I think what I will,
And what gives me pleasure.
It’s all very still,
And all in good measure.
My wishes and longings
Let no one be mocking.
It will always be
That thoughts are free.
He was singing for the pleasure of it, no audience but the surrounding trees. We stood listening as the tune washed around the woods, and it seemed to both chill and warm us.
And if they locked me
In a dark dungeon,
That would clearly be
A labour in vain;
For my own thoughts, they
Tear down the barriers
And the walls that be:
For thoughts are free.
A beautiful song, a dangerous song. A song in that rare land between official acceptance and overt resistance. A song that was uncomfortable for the Marxist-Leninist Workers’ Party—the Party that knew best, that couldn’t allow its subjects to have their own thoughts. A Party that had to accept the song for its pedigree: revolution, freedom, resistance against imperialism and fascism. A Party that dare not ban such a song outright.
That’s why I forever
Cast off all worries.
And nevermore will
Let whims plague me.
For in our own hearts we
Have laughter and fun
And thereby we see:
That thoughts are free.
A song that wound its way through the trees, wound its way into my heart. A moment apart from a grey world, a moment in the fairy kingdom of the beech forest and the solitary singer in the mist.
The guard at the border crossing pointed me toward the watchtower.
I rapped on the steel door, and a Grenzer opened up, only letting me in after I’d shown him my official papers. I climbed up the metal ladder, past the mess level to the darkened observation deck at the top. As I poked my head up through the hatch I saw Rico holding a muttered conversation with a customs officer. They both turned as I came up, and Rico crossed over to me.
“Martin, thanks for coming. We’ve got something you might find interesting.” Rico held out his hand and looked genuinely pleased to see me again. “This is my colleague from the Customs Administration Service, Obersekretär Kalle Reinhardt.”
The customs officer, a tall thin fellow, older than Rico but still with youth on his side, had been peering through the north-west windows. He motioned for us to join him, holding out the binoculars for me. I didn’t need them—in the gathering dusk I could quite clearly see the small group of punks climbing a ladder, then rolling over the top of the wall, less than 150 metres from the tower.
“Apparently they’re on the way to a squat, it’s called the Køpi,” I told them, “They have concerts there practically every night. It’s on the Köpenicker Strasse, just the other side of Engeldamm. And there’s another trailer site there too.”
Although the Køpi and the nearby Wagenburg—Schwarzer Kanal—were in the East, the most direct route between here and there was to cross the Wall twice, heading through the last corner of West Berlin. There was no border crossing near the Køpi, so jumping over the Wall at that point was the only option.
“Reports of provocations have been received from that sector too.” Rico nodded. “They’re climbing over the Wall on Engeldamm.”
We observed the punks until the whole of the small group had disappeared over the rounded asbestos tube that topped the whitewashed concrete of the Wall.
“Have you spoken to them about it?”
“The Section Commander is keen to avoid any conflict. He says we have more important things to worry about than a few chaos-mongers.”
Kalle exchanged a glance with Rico, something passed between them, a message, a negotiation, some kind of agreement.
“Perhaps you’d be interested in this?” he said, and shinned down the ladder.
Rico and I followed him, and we left the command tower, walking over the sandy grass towards the other side of Puschkin Allee. Once over the road we picked our way across hard-packed earth, hemmed in by abandoned guard-dog kennels, followed by battered cobbles criss-crossed by redundant tram tracks. We entered a door in the side of the bus repair workshop, a semi-derelict red-brick building from the turn of the century. Up several dimly-lit flights of stairs, all the doorways bricked up, until we reached the attic level. From there we went out onto a walkway that crossed the tar-paper roof, about three metres from the edge. The roof sloped down to my right, and I could see the factory lights shining through the saw-tooth skylights. Ahead of us—merely a shadow marring the sparkling reflection of the moon in the river—I could make out the customs pier. But to the left another railing marked the edge of the building which loomed over the weir lead that ran parallel to the Landwehr Canal.
That was the border to West Berlin.
Kalle and Rico were leaning on the railing that edged the catwalk, watching the weir channel.
“We’ve had a tip-off: watch the bushes on the far bank. If the information is correct then we should see some activity in the next half-hour or so,” Kalle whispered to me.
A lazy wind came off the river, blowing across the roof. I pulled my collar up, and zipped my jacket as far as it would go, leaning back against the railing, burrowing my hands into my pockets. But Kalle was right, we didn’t have to wait long. Rico tapped me gently on the shoulder and pointed across the channel to Kreuzberg. The moon wasn’t yet half full, and clouds nudged past, casting the landscape into shade. Only the cement works and cranes on the riverside could be seen—the buildings and bushes that covered most of the ground in front of us were as murky as the inky ribbon of water below us. Eventually I made out shadows, denser than the background gloom of the bank. They were manhandling something into the water—a rubber dinghy, perhaps a rigid inflatable. Whenever the wind dropped the lapping of oars cut through the dissonance of traffic drifting over from West Berlin.
