BERLIN

by Paul Grant

  The next day on the Stalinallee site had been a blur. Ulrich found it difficult to concentrate on his work. Although he felt sad about what had happened with Ursula, it wasn’t the most pressing matter now. He was preoccupied with the offer from Markus, the man from West German Intelligence. In some ways he was flattered; if he decided to accept, he was under no illusions the work would be dangerous. In reality, he’d suffered the risks anyway, they all had. Hauser’s arrest had been testament to that.

  Somewhere deep down, the idea of spying for the West Germans didn’t sit comfortably with him. It’s not that he swallowed whole the propaganda the East German regime pumped out about the Federal Republic and the Americans. However, some of the message did resonate with him. He believed in the German worker. He also believed in a form of socialism, but one achieved by democratic means, not a system that took arrests and secret work camps to keep it running. Did it mean he would be a traitor to his own friends, his own ideals if he was to spy on Heissner for Markus. More to the point, could he even trust Markus?

  Ulrich tried to clear his head. His life had suddenly become so serious. It was something he’d done his utmost to avoid after the war. Günther had seemed to manage it and then some. Somehow Ulrich had been slowly dragged into the politics; in Berlin it seemed impossible to avoid it. Now he was faced with a choice and he didn’t know which way to turn.

  ‘Ulrich?’ Bernhard was standing at his side and he hadn’t even noticed. ‘Are you with us?’

  Ulrich threw his trowel down onto the mortar board. ‘What?’

  ‘I said, “Are you going to the Kneipe for a beer?”’

  Ulrich shrugged. ‘Yeah, why not?’

  ‘Well, I reckon you’ve got twenty minutes to get those blocks in place, and the way you’re performing today, it’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, I’m not really with it.’

  ‘Have you fallen out with that girl again?’

  Ulrich paused for a moment. ‘Something like that, Bernie.’

  ‘You’d better frame yourself, otherwise we’ll never get a beer tonight.’ Bernhard slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come on, I’m done. I’ll give you a hand.’

  He slapped the mortar in place, then watched as Bernhard expertly placed the blocks. Ulrich then followed up, pointing up the mortar between the placed blocks. For Ulrich this is what it was about: graft, comradeship and togetherness. Where he could place those ideals in his decision-making was part of his dilemma.

  With their work done, and tools cleaned, they made their way to the Wild Boar, Bernhard more eagerly than Ulrich. The place was alive with the usual after work crowd. There were a few games of skat going on, but that’s because it was the day before payday. Grund was conspicuous by his absence.

  ‘Why don’t you just go and see the girl and sort it out?’ Bernhard said, wiping the froth from his mouth.

  ‘What?’ Ulrich was staring into his glass, deep in thought again.

  ‘I’m not sure I can stand another day at work with you like this.’

  Ulrich wasn’t in the mood for jokes. ‘Where do you think it will all end, Bernie? All this with the targets?’

  ‘Bloody hell! That’s a bit deep. We were talking about your girlfriend a minute ago.’

  ‘You were.’

  Bernhard shrugged. ‘You know me. I’m not really one for politics. I just want to be able to live.’

  ‘With the way things are, that’s not possible.’

  ‘I was thinking about moving to a site in Charlottenburg. A mate of my cousin’s got work there. Paid in western marks.’

  ‘Is that the answer, though, Bernie? To run away?’

  Bernhard looked at him seriously. ‘You’re thinking far too much.’

  ‘No, I’ll be honest. I thought the same as you when I was on the Ku’damm yesterday. There are loads of buildings going up, but what does that mean for the people who stay here on Stalinallee?’

  ‘So, you’re going to change it single-handed?’

  Ulrich shrugged, picked up his glass and drained it. Sauer was hovering, waiting for the nod. Bernhard pointed towards his glass and the barman got to work.

  ‘My advice is this: stay out of the shit here. You won’t win in the end, because of what’s behind it. It’s far bigger than you or me, or a few builders on Stalinallee.’

  Ulrich reached for his fresh glass and sighed. ‘You’re probably right, Bernie.’

