Stasi Winter

by David Young

  More on this story as we get it including a special report by our correspondent in Bezirk Rostock.

  Meanwhile in other news . . .

  Miners in the Upper Lausitz region have been congratulated for breaking their targets for the sixth month in a row . . .

  5

  The helicopter banked violently as Müller, Tilsner and Schmidt set off from the People’s Army base near Greifswald. Müller found herself clutching her stomach, fighting the waves of nausea – and the traumatic memories of the last time she’d been in a similar aircraft, near her home town of Oberhof in Thuringia. The blanket of snow beneath them – with the odd farmhouse roof breaking up the pristine whiteness – was similar too. That time, she and Tilsner had been on a life and death chase to find her own abducted baby. Now, death was again the order of the day. The death of the woman found under the snowdrift in Rügen – apparently overcome by the cold snap while out shopping for supplies. Yet Müller knew if the explanation really was that mundane, there would be no way that Reiniger would have despatched the three of them – the small team that formed the rather grandly titled Serious Crimes Department. Their mission was to intervene over the heads of regional murder squads when the People’s Police deemed it necessary: an attempt to avoid embarrassing and sensitive unexplained deaths being handed to the Stasi’s own Special Commissions. In Müller’s experience so far, anywhere they were sent, the Ministry for State Security would not be far behind.

  She and Tilsner had hardly spoken since the three of them had begun the trip. On the car journey between Berlin and Greifswald, it had been left to Jonas Schmidt – their forensic scientist – to try to lighten the mood. His overlong explanations of the weather phenomena which had resulted in Arctic conditions being transplanted into the Republic had had more of a soporific effect on Müller. Tilsner had switched off and concentrated on making sure they didn’t slide off the slushy motorways.

  Now, though, it looked like it was Schmidt who needed some support. His pasty face had turned whiter than usual. Müller could tell he wasn’t enjoying the ride. She edged closer to him along the bench seat, and cupped her hands over his ear to try to make herself heard above the roar of the engine and whooshing of the rotor blades above their heads.

  ‘You don’t look like this is your ideal form of transport, Jonas!’ she shouted.

  Schmidt shrugged, and brought his mouth up to the side of her head. As he shouted back, she could feel the flecks of spittle on her cheek, and smell the pungent flavour of whatever variety of sausage he’d been consuming on the car journey.

  ‘Perhaps it’s because I’m a scientist, Comrade Major! I know too much about how these things work – how much can go wrong!’

  Müller was more of a fatalist. They were committed to the trip now. She didn’t want to crash, but preferred not to think about it. ‘Just relax and enjoy the view, Jonas. In the West, people would pay thousands of Deutschmarks for a tourist trip like this. We’re getting it for free.’ She tried to sound more enthusiastic than she felt. In reality, she shared many of his misgivings.

  Tilsner was avoiding her gaze. They hadn’t thrashed out their differences, but now wasn’t the time. Müller had resolved to treat him in a professional manner until the end of this case, then let events take their own course.

  As the helicopter banked again, through the flurries of snow, Müller could make out the Strelasund far below – the sea channel between the mainland of the Republic and the island of Rügen, their destination. Yet rather than open water, it looked to be completely frozen over. Ice and snow as far as the eye could see – like a giant cake perfectly coated with square kilometre after square kilometre of white icing. She wasn’t unaccustomed to winter conditions like these. Having grown up in a winter sports resort – the East German answer to St Moritz – snow and ice were in her blood, and as a schoolgirl she’d been an expert ski jumper, thwarted from progressing further by the lack of national and international competitions for women. But the amount of snow and ice covering the sea and countryside here was unnatural. Instead of her usual sense of excitement at the winter conditions, they seemed to represent something more malevolent. As though a white blanket of evil had been thrown over the world.

  *

  After a few minutes, the whine of the engine changed and they began to descend. As they did, Müller spotted the unmistakable shape of Prora – the giant monolith built by Hitler as a holiday camp for Nazi workers. A huge structure – set a few metres back from the forested coast – extending into the distance. So big, she knew, it could be seen by cosmonauts in outer space, such as the real-life version of Johannes’s spaceman toy.

  Tilsner had seen it too. ‘I wish I could say I’m delighted to be back on Rügen. But I’m not. The weather was foul last time we were here – but that out there looks like hell on earth.’

  As the helicopter came in to land, Müller could see the rotor blades churning up huge flurries from drifts and piles of snow that the troops had cleared from the landing area. Soldiers still seemed to be busily clearing a path – the vortex from the aircraft almost blowing them off their feet. She could see others on skis pulling sleds loaded with supplies.

  Finally, the craft settled and the whine of the blades changed into more of a gentle chugging. The cargo door was opened, and a blast of icy air – complete with isolated snowflakes – enveloped them.

  Their new assignment was about to begin.

  6

  Binz, Island of Rügen, East Germany

  Earlier that year – September 1978

  I want to tell you about how I met Dieter and how I fell out of love with Laurenz – I don’t want you thinking badly of me, though I know I’ve done some wicked things in my life. Hopefully, though, you can see how I didn’t have a choice.

