Stasi 77

by David Young

  The two detectives strode on in silence. The only sounds were their footsteps on the dirty track, the crackle of paper from the photocopied map which Müller occasionally consulted, and a background of birdsong. In the hedgerows each side of the track, butterflies danced from plant to plant to gather nectar. It was an idyllic summer scene. Yet Müller felt uncomfortable, wary. She realised she’d been biting her lip almost since they’d got out of the car.

  Then, from the direction of the woods they were heading for, a scream pierced the silence.

  Müller started to run towards the sound. Tilsner grabbed her arm.

  ‘Careful, Karin. We don’t know what’s going on.’

  She shrugged him off. ‘You’ve got your gun, haven’t you? Get it ready.’

  Silence settled again.

  They ran on, up a slight incline towards the wood, the only sounds their own panting breaths and rapid footfall.

  About halfway up the incline, Müller had to rest as a stitch kicked in. She felt her old Caesarean scar pulling. It hadn’t been a trained doctor who’d done the initial cuts – although an obstetrician had tried to tidy things up a few months later. Instead, the initial cuts had been made by her one-time childhood friend and his accomplice wife, trying – and very nearly succeeding – to steal her babies away from her.

  Tilsner looked hard at her. ‘Are you OK? Should you really be doing this?’

  She nodded. ‘Come on. Something’s gone wrong.’ The scream, she knew, must have come from almost the exact same place her mystery contact wanted to meet.

  At the top of the rise, the surrounding fields gave way to the woods, but the cart track continued on. A hundred metres more, and Müller turned off the track to the north, and suddenly they were in a clearing. Shafts of light penetrated the darkness, as though someone was holding a giant torch overhead. Müller checked the map against the landmarks shown: a fork in the track, a large boulder to one side of the clearing, the diamond shape of the clearing itself.

  This was the place, she was certain. Yet no one was here.

  Tilsner was crouched to the ground, examining it. ‘Footprints. They look fresh, and something’s been dragged along—’

  A car engine started up, startling them. They ran towards the noise. Through the trees they saw an olive green Trabant Kübel racing away in the direction of Estedt. They ran back to the cart track, sprinting after the vehicle as fast as they could.

  ‘Stop! Kriminalpolizei!’ shouted Müller.

  But it was too late. ‘Did you get the registration number, Werner?’

  He shook his head. ‘There wasn’t one.’

  Müller’s face darkened. Who would be able to get away with driving a vehicle with no number plate in the Republic without being questioned or arrested?

  There were very few options.

  A high-up in the government? Maybe.

  A high-up in the army? Perhaps. Such vehicles were certainly in use with the People’s Army, although to be driven on a public road – where that one was heading back to – they would normally have some sort of military registration plate.

  The People’s Police, Müller’s own organisation, was another possibility.

  But the most likely scenario was that it belonged to the Ministry for State Security.

  The Stasi.

  *

  Müller ordered Tilsner to go back to the Lada to alert Gardelegen’s People’s Police. It would almost certainly be too late as the Kübel would be clean away before they could get any roadblocks in place – probably along the exact same network of country lanes that Tilsner had followed to get them to Estedt in the first place. There would be too many bases to cover. But she wanted them to send a forensic scientist and search team up to the woods – there might be other evidence to find.

  Müller returned to the clearing. The sense of foreboding that had first chilled her when they had climbed the gentle incline to the wood now returned even more strongly, despite the summer heat. She found herself biting her nails, fearing she’d let down her anonymous contact. But she and Tilsner had arrived at the time the contact had requested. They’d done all they could. Perhaps she should have got in touch with the local uniform division ahead of time and got them to place a watch on the wood. It was too late now. There was no point worrying about what might have been.

  She knelt down in the grassy area where Tilsner had seen the prints. She didn’t want to move around too much, and destroy what evidence there was. Then she glanced up towards the large boulder. A darker area glistened in the sun on the rock. She approached it with mounting excitement.

  Blood.

  Congealing, but not yet fully dry.

