Thoughts Are Free

by Max Hertzberg

“Something amusing you?” he asked me, the ghost of a smile crossing his lips too.

  “Nah.” I shook my head. “Just wondering how to deal with this current situation.”

  “What?”

  “You know the fasho-squat on Weitlingstrasse? They’ve only gone and moved back in again.”

  Martin was gobsmacked.

  “Yeah, seems the cops didn’t bother to guard the place after the raid, lazy eejits. And before the District Housing Association could change the locks the place was overrun with Nazis again!”

  His face was a picture. It was almost worth it just to see his coupon. But, let’s be honest, it was a shit situation.

  “So what are we going to do about it?” I asked him.

  He just shook his head, as if he didn’t want to answer. That just wound me up again.

  “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” I told him. “We’re going to get a bunch of good people together, and we’re going to take that house right back off those bastards. We’re going to re-socialise it, give it to someone who needs it, like those people who’ve come from Russia, or the families from Serbia and Croatia.”

  “We can’t do that! It’s just too much. Too undemocratic.” He was still shaking his head, as if I was suggesting we build a rocket or a tank or something.

  “Yes we can! Come on, we did it before! That’s what direct action is all about!”

  “What? Setting ourselves up to be the vanguard of the revolution? No.”

  “It’s not a fucking vanguard! We’re stopping the bloody counter-revolution. We’re stopping the fascists from being the vanguard of the counter-revolution! The time for talking is gone. We need new impetus in this revolution of ours!”

  “Maybe you’re right.” But he was still shaking his head, like it was on a spring or something. “But I’ve been wondering whether we even have a consensus in our society-”

  “What are you on about now?”

  “Well, look, we’re trying to set up this independent, grassroots GDR. But does everyone actually want it-”

  “Course they fucking do!” I interrupted, but he carried on as if I hadn’t said anything.

  “But back in 1989, all those people marching, they said they wanted the end of Communist rule. But did they say what they wanted to replace it with? Or did we just make assumptions? Did we just think this was our revolution because we’d been resisting for so long, opposing the state, encouraging debate?” He paused for a bit, he had wrinkles on his forehead, as if he’d been thinking too hard. “What I’m trying to say is, back in 1989 and 1990, did we just assume the privilege of influence, use the Round Tables to push our agenda, just because we were there already, because we were already organised?”

  I shook my head. He was talking bollocks. It wasn’t just him and his cronies, for fuck’s sake, there were literally millions of us marching back then—of course we wanted this!

  “So these skins and fascists,” he was still wittering on, thinking aloud. “Maybe they’re not just a small minority, maybe lots of other people feel the same way—Foreigners Out, Germany for the Germans, Time for Strong Leadership? Or even One Germany? Maybe no-one’s interested in all this stuff about solidarity, a progressive society, freedom, fairness, grassroots democracy, respect for one another …” He tailed off, lost in a pit of thinking inside his head.

  “Bollocks! Fucking shitey bollocks, Martin!”

  He grinned at my fierceness, but let me continue.

  “You know what, you’re not the only one who thinks about this shit! Because I think about it too, and so do my friends. And we’re out there, on the streets. We hear what people are saying. And they say some pretty shit things! Know how many times I’ve been told that I should be gassed? Just because I’m a punk, because people don’t like the way I look? People spit at me, and I spit right back and give them the finger too. Cos some people have an ugly side. Jealous, scared, bitter, whatever. Fuck, we’ve all got an ugly side, just some people are more ugly than others. Yeah, and that’s gonna come out when they’re frightened, and you know what, these are fucking frightening times—hell, even I’m a bit frightened sometimes, and I love all this chaos! But the thing is, Martin, just because some people are bitter, twisted shits doesn’t mean that we have to give up, does it?” I stared at him, daring him to disagree, daring him to interrupt.