  ‘I know I am, lad, and on that note, I need a leak.’ Bernhard shuffled off through the throng towards the toilets.

  ‘Can I get you another?’ a voice asked. The accent was thick Berliner.

  Ulrich looked up from his beer. His first reaction was to nearly fall off his stool, but he managed to get a grip of himself. He was looking right at Heissner, directly at that angry scar.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  Heissner’s eyes flashed around the bar. ‘You were at the meeting yesterday?’

  Ulrich nodded very slightly. What the hell did the man want?

  ‘Schultz, isn’t it?’

  Ulrich reached for his beer trying to appear casual, even though his heart was racing. He nodded.

  Heissner smiled. ‘I knew your father.’

  ‘Really?’ Ulrich couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. ‘You worked with him?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Bernhard returned to the bar. ‘I’m going to finish this one then get off.’

  Heissner said to Ulrich, ‘I’m just over in the corner if you want to talk later.’

  Bernhard watched warily as Heissner walked away. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Just some bloke who knew my father.’

  ‘Never seen him before,’ Bernhard said.

  Ulrich didn’t reply, too unsettled that Heissner had known his name, and shocked that he knew his father.

  ‘Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  Ulrich turned back to the bar. ‘I’m okay, Bernie.’

  Bernhard finished his drink with Ulrich doing his best to maintain the small talk, even though his heart wasn’t in it. In truth, he couldn’t wait for Bernhard to leave. He was too intrigued by what Heissner had to say. It had been so long since they’d heard anything of his father, three years since his mother had received the letter from the camp. Even if it was only old stories, he wanted to hear them.

  Bernhard left and Ulrich made his way over to Heissner’s position. He’d tried to keep an eye on him, see whom he was talking to, but apart from a couple of people individually, he didn’t seem to be saying too much.

  As Ulrich reached him, Heissner looked up from his newspaper. ‘You decided to talk then?’ He was calm and assured, unlike Ulrich who was nervous and wary of what he’d been told about the man.

  ‘You said you knew my father…’

  ‘And you wanted to hear about him?’ Heissner smiled. ‘Well, I don’t blame you. He was a good man.’

  ‘You said “was”.’

  ‘I mean when I knew him, back in the war. We were in Belgium and France together.’

  ‘Early in the war then?’ Ulrich said, slightly disappointed.

  ‘That’s right. He was a brave man. He was awarded an Iron Cross if I recall.’

  ‘Twice,’ Ulrich said proudly. ‘You were in his regiment?’

  ‘For a short time, then I was wounded,’ he pointed to his scar, ‘then transferred.’

  ‘But not to Russia?’

  He shook his head. ‘Fortunately for me I ended up on the Western Front after my convalescence. I fell into the hands of the British. No picnic, but better than most fared.’

  Ulrich hadn’t expected this from Heissner. He seemed open and easy to talk to. He couldn’t help wondering if Markus had been wrong about him.

  ‘We believe my father is still in a camp in Russia.’

  Heissner shook his head ruefully. He lowered his voice, ‘I’m sorry to hear it, but not altogether surprised.’

  He moved closer to Ulrich. �
��So what about the meeting? I didn’t see you afterwards.’

  ‘I had to be somewhere,’ Ulrich said.

  ‘What do you think about the situation?’

  Ulrich felt he was being drawn out into the open where he didn’t feel comfortable. ‘It’s not easy for the men to survive on those wages.’

  ‘Of course,’ Heissner nodded forcefully. His eyes were focused on Ulrich. ‘But this isn’t only about the work norms.’

  Ulrich looked over Heissner’s shoulder nervously. ‘Don’t you think it’s dangerous to talk like that?’

  Heissner pulled a face. ‘It is, you are right, but we have to act now. Since Stalin’s death they don’t know which way to go. There’s a struggle at the top between Ulbricht and the others. If we push now, it could all easily fold.’

  Ulrich was listening intently. He couldn’t help feeling excited, hoping what he said was true, wanting to believe it. He found himself nodding inadvertently.

  ‘It’s going to happen in the next few days.’ Heissner was almost whispering now. He reached for his glass and sipped his beer without taking his eyes off Ulrich.