  She took a plastic evidence bag and her penknife from the pocket of her red jacket.

  She carefully scraped a sample of the blood into the bag.

  Was it the blood of their contact? She didn’t know for certain, but she suspected that was the case.

  The question, though, was whether he was alive, mortally wounded, or already dead and unable to pass on to Müller the information that he’d risked his life to give.

  15

  ‘What exactly are we looking for, Comrade Major?’ asked Hauptmann Albert Janson, the local police captain, surrounded by dog handlers. The dogs strained at their leashes, panting and impatient to get on with their work.

  Müller was sure a crime had been committed; she just didn’t know exactly what. She was equally sure it was somehow connected to the murders in Karl-Marx-Stadt and Leinefelde.

  She pointed to the boulder and the bloodstain. ‘The man who was supposed to be meeting me appears to have been seriously injured here. At least, I assume it was whoever was supposed to be meeting me. If you could get his scent, perhaps the dogs could follow it to work out where he had walked from. Did he come from Estedt itself? Does he live there?’

  Janson nodded. ‘What makes you think he came from the Estedt direction?’

  ‘What’s the other way? Is there another village nearby?’

  The captain rubbed his chin. ‘Yes. Breitenfeld. But it must be five or six kilometres through the forest.’

  ‘See if the dogs pick up a scent. Maybe he came here by car?’

  ‘We’ve already had a quick scout around. The only fresh vehicle tracks appear to be from the Trabant Kübel you say you saw. That appears to have approached from Breitenfeld, and left via Estedt.’

  ‘Presumably with our victim inside. Dead or alive.’

  ‘OK,’ said Janson. ‘I’ll set the team to work and see if we discover anything.’

  Tilsner walked up close to Müller. He glanced up at the sky through the clearing, at the azure blue dotted with the occasional cotton wool cloud, then held Müller’s gaze.

  ‘Of course, our man might not have been the victim.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Perhaps he was intending to attack someone. He knew someone was coming here, at a particular time.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Werner?’

  Tilsner took a long breath. ‘Let’s say this is all linked. Karl-Marx-Stadt, Leinefelde. Perhaps something’s happened here too. Perhaps our man didn’t want anyone investigating it. Perhaps he knew either you or I would be coming here, answering his call.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s in the middle of nowhere. The clearing is off the beaten track – literally. So our contact might presume that any man or woman entering the clearing at the allotted time would be you. What if another woman turned up here, in the wrong place at the wrong time?’

  ‘And what if it had been a man?’

  Tilsner shrugged. ‘Exactly. Either you or I could have been the real target.’

  Müller felt her chest tighten. Tilsner could be right. But the scream they’d heard had been male, she was sure of that. She felt a sudden need to be back in the Hauptstadt, at the Strausberger Platz apartment, holding Jannika and Johannes. And she wanted to hug her grandmother and tell her how much she loved her.

  There w
as frenzied barking and a shout rang out.

  ‘I think we’ve got the scent,’ yelled Janson.

  The detectives and uniformed officers followed the female dog handler as she tried to hold the animal back. It strained at the leash, almost pulling her along. They found themselves almost running back along the track towards Estedt, in the direction the Kübel had gone.

  ‘Will it be the scent from something inside the car?’ panted Müller as she half-ran alongside the uniform captain.

  ‘No. The scent is of whoever was injured, whoever’s blood was spilt on the boulder. It means they must have walked here from the Estedt direction.’

  The posse of police officers and dogs moved in a line towards the village. Before they got to the main road, the lead dog directed its handler towards a side lane. About fifty metres down that, the dog stopped and started barking at the driver’s door of a light blue Trabant saloon.

  Müller looked quizzically at the police captain.

  ‘It must be his car. Shall we break into it?’

  Hauptmann Janson gestured to one of his men. After first trying the door to make sure it was locked, the second officer pulled his gun from his holster, used the butt end to smash the driver’s window, and then opened the door. He pulled out the car’s documents, and then leafed through them.