Kalle headed along the catwalk and we followed him, around to the right and down some steps. From here we could see the customs pier—part of the border defences—and the gap in the piling that extended to the Oberbaum Bridge. Kalle pointed down that way, but I was too busy watching the mouth of the weir lead, waiting for the dinghy to appear, and I didn’t notice the speedboat until its buzzing engine caught my attention. Presumably it had come from one of the old harbour buildings on the Kreuzberg side of the river, halfway between here and the bridge, but it dashed up the river towards us, engine whirring loudly, its bow wave breaking on the banks and piles. A swerve to starboard and it disappeared into the mouth of the Landwehr Canal.
I turned away from the river, wanting an explanation of what just happened, but Rico just nodded towards one of our customs boats. It had set off from the pier, and was making way down the river, presumably looking for the place where the speed boat had launched. But Rico wasn’t interested in our customs launch, he was now watching the little dinghy, its nose just pushing out of the mouth of the weir. It hung around, allowing its bow to catch the stream, careful not to be drawn out into the river, the oars being used to keep position.
It was a good few minutes before the customs launch came back our way, searchlight stabbing the banks until it focussed on the dinghy. The two figures in the small boat could be clearly seen now, casually paddling backwards, moving further back into the weir lead, back into West Berlin.
The customs boat stayed in the river, its light following the slow progress of the boat until it disappeared under the lee of our building.
“What the hell was all of that?” I asked Kalle and Rico. Kalle looked away, while Rico gave me a grim smile. They went back along the catwalk, leaving me to follow.
“They’re testing us, to see how fast we react, what we notice,” Kalle told me, looking over his shoulder as he went. They know their rubber dinghy is very hard to spot on the radar and that we’re relying on visual contact from the observation towers on the pier
and in the Osthafen on the other side of the river—you can’t really cover the mouth of the weir from the Oberbaum Bridge. The problem is that the Wall was built to keep people in, not smugglers out. Our observation positions are facing the wrong way,” said Rico, not bothering to whisper any more, assuming there would be no more action this night. “And the speedboat, it went into the Landwehr Canal—and that’s a lock mouth. But they wouldn’t have gone through the lock, they would have just pulled the boat up the bank in front of the lock gates.” He pointed towards the edge of the roof. “The whole width of the weir lead down there is in Kreuzberg. As soon as that dinghy moved beyond the line of the river bank it was in West Berlin.”
Back at the Section Command Tower Kalle brewed up some coffee in the mess.
“Anything to report?” Rico asked the Grenzer at the signals desk.
“Yes, comrade Sergeant.” The soldier at the desk turned the logbook round for Rico to look at.
Rico read the log, his finger tracing each entry.
“Here, look—while they were messing about on the river a third boat crossed from the Kreuzberg side of the canal, dropping off a package further down Lohmühlenstrasse,” he said to me before turning his attention back to the Grenzer. “Has a signal already been sent to Staff and the GKSi?”
“Yes, comrade Sergeant.”
Rico grunted appreciatively. “I better get on with my report too, but first let’s have that coffee. Kalle—how long do you need to brew a cuppa?” he shouted down the hatch to the mess below. “I hate nights like this.”
We climbed down the ladder to the mess level where Kalle had a pan of water on the electric ring.
“Is Griesler not on duty tonight?”
Rico and Kalle shared a glance, much the same as they had when I’d turned up earlier.
“No, he put in for a transfer after your visit on Tuesday. And now he’s gone.” Rico shook his head and Kalle busied himself with taking cups out of the locker. “I don’t know how he managed to organise the transfer so quickly but good riddance if you ask me. That one had history.”
Day 6
Saturday 19th March 1994
Berlin: The new General Secretary of the Communist Party, the PDS, will today call on the government to ensure decisive action is taken against the fascist threat facing the country. In a speech this morning Karl Kaminsky will tell his party that only a strong, central leadership can steer the GDR out of the current crisis.
Martin
It was past eight when I left home, heading down the still cool streets toward the office. If I hurried I should just about make it in time for the morning meeting.
I hadn’t slept well—it had been late by the time I’d got back last night, and then I’d had trouble getting to sleep.
Excuses I told myself. It’s not about how well you slept, you’ve got a job to do—it’s lack of discipline. Faith, another part of me replied, not enough faith.
Perhaps I had too many questions about whether and how I was contributing to our Republic. In the old days it was so easy—easy to imagine a perfect way of organising our society, easy to ignore the real-life problems, the complex logistics of keeping eighteen million people rubbing along.
But the problems didn’t end there, the reality was that not all of those eighteen million souls wanted us to succeed, many had radically different ideas of what our country should look like.
Put that way, we had no chance, I thought to myself.
Too much thinking, old son, too much thinking.
By now I’d got to the office, and was examining the new graffiti on the wall outside.
