Stasi 77

by David Young

  Wagner: And that’s when you say Frau Bloch von Blochwitz said the words you claim she said.

  Palitzsch: I don’t claim it. She did say it.

  Wagner: But you don’t have a note of it?

  Palitzsch: Why would I have a note of it? I was a waiter for the evening. Serving drinks. I overheard it, but those were her exact words.

  Wagner: All right, Günther. I’m not questioning your recollection. Let’s take a short break.

  35

  August 1977

  From Gardelegen to Potsdam, East Germany

  Müller was thankful she’d filled up the Lada at a filling station on the edge of Eisenach – she doubted she’d find one at this time of night in the wilds of Bezirk Magdeburg.

  It was now after one in the morning. There seemed no point in driving on when she had little faith in her ability to talk her way into a Stasi prison, major in the People’s Police or not. The guards at the prison would simply refer her request upwards, and at that point there would be a big red flag against her name at Stasi headquarters in Normannenstrasse in the Hauptstadt.

  Instead, she found a forest track off the main road, drove a few metres down it, then pulled to the side in case any early morning forestry workers needed to get through. She opened the boot of the Lada, brought out the blanket she kept there in case of emergencies, and then stretched out as far as she could on the back seat of the car, using her jacket as a makeshift pillow.

  Sleep wouldn’t come easily. She knew she’d made mistakes in this inquiry, but she was still technically on her annual leave – and had been taken off the case. It had only been the fortuitous intervention of the white-haired Dr Eckstein, aided and abetted it seemed by Oberst Reiniger, that had pushed her to get back on the case. But her biggest mistake had been not consulting the history books. Something had happened in or near Gardelegen during the war. She should have looked into that as soon as she saw that photograph of the Ronnebachs – or at least as soon as it was confirmed that the photograph was of Gardelegen town hall. It was a job for Schmidt. She’d get some sleep and then phone him first thing in the morning. He owed her one anyway. She still hadn’t decided how to proceed with what had been a very serious bit of duplicity on his part.

  *

  She woke, aching and cold, just before 6 a.m. when a bird or animal started walking across the Lada, the tap tap tap going backwards and forwards like a hammer on the car’s metal roof.

  Müller got out and stretched. Her bones and sinews seemed to crack as they were cajoled back into place. Her clothes felt damp from the condensation in the car. Of the summer camps on the Ostsee with Gottfried. Of simpler, happier times. But then she thought of Jannika and Johannes. Was she doing the correct thing leaving them in the care of Helga? Was it fair? After being blessed with children, after so many barren years, shouldn’t she now be spending more time with them? She knew she should be. But she also knew she had to see this case to its conclusion.

  *

  She drove on for an hour, through Stendal and across the Elbe again at Tangermünde, retracing the journey she’d taken with Tilsner only a few days earlier. Then went south to Genthin. On the outskirts of the town, she spotted a yellow public call box, parked the car, and then proceeded to ring Schmidt. It was just after 7 a.m. He would probably be up and eating breakfast by now.

  On this occasion, his wife was decidedly less cheerful in her greeting of Müller.

  ‘What is it you want this time?’ she asked defensively.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Jonas, please, Frau Schmidt. It’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘No doubt you said that to him last time,’ said the woman, a bitter edge to her voice.

  Müller heard Schmidt remonstrating with his wife in the background.

  ‘Sorry, Comrade Major. My wife is never at her best in the morning. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I want you to look up some World War Two history for me, Jonas.’

  ‘Oh yes? That doesn’t sound too difficult.’

  ‘What do you know about Gardelegen?’

  ‘Not a lot, Comrade Major. I think it’s somewhere in Bezirk Magdeburg, isn’t it? To the west of here. Isn’t it fairly near the state border?’

  ‘It is, Jonas, yes. But what I want to know about is what happened there during the war. I get the feeling it was something fairly momentous.’

  ‘I can’t imagine that will be too difficult to find out, Comrade Major. It won’t require forensic science expertise.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Jonas. But you’re good at research, and it’s research I want. And not just on the events. Try to find out about the people, and what happened to them, by any means you can.’

