hint of distaste in her face. ‘You must be hungry.’
I laugh. ‘Hungry, thirsty and filthy. I’m looking forward to my first western drink, my first western meal and my first western bath.’
She steps to one side, as a male officer joins us. ‘We’re taking you to a hostel while we process everything,’ he says. ‘You’ll get a meal there, something to drink and you can wash. We’ll provide you with a change of clothes.’
I can see that on the quayside a green Bundesgrenzschutz minivan is waiting, its blue light flashing and motor running. A male officer leads me down the gangplank, and the woman with the dog follows behind. They seem friendly enough, seem to want to help. At the bottom of the gangplank, there’s just an instant where I could make a run for it if I wanted to. But why would I want to? I’m here, on western soil at last.
I climb aboard the van. Mathias and Beate are already there, holding hands on one of the bench seats. Beate smiles, and squashes up to let me sit next to her. But Mathias won’t meet my eyes.
‘What’s the matter?’ I ask him. ‘Aren’t you happy to be here?’
The journey through the port and into the city is one of excitement. The shop signs fascinate me, with their flashing coloured lights. It’s the same feeling I used to get as a young child on Christmas Eve in Sellin, at Oma’s – that tingling feeling, waiting for Oma to ring the bell and open the locked door to the room with the presents and tree inside. What would der Weihnachtsmann have brought me this year?
Beate is just as elated. ‘Can you take us to see the Reeperbahn?’ she calls to the driver.
There’s an exchange between the driver and a suited official, who I guess is also with the Bundesgrenzschutz, but in plain clothes. The besuited man nods, and turns to us smiling. ‘We will drive past it. You can’t get out though, not until we’ve processed you at the hostel.’
Beate and I giggle. But Mathias is stony-faced, miserable. What’s wrong with him?
‘We can’t go down the main bit of the Reeperbahn,’ the suited man calls back from the front. ‘It’s pedestrianised. But you’ll be able to see some of the nightlife.’
In a few minutes, we’re there. Beate and I look left and right, pointing things out to each other. There are young girls in tiny miniskirts on the corners. I’m not sure if they’re prostitutes or just dressed to look sexy. And there are nightclubs, and burger bars. It’s so different from the Republic, and this – though I almost want to pinch myself to believe it – is my new home. I wonder whether Fürth, where my aunt lives, is as exciting.
All too quickly, we leave the bright lights behind, and now seem to be in the suburbs. All the road signs are different, all the shop signs are different, all the cars are different. Schools, hospitals, petrol stations, supermarkets: the same, yet different. As though someone has lifted up an East German town, coated it in bright paint, added lots more traffic and people, and then dropped it down in another part of the world. For a moment I think of the Jugendwerkhof and those I’ve left behind. I feel sorry for the ones who showed me kindness. Herr Müller, Frau Schettler, even Maria Bauer. Once a sworn enemy, yet she had helped me to escape. But then I think of Richter, and Neumann, and thank God I’m no longer there.
Beate grips my hand as we turn into some sort of barbed wire-t
opped compound. Maybe she’s scared this is the West German equivalent of Prora Ost. But the female officer with the dog smiles reassuringly at us, and the dog itself is barking and wagging its tail in the back of the van, as though it knows it’s home.
We’re taken straight to the canteen, urged to sit down, and then the officers and the suited man are all helping us; they’re fetching us Coca-Colas, crisps, bowls of hot soup, which seem out of place given the season. I feel as though I could eat as much as they’re able to put in front of us. Beate and I slurp the soup noisily, then break off bread from the rolls, dip it into the meaty broth and stuff it into our mouths. Even Mathias seems to have thawed slightly and is eating as eagerly as us.
‘I don’t want to ever drink Vita Cola again,’ I say, even though it was a luxury in the East, for which we saved up our pocket money.
‘Or eat Spreewald pickles,’ says Beate.
‘Or Nudossi,’ adds Mathias. And then I feel slightly sad again, because Nudossi – when we occasionally got it for breakfast in Prora – was a real treat. I can almost taste the memory of the nutty chocolate spread.