  “Know what I think?” I carried on ranting—nothing could stop me now. “You know what? All that shit that the Communists used to spout? Well here’s the news: all their talk about scientific socialism was just cronyism, privileges, authoritarianism. And the funny thing is, people knew they were talking shite, and still the propaganda stuck. I reckon people in this country believe in fairness, believe in helping each other out, sharing. Soli-fucking-darity. The labels were all bollocks, all a sham, but what those labels should mean, that’s what stuck with us.”

  I sat back, arms crossed, feeling a bit better for having got that off my chest. Except now I felt a bit bad, because Martin was already giving himself a hard time, and now he’d got me ranting at him as well.

  I felt something move behind me, a stir of the air, or maybe a faint breath. Looking over my shoulder I could see Katrin had come back out of the hut.

  “Come on you two, it’s getting chilly out here, shall we go inside?” Katrin was looking at her dad. Dead tender, kind of a sad look it was.

  We sat together on the train, heading back to Berlin. There wasn’t much to say, we were both a bit shocked by Martin’s behaviour. At some point, Katrin started talking.

  “I think it started last autumn, he’s been different since then. I’ve always thought of him like a bear. A big bear of a man. Large, generous. And quick to anger. But since last year he’s been, I don’t know, pensive? Thoughtful?”

  I only got to know Martin last autumn, so I had nothing to say. I let Katrin do the talking.

  “But maybe it goes further back. My mum. Maybe it was when she went …” She shook her head, looking out of the window. There was nothing to see out there, it was already dark. But looking out of the window meant she didn’t have to look at me.

  She told me about her mum, about how she left the country when Katrin was still young, leaving Martin to look after her. “The personal cost you had to pay for wanting to leave the country … I often wonder what it cost her. But the thing is, it cost us a lot, too. Me and Papa, particularly Papa. It cost him too much.”

  I put my arm around her, and she snuggled up against me, burying her head in my shoulder, still avoiding eye contact.

  “Too much,” she repeated. She told me that her mum had written to her, wanted to have contact. I knew there was something going on, something about Katrin writing to her mum—I’d overheard that much on the morning when Martin and I had stayed at hers.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Katrin glanced up, then hid her face again.

  “I don’t know,” came the muffled reply. “Don’t know. I’m curious. But then I think of what happened… actually I don’t really know what happened, I don’t know her.”

  “What about your dad? What are you going to do about him?”

  Katrin froze for a moment, as if this were a new thought for her. Then she shook her head again, still buried in my side.

  “Oh, who knows? He’s always asking me what I want. But yeah, what about him? I don’t know. Perhaps it’s time for me to be there for him. For my whole life he’s been there for me, looking out for me, always there if I want help or advice. And I just get annoyed by him, lose patience with him. I’ve been unfair, maybe. But now it looks like he’s the one that needs some help.”

  I stroked Katrin’s hair. She was right, it was time for us to be there for him.

  Day 14

  Sunday 27th March 1994

  Magdeburg: The Sascha Berkmann Brigade at the SKET factory in Magdeburg have written an appeal to mobilise support for widespread anti-fascist action in the GDR. In their statement the brigade call on humanist, anti-fas
cist and peace-loving citizens and residents to unite in their opposition to the negative-reactionary forces that are attempting to disrupt and destroy the Social Experiment in the GDR.

  Karo

  I spent most of Sunday with Schimmel. He was fine, or at least he was pretending to be fine. He didn’t mention what had happened on Friday, so I didn’t ask him about it either. We just hung out, played music and went up to Forcki park with a few beers. I told him about Martin, not the bit about Martin breaking down, just that the fash were after him and that he’d had to leave town.

  By mid-afternoon it had clouded over and was getting chilly so we went back to our squat on Thaerstrasse. When we got there Katrin was waiting for me in my room, huddled against the wall, chewing her bottom lip.

  “Papa’s gone missing! Karo, he’s gone, they’ve taken him—I don’t know where he is!”

  I put my hands on her shoulders just as she’d done to her dad yesterday.

  “OK, calm down. Tell me what’s happened.”