  ‘I understand, Comrade Major. Consider it done.’

  *

  Müller wasn’t looking forward to her next call. First, she fished in her jacket pocket to pull out some more coins. Then she fed them into the slot, and dialled.

  ‘Who is it?’ barked Tilsner.

  ‘That’s not a very pleasant way to greet your superior.’

  ‘Oh. It’s you. What do you want? Aren’t you on annual leave?’

  ‘I was. A case came up near where we were holidaying. So that was the end of the holiday.’

  Müller could hear her deputy’s anger in the silence at the other end of the line.

  ‘Are you still there, Werner?’

  ‘I’m still here, yes. I thought we were a team. Why didn’t you send for me to help?’

  ‘It was down in Eisenach. The Wartburg factory. An accident there.’

  Tilsner snorted. ‘I thought your accident investigation days were a thing of the past. You always said that the Königs Wusterhausen disaster gave you nightmares for years afterwards.’

  ‘It did. It still does. Anyway, I’m ringing you because I need a bit of help now. You know that watch I always tease you about?’

  Müller could almost envisage the grumpy frown that would have settled on her deputy’s face. He sighed loudly down the line. ‘Not that again. I’ve told you before, change the record.’

  ‘Just listen to me a moment. Let’s say for a moment I was right in my suppositions about the wa—’

  ‘Give it a rest, Karin. I’ve said I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Wait a moment. Don’t get angry. Just imagine I was correct. If I was, do you have an ID that goes with the membership of that organisation?’

  ‘What? You expect me to tell you that over an open phone line? Have you gone completely mad?’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me if I’m right. You don’t have to answer the question. But – if it’s true – I want you to bring the ID with you, and meet me at the junction of Hegelallee and Lindenstrasse in Potsdam in an hour-and-a-half’s time.’

  ‘And what it if it’s not true?’

  ‘Still come and meet me, and I’ll bring you up to speed.’

  36

  Müller wasn’t certain that Tilsner would turn up. So she was delighted to see him parked up near the junction, sitting in the Wartburg. She found a parking space as near to him as possible, and reversed the Lada into it.

  By the time she’d turned the engine off, and collected her jacket and bag, Tilsner was already leaning over the driver’s door.

  ‘You summoned me, madam, and I am here to do your bidding.’

  ‘Good. Let’s take a walk first. I’ll show you some history.’

  *

  Their ‘walk’ was just a few metres to the impressive Jägertor – the preserved city gate from Old Potsdam, dating back to the eighteenth century.

  ‘I hope you’re not taking me on a guided tour of Potsdam’s sights,’ grumbled Tilsner. ‘I hate sightseeing. I’d much rather go for a coffee.’

  ‘I just wanted to talk where we couldn’t be overheard, or at least where we can see everyone who’s approaching.’

  ‘OK. Why all the secret squirrel stuff?’

  ‘Did you bring the ID?’

  ‘Look, I’ve told you I’m n
ot getting into all that.’

  Müller cocked her head in what she hoped was a coquettish way. ‘Pretty please?’

  Tilsner punched her on the arm. ‘I’m not discussing it. But I heard what you said on the phone. You can draw any conclusion you want from that.’

  ‘All right, let’s assume you’ve got your ID.’

  ‘I’m not saying anything.’

  ‘Would it get us in to see someone at 54 Lindenstrasse?’

  ‘What?! The Stasi prison?’

  Müller nodded.

  Tilsner gave a long, drawn-out sigh. ‘If one had such an ID, I would assume it might get you into the reception. It might get you into the office to speak to an officer. Was that what you had in mind?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, I thought not.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Sometimes, I just think you’re lucky.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have a couple of mates who work there. There is the off-chance I might be able to get in; we may even be able to interview a prisoner. I assume that is what you want. But I will do it via my Vopo ID. Nothing else. I have nothing else. Do you still have that old Vopo ID you had from when you were an Unterleutnant?’