  ‘What’s going to happen?’

  ‘The protest. We’ll have thousands on the street. You just watch.’ There was energy in him, fire.

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘So, Schultz, are you with us?’

  ***

  Ulrich Schultz strode through the Brandenburg Gate towards the Tiergarten. The minimal repairs to the monument had given it the appearance of a patchwork stone mosaic, light and dark in neighbouring sections where the scars of war had only been partially repaired. Not that Ulrich was taking it in. He didn’t know what to think after his impromptu meeting with Heissner. He had actually liked the man and his message had inspired him. A mass protest was coming, and dangerous or not, Heissner was fostering it. He had started to ponder if he shouldn’t be more wary of Markus than Heissner. Ulrich was heading to meet Markus, his questions and doubts at the forefront of his perturbed mind.

  Crossing over Hindenburg Platz, Ulrich headed for the shrubs of the Tiergarten. From this side, the place looked unruly, sprouting in fits and starts, like it was struggling to renew its life after the mauling it had taken during and after the war; much like the city itself. Ulrich couldn’t help feeling another chapter in the history of the place was about to be written, and like some times before, it wasn’t to be glorious.

  He followed the path parallel to Charlottenburger Chaussee towards the distant Siegessäule. Markus was on his elbow before he had even registered his presence.

  ‘How do you do that?’

  Markus smiled. ‘Self-preservation.’

  They walked in silence for a while, with Ulrich determined not to say anything of his meeting with Heissner before he had found out more about the mysterious man at his side: smart, fit, yet full of tricks.

  ‘Do you think people are watching us now? Ulrich asked.

  ‘Not that I can see. I’ve taken precautions.’

  ‘Precautions? Like what, meeting in the western sectors?’

  Markus laughed. ‘Believe it or not, I do go into the zone. I meant meeting in a public place with people around, away from people you don’t know.’

  ‘Me? I thought this was about protecting you?’

  Markus glanced at Ulrich. ‘I’m not the one taking the risks.’

  Ulrich slowed, startled by his words.

  ‘It’s about vigilance, Ulrich. Knowing who, and what, is around you at all times.’

  ‘All this spy stuff is difficult to take in,’ Ulrich grumbled.

  ‘It takes time to learn like anything in life.’

  ‘And you’re going to teach me, is that it?’ Ulrich’s words were slightly harsh.

  Markus shrugged. ‘Eventually. If that’s what you want. I don’t think we have too much time for the training manual at the moment.’

  Ulrich looked at him, wondering what he already knew about the impending protest.

  ‘I talked to Heissner last night.’ Ulrich stared ahead down towards the Siegessäule.

  ‘That’s why you’re here?’

  ‘Partially.’

  ‘You want to know about me? If I can be trusted?’

  Ulrich sighed. ‘Honestly speaking, I don’t know whom to trust at the moment. I am a builder not a mind-bender. There’s too much going on, too many people giving me warnings. It’s hurting my head.’

  ‘I can understand that. I was your age not that long ago. We had tough things to deal with.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Ah!’ he smiled. ‘Well, I say that. For me it was simple, there was little choice. Kill or be killed.’

  ‘You were in the Wehrmacht?’

  ‘Eastern front.’

  ‘Like my dad.’

  Markus was quiet, seemingly reflective. ‘I’ll be as straight with you as I can be, without trying to put any more into your cluttered head.’

  Ulrich laughed, warming to the man for the first time.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter if you trust me or not, or if you don’t exactly believe in the people I represent, because it’s not me who is in danger.’ They’d stopped now and Markus glanced around, then his eyes returned to Ulrich’s, cold, steel-blue and unwavering. ‘It’s about whether you trust Heissner or not. He is the one who can put you and your comrades in danger. He is the one who can encourage you all to protest for your workers’ rights or free elections. He is the danger to you, not me.’

  Ulrich turned away from Markus’ intense gaze. Looking at the floor, he said, ‘That’s the problem; he seemed okay, one of us.’

  ‘I am sure he can talk, he’s been trained for that.’