  “I got the train out to the Datsche this morning, but when I got there the place was empty, the door was smashed in, the place was a mess. I went straight back to the village and dialled 110. I said it was the Nazis, that they’d taken Papa. But the dispatcher wouldn’t take me seriously, she just told me to go back to the Datsche and wait for him there. They weren’t going to help so I came here-”

  I put my arms around her, held her close until she stopped talking. She was right to be scared about her dad’s safety. But what to do? Schimmel was standing in the doorway, he’d heard what Katrin had said, it was like it had woken him up.

  “I’ll go round to Rigaer, get Antifa Rex, he might have some ideas-”

  “Wait! Phone Erika too, Martin’s colleague. The number’s in my address book—over there.”

  Schimmel got the address book then stopped, patting his pockets.

  “You got twenty Pfennigs for the phone box?”

  Erika came straight round, she was here even before Schimmel got back. If she’d looked worried yesterday morning she was positively scared now. Katrin and I were on the bed, next to each other. She’d stopped crying, but I still had my arm around her. I filled Erika in on what I knew and she sat for a while frowning.

  “We need to talk to Captain Neumann from K1. He’ll know what to do. And if you ask me this is probably his fault too. I’ll go and give him a ring, get him to come-”

  “No! No cops are coming in here! Ring him if you want, but he’s not coming here.”

  Erika stopped in the doorway, working out how to react, then nodded. “Before I go to the phone box though, maybe I should tell you something. There’s someone else who might be able to help.” She gave me a look, glanced towards Katrin, then moved her eyes towards the door. She wanted to speak to me without Katrin overhearing.

  “No, Erika, tell me now. Come on, we haven’t got any time to lose!”

  Another of her long pauses. Erika always has to think before she says anything, normally it’s annoying but right now I was getting really impatient and was ready to shout at her.

  “Evelyn.” Erika took a step backwards. “Evelyn could be able to help-”

  “For fuck’s sake!” I shouted. “What the fuck has that bitch got to do with this? Isn’t she locked up in fucking prison?” I think I’d prefer to get help from the cops than from that Stasi sow!

  “Karo, it doesn’t matter how you feel about Evelyn, I shouldn’t have told you anyway. I’m going to the phone box now-”

  “Oh no you don’t!” I jumped off the bed and grabbed Erika by the elbow. “You’ve started so you’ll finish. How is Evelyn involved?”

  “She’s gone undercover in the fascist scene. She’s got her own support team, from her old Firm. They may be able to locate Martin, and if he’s in danger-”

  “You’re saying the Stasi can help us? Didn’t we deal with them last year? Tell me they’re not still around!”

  Erika stood there, saying nothing.

  Great. Not only had Martin probably been kidnapped by the fucking fash, but the only people who could help us were the bloody Stasi, because the cops sure as hell weren’t going to be any fucking use.

  “So are you going to ask them for help?” I asked Erika.

  “Martin was handling Evelyn.” She shrugged. “Nobody else knows how to get hold of her.”

  “And Klaus? Nik? What about Laura, she’s always on top of everything, doesn’t she know?”

  Another shrug.

  “Can’t find Rex!” Schimmel pushed past Erika, breathing heavily. “But I’ve sent everyone out to find him or anyone else from the Antifa core-group.”

  “I’ll go and phone Neumann from K1,” said Erika, ignoring Schimmel. “He may still have some contacts in the Firm. Don’t worry, I won’t bring him back here. I’ll come back after and tell you how I got on.”

  “K1? The Firm? What’s going on?” demanded Schimmel as Erika went down the hall.

  “It’s Evelyn. She’s back. She may be able to help Martin,” I told him.

  Schimmel slowly shook his head and came to sit down on the bed with Katrin and me.

  “So what are we going to do now?” he asked.

  The three of us sat there in silence. Katrin hadn’t said anything the whole time Erika was here, and when I looked at her now I could see she was staring into space, a hard, stony look on her face. I put my hand on her knee to reassure her.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll work it out.”

  Except I didn’t sound very convincing, not even to myself.