We’d agreed to come in this Saturday morning to catch up on the meeting we’d missed. So far we’d finished the general part and had moved on to the fascist case.
“I saw Nik yesterday,” I told the others. “He said that he’d been watching the chemical workers’ demo when the fascists tried to gatecrash it. But the chemical workers weren’t having any of it, they literally distanced themselves from the skins.”
“Speaking of Nik,” responded Laura. “He wanted to drop in this morning but he couldn’t get here on time. He’s had a look at some of the police reports and he’s suggesting we let someone he knows have a look at the material. She used to be an agitation and propaganda expert working for the Party, and Nik reckons she can do something he calls ‘reverse engineering’. I think it means having a look at what the fascists have been doing publicly, then taking back-bearings and working out what their intentions are.”
Nik’s idea wasn’t bad, such an analysis could be useful, but it didn’t sit easily. The Communists were exploiting the current upsurge in fascist activity—they had their propaganda machine running at full tilt—using a law and order strategy, blaming the Round Tables for being soft on the fascists, despite the fact that the current problem of fascism in our country had its roots in the years of the Communist dictatorship.
“Is this analyst still a Party member?” I asked. “Because if she’s still close to the Party then we shouldn’t just hand over the material—they’ll cherry pick the juicy bits to back up their arguments for a firm leadership by the Party of the Proletariat!”
“I don’t know, I’ll ask Nik about any current connections to the Party.” Laura made a note for herself and the meeting moved on.
I told them about the strange water ballet of the two boats last night, and how it didn’t seem to make any sense.
“And what’s that got to do with us?” asked Laura.
“This thing with the boats seems to be happening regularly, and customs suspect it’s related to smuggling. I think it may tie into our theory that the fascists are smuggling their propaganda material in from the West. It seems sensible to follow it up, see if there are any connections.”
Erika nodded in agreement, but Laura was frowning. “We haven’t got any capacity for that kind of thing.”
“Oh, Laura, we’re only going through paperwork and observing fascist marches, I think this lead looks quite promising,” said Erika, winking at me across the room.
“OK, let’s do it. Martin, do you want to follow up on it—you seem to have the contacts already?”
“I’ll talk to the Border Police and Customs.”
We ticked off the next few points in short order: the fascists had registered another march in Berlin, and several more around the country too; Laura was to liaise with the Ministry—it was nearly a week since we’d found out about the IKM informant and we still hadn’t been allowed access to the operational files.
“There is one other thing—about that meeting I had with the State Prosecutor on Thursday. Turns out it wasn’t actually the prosecutor that wanted to see me—it was the President of the Court in charge of the case against Evelyn Hagenow and Benno Hartmann. Evelyn wants to do some kind of deal and the judge is keen on the idea.” I filled them in on my meeting with the judge and Evelyn.
“But what does she want to do? What’s she offering?” asked Laura.
“To penetrate the fascist scene, to be an agent. To gather intelligence that can be used in a criminal investigation against them.”
“Stasi tactics,” Erika said, almost under her breath.
Laura ignored the interruption. “But the police already have an IKM there, and anyway, they’d recognise her!”
“No, they’ve been very clever. Think about it: there’s not been a single picture of her in the papers or on the telly. They’ve been hiding her away, almost as if they’ve been preparing for this.”
But it was Erika who asked the big question, the one that had been bothering me since I’d spoken to Evelyn.
“Can we trust her?”
No-one gave an answer. It wasn’t up to us to decide whether or not to trust her. Our job was to pass the information upstairs, to the Ministry. Let them make the decision. We wouldn’t be part of executing any plan anyway—that task would fall to the Kripo. To all intents and purposes we’d already done our bit. There wouldn’t be any more contact
with Evelyn, and I was glad of that.
Once everyone had left my office I rang the Customs Administration, asking when I could see the Chief Inspector of Customs. I spoke to a very helpful secretary who offered me an appointment with some underling in three weeks time.
“And what if I just pop round to the Chief Inspector’s office on Monday morning?” I asked.
“That would be quite impossible!” I swear there was panic in that secretary’s voice. “There won’t be anyone available unless you have an appointment, good day.” He hung up.
I’d probably do better to have a chat with my new friend in the Border Police. I rang up his regimental HQ over in Treptow. Once I’d identified myself they proved far more accommodating.
“Comrade Staff Sergeant Müller is on early shift this week—he will be at the Section Command Tower Puschkin Allee until 1400 hours.”
I looked at my watch, I’d better get a move on if I was to catch Rico.
Karo
“Fucking wankers!” I turned the radio off again.
I only turned it on to get the music events listing on DT64. But some fucker had tuned the radio to DDR I and I got the news instead. Communist Party blaming the Round Tables for the fascist disease! Yeah, well, we tried their authoritarianism for forty years and they’re the ones who gave us this problem. Bastards seem to reckon that we’ve already forgotten that we were the ones who chucked them out!
Thoughts Are Free Page 6