As soon as we finish the soup, suit man grabs our bowls, and nice woman officer is back with the next course. Currywurst with chips, the steam rising from each hot plate. I just look at mine for a moment, then lean down and breathe in the spicy aroma, letting the saliva gather in my mouth – savouring the smell. Then I cut a slice of wurst, add it to a few chips on my fork, dunk it in the curry sauce, add some tomato ketchup and thrust it in my mouth. There’s too much, the curry gets up my nose and I splutter it all out again onto the plate.
‘Yuck!’ exclaims Beate, laughing. ‘Don’t they teach you any manners, you Ostlers?’ She winks at me. Even Mathias grins.
After our meal, we don’t have to clear away our plates; the officers tell us to leave them as they are, and direct us to our bedroom and the showers on the first floor.
There are two sets of bunk beds in the room, and I realise with surprise that Mathias will be sharing with us. I know I won’t get much sleep tonight now, because the two lovebirds will be noisily entwined. Oh well. Even the thought of that is not going to dampen my spirits.
Then Beate and I are in the showers, spraying each other, shampooing each other’s hair, washing each other’s backs. And I realise, in our nakedness, that we are not so very different. Being in the West has made me feel more beautiful, more confident. Yes, I’ve got curly red hair. But I’ll get it cut, in a fashionable western style. Yes, I’m overweight. But I can go on a diet. Yes, Beate is absurdly pretty, but here in the West there will be lots of pretty girls, all with the latest fashions and make-up, and she will have to start again. So we are not so very different. And we are friends. She smiles at me, and we hug under the shower spray, the water cascading over our faces. Two very happy girls who are free at last – the very best of friends until our dying day.
In the middle of the night, I hear Mathias hiss Beate’s name. I see her shape climb down from the top bunk above me, and move to his bed – the bottom bunk of the opposite set. She climbs in, and at first they are just whispering very quietly together. I toy with the idea of asking them to be quiet, but I don’t really care. They are happy, they are together, why shouldn’t they whisper to each other? And even when the bed starts rocking and creaking, even when Beate starts shamelessly calling his name, even when he is grunting on every thrust, I cannot work up any anger. I just lie, and listen, and dream of the West and of one day finding a boyfriend of my own – someone who will take me as I am; someone who will cherish my curly red hair, my determination, my sense of adventure. The attributes that have helped both Mathias and Beate win new lives in the West. Because I know they could have never done it without me. It was my plan. And it worked.
The next day – over breakfast – the officers begin what they call ‘processing’. I expect it’s to provide us with our new West German passports, maybe some Deutschmarks. Perhaps they will give me train tickets down to Fürth to my aunt’s. I don’t know, and I don’t really care. I don’t look at the paperwork, just sign where they want, knowing that I am free.
Then we’re in the van again. The three of us, and the same officers, and the same suited man. I try to catch the female officer’s eye, but she’s looking down at her hands with a slightly sad demeanour. Oh well, I guess people still have their troubles in the West. Maybe she’s had an argument with her husband.
Beate and I are still holding hands childishly as the van sets off, out into the Hamburg suburbs again, and onto the autobahn. Sleek luxury cars overtake us at lightning speeds. We take the A7 towards Hanover. Beate and I start singing Hänschen Klein, clapping along; Mathias puts his hands over his ears. I glance again at the female officer, but find her eyes wet with tears. She looks away.
Beate shouts at suit man: ‘Are you taking us all the way to Irma’s aunt in Fürth?’ Because although our geography of the Federal Republic is not good, we both know that’s the way we’re heading. He just shakes his head, but doesn’t enlighten us further.
At Hanover, we turn onto the A2 and see the signs to West Berlin. Well, that wouldn’t be such a bad place to end up. The words to Hänschen Klein run around my head, even though we’ve stopped singing it aloud:
Hänschen klein ging allein
In die weite Welt hinein.
Stock und Hut stehn ihm gut,
Ist gar wohlgemut.