  Müller hunted through her bag, and found it. ‘Yes, it’s here. Why?’

  ‘Because, dear Karin, for once in your life to make this work you are going to be my deputy. Comrade Unterleutnant Karin Müller. It has a much nicer ring to it than Major, don’t you think?’

  37

  13 April 1945

  Gardelegen, Nazi Germany

  Each time Marcellin is given some food, it seems to revive him a little. But every time he moves, I see him wincing. The wound on his arm is starting to smell. I can’t bring myself to look at it any more. Every time I do, it looks worse. It is not healing.

  ‘Surely the Americans should be here by now?’ he whispers to me. I can see the desperation in his eyes. I take it as a good sign. He still has a little hope in his heart.

  There is indeed some activity this morning. When we arrived here in the cavalry school barracks, the SS guards had begun looking for new Kapo guards amongst us – to replace, presumably, other German guards who’d fled in the face of the American advance and the impending surrender. It was the Germans they wanted – communists, criminals, anyone who’d fallen foul of the Nazi regime and ended up in a labour camp like us. Around twenty-five of the prisoners stepped forward to volunteer. Most of them were indeed Germans, but there were also a few Poles. None of us French. They knew we hated them and would never do it.

  At the underground rocket factory, the Kapos had never been armed, save for the batons they wielded, which they had smashed into mine and Marcellin’s back with regularity. If I ever get to inspect myself in a mirror, I expect the bruises will still be there, if there’s any flesh left.

  But sometime around midday, the SS come into the stables and gather the Kapos together. They ask which of them can fire a rifle. Just under twenty of them raise their hands, and are led away, the others are returned to the barracks. I wasn’t particularly worried by this – if the Germans are preparing an operation to hand us over to the Allies, they will probably need to guard us on the way, given some of the antipathy some of the townsfolk have shown towards us ‘zebras’.

  A few hours later, there is more activity. The Kapos who were led off are now back, armed with rifles and ammunition. Together with the SS, they start forming us into groups of about a hundred prisoners each. Something is happening. It looks like – finally – we are being marched out to be handed over to the Americans. I find myself biting my lip, saying ‘please, please’ to myself under my breath. I feel almost tearful through joy.

  It doesn’t surprise me that Marcellin is judged too weak to walk. There are three carts, two being pulled by horses, one by a tractor. It’s clear the weakest will be taken to the Americans in the carts. I don’t want us to be separated. I plead with one of the SS guards, even though I know that doing so is a risk. If he loses his temper, he could simply shoot me dead on the spot.

  The guard laughs. ‘Of course. Why not? Brothers should never be separated. It’ll be like a taxi ride for you both.’ His tone is mocking. I know he regards us as worse than pieces of shit. But I will put up with the humiliation in order to stay with my brother.

  I chance my luck by asking another question: ‘Why are we being moved?’

  Again, the mocking laugh. ‘It’s just getting too crowded in the barracks, that’s all. We need to find you some more space.’ One of the other guards laughs knowingly at this, and spits on the floor. I just assume this is bravado – soldiers of a defeated nation not wanting to admit when they’ve been beaten. They would never acknowledge to us that they’re about to surrender.

  We’re led towards the north out of the cavalry school. The first group of several hundred – perhaps three hundred – marches off as we wait in the carts. I find myself fidgeting, eager to get on with it, excited about what the American troops will look like. Do they even know about us? Did they know about the secret underground factory? Presumably they did, and that was why it was bombed to bits in those final days before we were moved out.

  There are a surprising number of guards. Not just the twenty or so armed Kapos. There are at least as many – if not more – SS men, some of them with dogs.

  Finally, after three groups of prisoners have been marched off, we are underway. But after a kilometre or so the convoy stops, and the other groups of prisoners have come to a halt too. Perhaps there is some confusion about the handover to the Americans, but my hope’s not dimmed. We see a tractor passing, towing a trailer with various goods on it and what look like ammunition boxes and fuel cans. Presumably as part of the surrender, the Germans have to hand over their arms.