  ‘Like you?’ Ulrich fired back.

  Markus smiled. ‘Okay. You got me on that one, but I’m not trying to have you start a revolution, am I?’

  Ulrich raised his eyebrows doubtfully.

  ‘Ask yourself, if he is a Berliner, where has he been? Where did he appear from? Has anybody asked that?’

  ‘If he’s who you say he is, I can hardly go around asking, can I?’

  ‘Maybe it can be done subtly. Which workplace is he from? Who actually knows him?’

  ‘He knew my dad.’

  Markus appeared genuinely shocked. ‘He told you that?’

  ‘He said he fought with him and my father was a brave man.’

  Markus closed his eyes. ‘He’s trying to flatter you, Ulrich, draw you in.’

  Ulrich was angry now. ‘My father won two Iron Crosses.’

  Markus shook his head. ‘I’m not doubting the bravery of your father.’

  ‘You’re saying Heissner is lying, that he didn’t know my father?’

  Markus sighed. ‘What did he tell you exactly?’

  ‘That he fought with my father in Belgium and France.’

  Markus was nodding.

  ‘It’s true?’ Ulrich asked, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘What about the rest?’

  ‘Nothing much; he said he was transferred after that because he was wounded and that he was taken prisoner by the Tommies.’

  ‘He fought with your father in Russia too, and in Stalingrad.’

  ‘Why didn’t he…?’

  ‘Because he couldn’t tell you the rest, Ulrich, that’s why.’

  Ulrich shook his head, struggling to take everything in. He felt it was all closing in around him. ‘How the hell can you know all that?’

  Markus pursed his lips, seemingly reluctant for a moment. ‘Because I was with them in Stalingrad.’

  CHAPTER 20

  JUNE 1953, EAST BERLIN

  Hans Erdmann had been ordered to serve at the main political prison of East Berlin. On the face of it, he couldn’t really understand why he was required there. It wasn’t his expertise; he was a soldier, one who was trained to deal with more direct threats to the country. He felt very quickly that the duty to which he was directed was for someone else. The prison itself was in Hohenschönhausen, seemingly dropped into a light industrial, in par
ts residential, area of Lichtenberg. Prisoners arrived and left, but more arrived than departed. They were welcomed by an intimidating chicken run which Hans had been pressed to participate in, seemingly some kind of initiation for him. The already disorientated arrivals were forced along the line of men, in the dark, guards screaming at the suitably distressed-looking prisoners. Hans was downright uncomfortable.

  His working conditions were reasonable. If he had an early shift he was able to book one of the officers’ living quarters which lined the Lichtenauer Strasse side of the prison. The food was good, plentiful by normal standards. They could even watch films in the small cinema which formed part of the kommandant’s compound. He was more content when directed to carry out tasks in the administration office opposite the main prison building. That contentment was mainly a result of avoiding guarding the prisoners directly.

  Guard duty was the worst task. Hans hated his time down in the ‘U-Boot’ (submarine), the name used to describe the cellar area where all the prisoners were kept. It was quite an apt description: sixty-eight cells nearly filled the large basement area. The cells on the outer walls had a minute frosted glass window to let in a feeble light, but the remainder of the cells, the majority, had no natural light. The cells were lit day and night by a recessed bulb above the door. At six each morning the prisoners were provided with a small bowl of water for washing, a task to be completed in three minutes. Hans knew this because he was ordered to time it.

  A frugal breakfast of hard bread and marmalade with lukewarm Ersatz coffee was served to the prisoners. Then for the most part, the prisoners remained in their cells. No visits, no contact with other prisoners, no contact with lawyers or family, no contact with the outside world. During each shift, Hans was provided with a list of prisoners, indicated by cell number, not name, who were to be taken upstairs to the interrogation rooms. No prisoner was permitted to see another during this transfer procedure. A traffic light system was in place on each corner. Should a red light show, Hans was forced to push a prisoner face first into a recess on the corridor in order to avoid contact with another inmate. After interrogation the prisoner was either returned to their cell below, or transferred to the ‘special’ cells. The special area was also in the ‘U-Boot’.