I don’t get as far as the second verse. By then, the motion of the van and the roar of the autobahn have lulled me to sleep.
What wakes me is Beate, tugging at my sleeve. ‘Look,’ she says, pointing at what appears to be a border crossing. I frown. There’s a tense atmosphere inside the van. Suit man is gathering papers together. Dog woman is looking at me vigilantly, but with a set face. Even the dog seems alert, ears pricked, panting next to his mistress.
‘Where are we?’ They don’t answer. I look at Mathias. He gives a sly little smile. ‘Do you know, Mathias?’ He just shrugs.
Something isn’t right, but we’re waved through the crossing. Maybe we’re at the entrance to West Berlin. Beate holds my hand, but this time tightly, nervously.
Then I see the sign: ‘Herzlich Willkommen in der DDR.’
I jump to my feet, trying to drag Beate with me, but Mathias is holding her back. I let go and try to open the van door. The dog starts barking, straining at its leash. Suit man is shouting; dog woman is trying to grab me. The other male officer pins me down before I can get the door open. What sort of nightmare is this? ‘Get off me,’ I shout. ‘I don’t want to go back, I won’t go back.’ Dog woman is trying to shush me gently, but the other officer has his hand over my mouth. I try to bite him.
‘Miststück!’ he screams, but doesn’t let go.
And then we’re at the DDR checkpoint. Grenztruppen rush to the van, handcuffing the three of us. Beate and I are snarling like wildcats.
‘Mathias, do something,’ shouts Beate, hoping he will be her knight in shining armour. But he is strangely subdued. Unresisting. Almost as though he wants to go back. And then I realise. He does! The Arschloch. He didn’t want to escape from the DDR. He just wanted to be with her. To keep her, trap her with him, like a butterfly pinned in a frame.
I’m still screaming, trying to kick the border troops, but they put us in arm locks and march us to the checkpoint building. I wrench my head round to look back at the van, and the West German border officers who have betrayed us. I can’t believe it; dog woman seemed so nice. She is crying, shouting at suit man, and then she holds my gaze, and I see her mouth: ‘Sorry.’
The three of us are taken into a room at the side of the checkpoint, and I see the back of a man’s head in a swivel chair, facing away from us.
The chair swivels round, and I hear Beate scream.
But there he is, a manic grin creasing his horrible scarred face, and lifting his black eyepatch slightly out of place.
Director Franz Neumann, of Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost.
; 42
February 1975. Day Fifteen.
Wernigerode, East Germany.
Wernigerode might have been out in the provinces but its police headquarters put Marx-Engels-Platz to shame. The Kripo team here were housed in a smart modern block – sharing offices with the rest of the town’s Volkspolizei. Baumann and Vogel even had a special room reserved for their inquiry.
Scanning the photographs pinned to one wall, Müller noticed the tyre track patterns. As in Berlin, the Kriminaltechniker here had produced a negative image of the tracks found in the snow. Müller felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. She waved Tilsner over.
‘Look familiar?’ she asked.
‘Scheisse.’
‘Gislaved. I’m almost certain,’ she whispered.
Vogel noticed the two Berlin detectives staring closely at the image. ‘Do you recognise them?’
Müller nodded. ‘They’re from a Swedish tyre. Fitted to Volvos.’
The Wernigerode Unterleutnant immediately understood – Müller saw it in the pallor of his youthful face. She was confused. Surely someone couldn’t have hired the wedding limousine from West Berlin again? And brought it all the way here, to the Harz? That would be madness. And how would they have negotiated the narrow forest track? A car perhaps, but not a stretch limousine.
Vogel had ushered Baumann over.
‘The tyre tracks,’ he said. ‘They’re from a Volvo. Do you understand what that means, Comrade Baumann?’ Baumann had a blank look on his face. ‘It’s almost certainly from a car assigned to a government official.’
‘Verdammt!’ exclaimed Baumann.
‘Or a Stasi official,’ added Vogel.
‘Did your Kriminaltechniker measure the wheelbase?’ asked Tilsner.
