Stasi 77

by David Young

  5

  October 1943

  Kohnstein mountain, near Nordhausen

  Myself, Marcellin and Grégoire – the band of brothers. We were fearless. Strong. Invincible. Or so we thought. But there is a thin line between human strength and total weakness and vulnerability. And we had crossed that line.

  We never believed it was possible, of course. In the family fishing boat out of Loix, we always knew that the Celestine would right itself, no matter how big the wave that hit. We could fish for days without any significant catch, but then we knew we would find a shoal. When the Germans came and they turned our island into an Atlantic fortress, we three – who had been too young for war – joined up with the Resistance. We were involved in low level interference, sabotage, making sure the well-oiled Boche machine wasn’t quite so well-oiled. Such was our confidence, we never thought we’d be caught.

  But one night we were.

  And then we were sent to Compiègne.

  There we had the Milice to guard over us. Here – and in Buchenwald – it’s the Kapos. They are cut from the same cloth; traitors, criminals, scum without any backbone, without an ounce of moral fibre in their bodies. Looking after themselves and only themselves.

  *

  We’ve been lucky to be kept together, and we’ve had to fight for it. But Grégoire looks like he’s fading day by day. He’s more fragile now than the girl he was sweet on back on Ré. What was her name? Gisele. That was it. She was a tiny thing, who looked as though she could be knocked over by the gentlest Atlantic breeze. She wasn’t really cut out for the life of a fisherman’s wife.

  Marcellin doesn’t agree about Grégoire. He says he’ll be fine.

  The price of being together, though, is being assigned to a mining Kommando – where you are put to work lengthening one of the two main tunnels.

  The dust gets everywhere. You want to scratch yourself every minute, but you’re not sure if it’s the dust or lice, which wriggle over you every night in the few hours’ sleep we get, like a thousand simultaneous caresses from a thousand women.

  Each day is twelve hours of dust, explosions, and drilling. It will send us mad. We cannot talk to each other for fear of a beating from a Kapo. The best we can do to communicate is the occasional look full of meaning. And hope. The hope that one day, rescuers will come and this Hell will be over. There are countless things that can kill you down here: a sadistic SS guard you look at the wrong way, a Kapo who hits you just a little too hard, and the hope.

  The civilian Meister shows us where to put the charges. He blasts the horn. Then there’s a crack and thud as the charge explodes and the rock fractures and falls. There are hacking coughs all round. All of us are desperate for water, but most of the water in pipes down here is undrinkable – it’s for mixing concrete and cement.

  Grégoire has fallen backwards from the blast. He’s too weak to stand. I go to try to help him.

  ‘Stand back,’ shouts a Kapo, clubbing me over the shoulder. He hauls me away. ‘Get back to work, you French piece of shit.’

  I try to look back, to see how my younger brother is. When the Kapo’s attention is diverted by something else, Marcellin gently lifts Grégoire to his feet. We don’t want him to go to the sanatorium. People don’t come back from there.

  Marcellin and I struggle to lift the rocks, one by one, into the carriage. It’s back-breaking work, but if we are slow, if we shirk, we’ll get another clubbing from the Kapos. But even once we load them up, it’s not finished. Because the trucks themselves, and the rails they’re on, are twisted, deformed and not fit for purpose.

  We push and shove, and finally get it moving with what little strength we have left.

  But then it derails.

  Of course, we want this project to fail. We would do anything we could to wreck it. But not like this. This just means more pain. The whole mining gang has to use their shoulders to try to lift it back onto the tracks.

  We manage it, eventually. No thanks to Grégoire, who is now next to me again. He has no strength left. He’s just going through the motions.

  I fear for him. That he will never see his little Gisele again.

  6

  July 1977

  Kappel, Karl-Marx-Stadt

  Müller and Tilsner made a brief visit to the formal autopsy, but the pathologist didn’t deviate from the story Elke Drescher had given in her briefing. Tilsner seemed to be hanging back at the rear of the room, as though he couldn’t face looking at the body on the mortuary slab.