  The walking groups begin to march again, and eventually we follow. After another kilometre along a farm lane, we reach a large masonry barn on a gentle hill. I turn my head and can see all the way to Gardelegen, where we’ve just come from. Presumably beyond that is Mieste, where the train stopped, and to the north Estedt, where I came within seconds of losing my life. Now I’m about to be freed. It feels good.

  Suddenly we see an Allied warplane circling overhead. The guards usher us into the barn, the weakest from the carts going first. Inside it is empty, save for a bed of straw on the floor. At least we will be able to gather that together to make ourselves beds.

  ‘I don’t like the look of this, Philippe,’ says Marcellin. ‘What’s that smell of petrol?’

  It’s true, there is a strong smell of fuel. But I seek to reassure him. ‘It’s a farm building. Machinery will have been stored here too. They’ve got to put us somewhere. Stay strong. By morning we will probably be free, and we can finally get that arm looked at.’

  He smiles at me then, and for an instant, in the half-light of the barn, I see the old Marcellin. The fearless Marcellin of the band of three brothers. The pirates of the Celestine. And I feel my heart fill with love for him.

  38

  August 1977

  Potsdam, East Germany

  While Müller waited in the public reception room at the Stasi jail, she found herself crossing and uncrossing her legs. Then picking at her fingernails as she wondered if Tilsner was actually doing what he said he would try to do – gain access to Ernst Lehmann for her. Or whether he was even now on the phone to Oberst Jäger at Stasi headquarters.

  After a few minutes, Tilsner returned with a Stasi officer. A captain, like her deputy. Müller could tell from the four gold stars on his grey-green uniform epaulettes. A thought flashed in her brain: He’s here to arrest me.

  But he wasn’t.

  ‘This is Unterleutnant Müller,’ said Tilsner. ‘She’s a trainee detective on attachment from the uniform division assisting me with our inquiries into the robbery.’ Tilsner grinned at Müller, out of sight of the Stasi captain. He was enjoying this.

  The captain nodded slowly. ‘And why do you think Lehmann can help you?’

  ‘He
was friends with one of the ringleaders who at the moment isn’t talking,’ answered Tilsner. ‘We think Lehmann may have information that will help us to get him to talk. To reveal where they stashed the money.’

  ‘And why do you think Lehmann will talk to you, a Kriminalpolizei detective, when he hasn’t responded to our . . . methods.’ As he said this, the Stasi captain was looking at Müller’s chest. She realised her lightweight bra and thin blouse was probably showing too much. She adjusted it self-consciously. Little does he know I slept in these clothes last night in the car. They probably stink to high heaven.

  Tilsner cracked his knuckles: his right hand, then his left. It sounded like the snap of a bone breaking. ‘We’ve got our own methods. Don’t worry. Unterleutnant Müller here may look like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but take it from me, you wouldn’t want to get a kick in the balls from her. Lehmann won’t like it either if he doesn’t cooperate.’

  The captain smiled at Müller as he jiggled a set of keys in his hand. ‘Intriguing. I’d like to see that.’

  ‘Maybe one day, Hans, but this time we want him on our own if that’s OK. We won’t need more than about ten minutes.’ He cracked his knuckle again to emphasise the point.

  The Stasi officer shrugged, pressed a button and then spoke into the intercom, before leading them into the inner sanctum of the prison.

  *

  When they looked through the spyhole into the cell, Müller could see the prisoner – Lehmann, she presumed – sitting on a stool in a corner of the bare room. As they entered, he immediately got up and seemed to be about to say something to Tilsner. But her deputy rushed over, and yanked Lehmann’s arm high up behind his back, producing a yelp of pain.

  He brought his mouth right up to Lehmann’s ear. Müller couldn’t hear what he was whispering – and couldn’t even lip read as he’d manoeuvred his body between her and the prisoner, blocking her eyeline. After he’d finished whispering what Müller assumed were instructions as to how this would play out, he stepped aside.