  We waited by the telephone box on Forckenbeckplatz. It was dark already, and the occasional car threw its headlights at us, making the railings dial shadows across the park. I leaned against Schimmel, and shivered. I was glad I’d brought him along.

  Schimmel was bricking it, but he’d been a total star. After a bit of a think he’d told us about the Stasi man who’d tried to recruit him, back when he’d first been released from the secure unit.

  “I followed him home once. I don’t know why, maybe because it felt like turning the tables. Spying on the spies, you know?”

  Schimmel told us all this and then went round to this bloke’s house and demanded that he put the word out: we wanted to speak to Evelyn’s support team.

  “He denied he’d even been in the Stasi,” Schimmel reported when he got back. “He pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about, so I told him that lives were in danger, that it was about Evelyn Hagenow. He shut up when I mentioned Evelyn’s name. He shut up and shut the door on me.”

  But Schimmel didn’t go away. He stayed on the staircase outside the man’s flat, hammering on the door. None of the neighbours complained, nobody came to see what the fuss was about. Eventually the man opened up again, he said: 2100 hours. Telephone box. Forckenbeckplatz. One person. Then he’d banged the door shut again.

  And that was it. Easy as that.

  Except for Schimmel it hadn’t been easy. For him it had meant facing up to the ghosts of his past.

  But here he was, waiting in the cold with me. We didn’t know what to expect, whether the phone would ring, or a car would arrive. Maybe someone in a leather jacket or a trenchcoat would come along and slip a note into our hands. Thinking about it now it’s easy to make it sound like some stupid American spy movie, but I was well scared at the time.

  I don’t know how long we’d been stood there waiting, watching the cars go past, waiting, waiting. But at some point a Barka van pulled out of a side road and slowly climbed the hill towards us. Schimmel and I both held our silence as the van struggled up the cobbles.

  “You were told to come alone.” A Saxon voice from behind the steering wheel. “He stays. You get in.”

  I looked at Schimmel and shrugged. He looked like he was going to try to stop me.

  “You’re not going by yourself, Karo, who knows what these bastards are going to do!”

  The driver revved the engine, and the Barka inched forward before stopping again.
>
  “Your choice, young lady. It’s you and your friends who wanted to speak to us, remember?”

  I opened the side door and got into the back of the van, it was too dim to see anything, the windows covered by purple polyester curtains. Schimmel made to follow me in, but I held my hand out, stopping him and pulling the door shut on his taut face.

  The small engine howled again, and the van drew away, turning right, juddering over the uneven road.

  “Sit down.” It was a different voice this time, Berlin accent, gravelly from cigarettes. A man was with me in the back of the van.

  Enough light from the orange street lamps penetrated the thin curtains to let me see the bench down the side, and I sank onto it, facing the dark figure that was my companion for the ride. I had to grip the edge of the slatted seat to stop myself from sliding off as we went around each corner. Don’t ask me how long the journey took—I don’t know the answer. At least ten minutes. Maybe half an hour? We sat there in silence, the whining of the engine and the strobe of the passing street lamps the only way to mark time and distance.

  There must have been some kind of signal, a knock I didn’t hear, a sequence of corners, a change in the quality of the lights outside, who knows? But the shadow stood up, and efficiently pulled a cloth bag over my head. Before I could react the job was done. I clawed the bottom of the cloth, trying to pull it off my face.

  “Leave it on.” That voice again, calm. “If you take it off then that’s the end of the meeting, we’ll take you back and you’ll never see us again.”

  A deep breath, trying not to gag on the mustiness of the bag.

  The van stopped, and the door was opened. A hand gripped my elbow and I was roughly guided through the low doorway, down the step onto the ground. It was flat and even: concrete or tarmac. The hand on my elbow was removed, then it came back again, perhaps it was a different one.

  Across a short stretch, ten paces, no more, then up some steps. Four, five? We were in a corridor, I could tell by the lights and the echoes of our footsteps. Not far before we rounded a corner, and I was pushed onto a chair. I was afraid I would fall, gasping by now, trying to keep a grip on myself. It wasn’t easy, not easy at all.