  When it became clear they weren’t going to get any further information from the pathologist – and that any detail would be in his report – Müller turned her attention to what was known about Martin Ronnebach. She sent Tilsner to interview Party colleagues, while she sought his private address from Drescher. Immediately, though, she encountered a problem.

  ‘We don’t actually have his address listed,’ explained Drescher, apologetically. ‘We asked the Party offices who referred us to the Ministry for State Security.’

  Müller frowned. ‘I thought you said the Stasi weren’t involved?’

  Drescher blushed. ‘Well, not involved in the investigation. As far as I know. But they said they would handle any questioning of Comrade Ronnebach’s colleagues, friends or relatives.’

  ‘That’s a very peculiar definition of not being involved.’

  The younger officer shrugged.

  ‘I’ve just sent Tilsner off to the Party offices to ask questions there,’ said Müller.

  ‘Sorry. He won’t get very far without the Stasi’s permission. I can give you the phone number of the police liaison officer at their headquarters. I doubt you’ll have much luck, but it’s worth a try.’

  *

  With Tilsner taking the Wartburg to the Party offices, Müller was left to get the tram. She’d expected a leading Party official to have a large apartment in the centre of the city, or perhaps a house on the outskirts, but Ronnebach seemed to have eschewed that. Instead, he and his wife lived in one of the new residential areas. It looked like a city within a city, with rows of slab apartments, much like Müller had encountered in Halle-Neustadt or Eisenhüttenstadt, or where her ex-boyfriend, Emil, had been planning for her little family to move to, had they stayed together, in the Marzahn area of the Hauptstadt. The Ronnebachs had been handed the keys a couple of years earlier to one of the first new homes in the Kappel area, the first building zone to be completed.

  Müller had got permission to interview Comrade Ronnebach’s widow on one condition: she was to be accompanied by a Stasi officer. A Hauptmann Ole Strobl of the MfS would be meeting her outside the apartment block, and would be sitting in on the interview.

  *

  To Müller’s eyes at least, Frau Maja Ronnebach didn’t seem to be over-troubled by her husband’s death. The tiny, almost child-sized woman sat erect and composed on the couple’s lounge sofa, apparently eager to help the Kriminalpolizei.

  ‘I realise you’re just doing your job, Major Müller. I’m happy to answer your questions where possible.’

  When she said this, though, she gave a slight nod towards the leather-jacketed Hauptmann Strobl, and put undue emphasis on the words ‘where possible’. Müller started to get an inkling about where this might be going, although Strobl, himself as tall as Frau Ronnebach was short and equally as thin, didn’t acknowledge the woman’s glance. He sat impassively, pen in hand, looking down at an open notebook, not writing anything. It was almost as though the pen and paper were there as props.

  ‘Thank you, Frau Ronnebach. I’ll keep this as brief as I can.’

  The woman gave a slight nod.

  Müller decided to steer a path to the heart of the matter right from the start. ‘We understand, from our initial inquiries, that your husband was involved in the decision to nationalise the mill where his body was found.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said the woman. Out of the corner of her eye, Müller saw Strobl make a stabbing motion with his pen on the notebo
ok, but he didn’t interrupt.

  ‘Had he ever received any criticism for that? Did anyone hold a grudge against him for it?’

  Frau Ronnebach’s gaze was unwavering. She gave a slight shake of the head. ‘Not as far as I know, although I wouldn’t know the details of Party business. Martin certainly didn’t mention anything like that. He was simply carrying out the wishes of the Party and the people. Why should a few capitalists reap the benefit of a whole enterprise? He was a firm believer in socialism. As we all are.’

  There was another stab of Strobl’s pen at the end of the woman’s sentence. ‘Of course,’ said Müller. ‘And did he often visit the mill?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. But he may have . . . for Party reasons.’ Another pen stab.

  ‘And can you think of any other enemies he may have made? Has anyone threatened him at all? Had you noticed him acting oddly?’