  ‘Lothar Schneider. Apartment 18, Stendaler Strasse 73, Gardelegen.’

  Müller turned to Janson. ‘Does that name mean anything to you?’

  The captain shook his head. ‘But I’ll radio back to headquarters now, and get a couple of officers to go round there.’

  ‘No, don’t for now,’ said Müller. ‘Hauptmann Tilsner and I will do it ourselves. We’ll let you know if we need any assistance. What I’d like you to do in the meantime is look for other evidence in the woods, see if you can find any witnesses to where that Kübel came from – if it was indeed Breitenfeld – and perhaps see if your dogs can at least trace the direction the Kübel went after it got to Estedt.’

  *

  Number 73 Stendaler Strasse lay on the main road out of Gardelegen towards the east, in the direction of Berlin. It was a two-storey block, with another storey in the roof space, of what appeared to be a turn-of-the-century building. Like many of the Republic’s older structures, bullet hole damage from the Second World War was still evident in its brickwork. Müller counted two, three, four places at least where either a bullet or ricochet had blown a chunk off the building.

  They rang on the bell for Apartment 18. Nothing happened. Tilsner tried the front door. It was open.

  The two detectives ran up the stairs to the first floor, and soon located Schneider’s front door. Müller rapped on it. No reply. Then she shouted out: ‘Kriminalpolizei! Is anyone at home?’

  The noise clearly alerted other neighbours, as an elderly woman peeked out of her door. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

  Müller showed her ID card. ‘Major Karin Müller of the Serious Crimes Department in Berlin, and this is Hauptmann Werner Tilsner. Do you know where the Schneiders are?’

  The woman said nothing for a moment, and appeared to be staring past Müller, at Tilsner. Müller turned. Tilsner had his head bowed, and his collar turned up, almost as though he was trying to disappear into his jacket.

  Müller turned back to the woman. ‘Well?’

  The woman seemed to shake herself out of whatever trance she was in. ‘They’re both out at work as far as I know. Why? What are they supposed to have done?’

  ‘That’s none of your business. Where do they work?’

  ‘He works at the power station. She’s a school teacher. It’s the school holidays but she still goes in on some days to do preparation work and marking.’

  ‘Which school?’

  ‘Oberschule Geschwister Scholl. In Jägerstieg. About one-and-a-half kilometres from here. It’s too far for me to walk, but no problem for you young things.’ The woman was squinting again at Tilsner. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’

  Müller looked at Tilsner. He’d turned away. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I’ve never been here before.’

  The woman shrugged. ‘Oh well. All young men look similar to me these days. My eyes are going, dear. Will that be all? I hope they’re not in trouble. They’re a nice couple, always helping me out.’

  ‘That’s very useful. And no, they’re not in any trouble. We just need them to help us with something.’

  *

  ‘What was all that about?’ she asked as she ran after Tilsner down the stairs.

  ‘What was what about?’

  ‘That woman. She thought she knew you.’

  Tilsner stopped and turned to her. ‘I told you. I have family from this area. Maybe she saw me visiting them one time.’

  ‘I hope you’ll always tell me the truth, Werner. We go back a long way.’

  ‘We do. So it’s hardly the time to be believing some batty old dear with bad eyesight rather than me, is it?’

  *

  The power station or the school? That was their choice. Müller opted for the power station. If Schneider had been badly injured or even killed, she didn’t want to upset his wife before she was sure. Emotional sensibilities weren’t, of course, at the forefront of her mind. But it was still a factor.

  *

  VEB Energiekombinat Frieden Gardelegen was situated on the edge of the town. Two giant cooling towers dominated the skyline, with mountains of lignite – low-grade brown coal mined from just below the surface – standing alongside. With the steam from the concrete towers and smoke rising from various chimneys, it reminded Müller of their interviews at the Eisenhüttenstadt steelworks the previous year during the Dominik Nadel case.

  Müller and Tilsner were asked to wait at the entrance checkpoint while an official was summoned from within the complex.