  The woman shook her head. Again, her expression was neutral. There was no sadness, no red-rimmed eyes, no signs of grief whatsoever. ‘Although on the day he . . . died . . . he’d said he might be late. He said he had to go out to somewhere near Frankenburg in the evening.’ This time there were two stabs of the pen from Strobl. Müller found the man’s silent vigil more annoying than if he’d actually been intervening.

  ‘But he didn’t mention Sachsenburg?’

  ‘No.’ This time Strobl’s pen movement was just a gentle tap.

  ‘So you can’t think of anyone from your life here in Karl-Marx-Stadt, or from your husband’s work, who would wish him harm?’

  ‘No.’ This time Strobl’s pen failed to move at first. Then came a light tap after a couple of seconds. The woman turned down the sides of her mouth. ‘Sorry. I don’t feel I’m being awfully helpful.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Frau Ronnebach. As long as you answer truthfully, that’s all you can do.’

  ‘Of course.’ There was the tiniest flick of the pen from the Stasi officer.

  ‘And how long have you both lived here, in this apartment?’ Müller knew the answer, but just wanted to keep things ticking over while she thought of a more probing question.

  ‘We moved in a couple of years ago. I can check the exact date on the rental agreement if you like.’ This time, there was no pen stab or movement at all, as though Strobl had almost stopped listening, as the answers were so mundane – and, if she admitted it to herself, the questions too.

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘We lived in Altendorf – to the west of the city centre.’ Strobl had by now rested his pen, and was leaning back in his chair, with his hands clasped behind his partially bald head, a thoroughly bored expression on his face.

  ‘And have you always lived in Karl-Marx-Stadt, or Chemnitz as it was known before?’

  All of a sudden Strobl leant forward, and jabbed the pen again, harder than ever into the notepad. ‘Frau Ronnebach is not permitted to answer that question.’

  Müller pulled her head back. Had she heard correctly? It was an innocuous question. She’d only really asked it to keep the interview ticking over.

  ‘Well . . . I’m happy . . .’ started the woman.

  ‘You’re not permitted to answer that question,’ repeated Strobl, firmly but without anger. His voice sounded almost robotic.

  ‘Very well,’ sighed Müller. ‘What about your own relationship with your husband? Were you happy together?’

  ‘Perfectly happy, perfectly content.’ The woman looked down, and picked at the cuff of her long-sleeved blouse. ‘Well, as much as you can be after so many years of marriage.’

  ‘And as far as you know, your husband had never been unfaithful?’

  ‘No . . .’ Frau Ronnebach frowned. ‘Is there a particular reason for this line of questioning? Have you found something out? I wouldn’t necessarily know everything about my husband. We weren’t in each other’s pockets twenty-four hours a day. He has . . .’ She paused a moment, as if grief was catching up with her for the first time. Then she gave her head a small shake, as though to gather her thoughts. ‘He had his interests, and I have mine. But I think I would know if he was having an affair. There would be little signs.’

  Strobl had picked up his pen again, and seemed to be noting something on his pad, although from her angle Müller couldn’t see exactly what.

  ‘You talk about his interests. What were these, aside from Party business? Was there anything which was particularly time-consuming, which might give him the opportunity to be . . . doing something other than what he said he was doing?’

  The woman skewed her face in confusion. ‘That’s an odd question. But . . . yes, his main passion away from Party business was hunting. He was a member of a hunting club in Hermsdorf, near the Czech border, just over an hour from here. We’ve a little weekend cottage there. I don’t particularly like it. It’s dark and a bit cold. But Martin would sometimes go for weekends there with his hunting friends. I suppose . . .’ The woman’s voice trailed off, as though she was thinking about the rest of the sentence in her head.

  ‘What do you suppose?’ said Müller.

  ‘I suppose that if . . . if he had been having an affair . . . not that I think he was . . . that might have given him an opportunity.’

  ‘Do you have the name of the hunting club? I’ll also need the address of this cottage.’

  The woman rose from her chair, and walked over to a writing bureau. She wrote something down on a pad, and then picked up a business card from the side of the desk. She handed the piece of paper and card to Müller.

  ‘I’ve written down the address for you. And the details for the hunting club are on this card.’

  Strobl had by now reverted back to his pose of ‘hands on head, leaning back in chair with bored expression on face’. Having been allowed a few questions without intervention, Müller decided to test the water again.

  ‘Was your husband always a member of the P—?’

  Müller didn’t even manage to get the question fully out of her mouth this time, as Strobl leant forward.

  ‘Frau Ronnebach is not permitted to answer that.’

  The woman shrugged, as though helpless.

  ‘Questions such as these will not be permitted.’

  This was becoming pointless. Müller put her notepad and pen back in her handbag, and started to rise to leave.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful,’ ventured the woman. She glanced over at the Stasi officer, as though he was annoying her just as much as Müller. ‘If I think of anything else, I’ll get in touch.’

  Müller handed the widow her card.

  Strobl gathered up his own notepad. ‘If you do want to talk to each other again, please make sure I’m in attendance.’

  Müller gave a slight nod. Strobl held his notepad so that the page he’d been writing on was facing outwards. Müller realised it was just a series of dots joined together with lines – nothing more than an elaborate doodle. A waste of time. Exactly what this interview had been.

  7

  As she left the apartment block, Müller checked her watch. Would there be enough daylight left once she got back to the People’s Police office to make a visit to the Ronnebachs’ weekend cottage? His wife had said it was near the Czech border – Müller didn’t have a map with her, but knew it would be at least an hour’s drive away. She looked up at the sky. It was a bright summer’s late afternoon. If Tilsner had returned with the Wartburg by now they would be able to make it – if not, it would have to wait till the next day. She got out the piece of paper the address was written on, and realised that Frau Ronnebach had added a short note – possibly something she didn’t want to say in front of the Stasi officer.

  The key is kept under the barrel at the side of the porch. By all means let yourself in, though I doubt you’ll find anything.

  Her deputy had indeed returned, but was dubious about her plan.

  ‘Where is it you want to go?’ he asked, frowning as he pulled the red plastic-cove
red road atlas from the shelf under the Wartburg’s dashboard.

  ‘Near Hermsdorf. The Ronnebachs have a country cottage there, and the victim was a member of the local hunting club.’

  Tilsner exhaled slowly. ‘There are seven Hermsdorfs listed here. Which one?’

  ‘South of Dresden. Near the Czech border.’

  ‘That’s in the Ore Mountains, nearly seventy kilometres each way. It’s going to be a three-hour round trip. Wouldn’t we be better waiting until tomorrow?’

  ‘No,’ said Müller. ‘By all accounts, Martin Ronnebach was there regularly – without his wife. That’s something worth investigating. So let’s do it before the trail goes cold. And on the way you can brief me about what you found out at the Party offices.’

  ‘That’s not going to take very long, I can assure you.’

  *

  They headed east to begin with, along the main non-motorway route towards Dresden.

  Tilsner’s hands appeared to be gripping the steering wheel hard, and his knuckles were turning white. Müller knew what he’d be thinking: that she was taking him on another wild goose chase. Or perhaps it was the ‘girfriend trouble’ he’d mentioned that was making him such bad company.

  As they passed a sign for the village of Oberschöna, she fixed him with a stare and raised her voice above the roar of the Wartburg’s two-stroke engine.

  ‘What did you find out at the Party offices, Werner?’

  ‘Not a lot. Everyone just repeated in parrot fashion that I would need to get the permission of the Stasi before I spoke to them.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Did I what?’

  ‘Did you ask the Ministry for State Security?’

  ‘There doesn’t seem a lot of point, does there? There’s clearly something they don’t want us to know. What about your interview with Ronnebach’s widow?’

  Müller tried to bite back her annoyance – both at her deputy’s lack of persistence, and his convenient change of subject. ‘The most useful thing I uncovered seemed to be this weekend cottage and the nearby hunting club. But I had an MfS agent sitting in on the interview.’