  A besuited, middle-aged man with a balding head eventually appeared and introduced himself, with a shorter, younger man alongside.

  ‘I’m Herman Siskind, deputy managing director of the plant.’

  Müller showed her Kripo ID. ‘Major Karin Müller and Hauptmann Werner Tilsner from the Serious Crimes Department in Berlin.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Siskind, an inappropriate grin on his face. ‘I hope we’re not guilty of any serious crimes.’

  Müller didn’t appreciate the man’s levity. ‘Not as far as I know, Herr Siskind. However we are investigating a potential crime. We believe that one of your employees, a certain Lothar Schneider, may have been a victim of a crime.’

  ‘How dreadful. Well, before I can talk to you, I’ve been informed by the Ministry for State Security that I need to see your authorisations. Presumably you have such authorisations to show me?’

  Müller frowned. ‘As I say, I’m a major from the Serious Crimes Department of the People’s Police. I don’t require any authorisation from the Stasi.’

  The younger man now spoke up. ‘I’m afraid you do, Comrade Major. I’m the MfS liaison officer here. Mirco Jundt. You may not be aware, but because of their importance for national security, power stations come under a special set of rules. For something like this you will need authority from the regional office of the Ministry for State Security in Magdeburg. I’m sure they will help you if they can. Would you like their telephone number?’

  Müller sighed. ‘Can you at least confirm Herr Schneider works here?’

  ‘I don’t think I could have been any clearer,’ said Jundt. ‘We are not permitted to give out any information until you have the necessary authority.’

  *

  After the abortive power station visit Müller and Tilsner drove to the People’s Police office in Gardelegen. They were quickly ushered up the stairs to see Hauptmann Janson.

  ‘We’ve some news, and it’s not good news for your Herr Schneider. His body was found dumped in a lane near Kalbe less than an hour ago.’

  ‘Where’s that?’ asked Müller.

  ‘About twenty kilometres north of here. Fifteen minut
es’ drive away if you want us to take you to look at the scene. Our people from the Kripo are out there.’

  ‘Is it murder?’

  ‘I should say so, yes,’ replied Janson. ‘Unless he decided to cut his own throat.’

  16

  4 April 1945

  Kohnstein mountain, near Nordhausen

  The bombers are here. Marcellin and I are terrified but excited. Discipline in the camp has broken down. Perhaps we can escape, finally get out of this living hell.

  But as the string of bombs begins to fall, we realise survival is everything. We see one group of Russian prisoners blown to smithereens as they try to make a run for it, and others shredded alive by shrapnel, so instead we dive into the nearest bomb crater amid the heat and noise of the explosions.

  The bombing grows with intensity. We lie flat on our stomachs in the mud, just praying and hoping that another bomb won’t hit this exact spot twice. There’s no reason why one shouldn’t – but somehow we feel safer on this bit of earth that’s already been punished for the Nazis’ megalomania, brutality, and utter madness.

  As the sound of the aeroplanes and explosions dies away, we hear the terrible wailing of the wounded. We creep on our stomachs upwards to the edge of the crater.

  ‘Should we help them?’ I ask Marcellin.

  ‘They’re dying, Philippe. There’s nothing we can do.’

  ‘Should we make a run for it?’ I ask.

  Marcellin shakes his head. Then I see he’s clutching his arm. He’s been wounded. ‘It’s nothing,’ he says. ‘Just a flesh wound. But I don’t want to run with it.’

  ‘Perhaps we can get to the Revier. Get it dressed?’

  But as I say this, the camp loudspeakers suddenly come to life. The announcement says that everyone, without exception, must assemble at the roll call area with two blankets each, and prepare for a departure.

  The announcement produces a kind of mêlée amongst those fit enough still to run. I can’t understand what’s happening at first. Then I realise. Prisoners, mostly the Russians, are raiding what’s left in the stores, getting what little food they can find for whatever journey lies ahead. By the time we work out what’s happening, next to nothing remains.