  Laurenz and I had been to see a film in the cinema in Binz. Sometimes the Binz cinema got some of the newer releases – this one had just had its premiere. Anton der Zauberer – ‘Anton the Magician’ – was its title. I remember we laughed a lot. The tensions in our relationship from the summer seemed to be forgotten, for that evening at least. Laurenz had been my boyfriend since all the trouble in the Jugendwerkhof and the Harz mountains. I had a lot to thank him for. He’d let me believe in my attractiveness for the first time. Before everything that had happened, I’d always been in Beate’s shadow – the ugly duckling tagging along with the beautiful princess. But more than three years had passed since Beate’s shocking death. I was more confident now, and Laurenz’s world view didn’t seem to extend much beyond the borders of Rügen. I knew I wanted, needed, something more. Beate, Mathias and I had had that albeit very brief taste of the West, the glimpse of Hamburg’s Reeperbahn, before it had been so cruelly snatched away. Of course, I couldn’t get back there – I’d made one attempt, and was likely to be watched by the Ministry for State Security for the rest of my life. My best hope was to wait until I was a pensioner.

  But I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to travel – now. Even if it was only to other socialist countries. Even if I couldn’t cross to the West, I still wanted to spread my wings. But all my entreaties to Laurenz that we should go travelling that summer were rebuffed by him.

  ‘You can’t afford to give up your job at the campsite,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’ I argued. ‘My grandmother would always take me back.’

  ‘But what about me? Apprenticeships at the docks in Sassnitz are hard to come by. Even if you’re prepared to throw in your job, I’m not.’

  It seemed such a blinkered, unadventurous world view to me. I’d never told Laurenz about my previous attempt to escape – hiding away on the cargo ship to Hamburg through the Nord-Ostsee-Kanal. All the things that happened in the weeks and months after that – they weren’t a part of my life I wanted to share, they weren’t something I was proud of.

  So we’re coming out of the cinema, and I feel despite all those arguments in the summer, Laurenz and I are closer together. That maybe we do have a future
together, after all. We’re holding hands, then he spins me round for a kiss.

  Suddenly, I hear the wolf whistles, and feel the blood rush to my face. Laurenz, too, is embarrassed and tries to hurry me along. I’m more curious. The source is a group of young men standing on the corner, laughing and smoking.

  ‘You’re just jealous,’ I yell at them.

  ‘Shush, Irma!’ Laurenz tries to pull me along. ‘Ignore them.’

  But I’ve locked eyes with the ringleader, the one who I think was doing the whistling. He’s smirking at me. I feel myself redden even more. Partly from the humiliation – but partly from an instant attraction. I wrench my arm away from Laurenz’s, and stride over towards the group.

  ‘Was there something you wanted to say to me?’ I shout, my face close to his. Anger is coursing through my body. But so is excitement. His friends back away in mock terror. He stands his ground. His olive skin is drawn tight across his cheekbones, accentuating his Mediterranean looks, set off with dark hair. There’s an air of mystery about him – and of menace too. But I don’t feel frightened. Instead, I’m excited.

  He says nothing.

  ‘Maybe you need a girlfriend of your own,’ I say, ‘but I doubt you could find one.’ He laughs at that and blows me a kiss.

  Laurenz is hanging back, not wanting a confrontation. I realise in that moment that he’s too timid for me. Too passive.

  Despite this, I turn and stride back towards him, grab him for another kiss, but as I do I’m looking over his shoulder. Looking into the eyes of the boy who whistled at me, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. I realise then that I don’t want Laurenz any more. I want the mystery man on the corner.

  *

  Back in Sellin, I try to find out from my girlfriends who the men in Binz were. Laurenz himself had given me some clue.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he’d said at the time.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’re troublemakers. I’d heard about them in Sassnitz. Some of them have been helping with the construction of the new harbour wall there.’

  I couldn’t get the image of that one guy out of my head. ‘How does that make them troublemakers?’

  ‘They’ve all refused to do their national service with the People’s Army. Or at least refused to serve with regular units that might – in the worst case scenario if America launches an attack – be called up to fight. So all they’re allowed to do is construction and repair work – on roads, railways, and the harbour. That sort of thing. It’s best to keep out of their way, Irma.’

  But I didn’t want to keep out of their way. Gradually, with titbits of information from my girlfriends, people who knew people in Binz, I found out what the ringleader was called. Dieter Schwarz, a construction soldier barracked at Prora West – the opposite end of the complex to where the Jugendwerkhof was.

  I just knew that I wanted to meet him again.

  As soon as possible.

  7

  Prora, Island of Rügen, East Germany

  30 December 1978

  Müller followed Tilsner out of the helicopter, jumping down beside him, wind-blown snow whirled up by the slowing rotor blades softening her landing. She could feel the pores on her face closing up as the icy air slapped her cheeks. Pulling her faux fur hat over her ears, she ducked into a crouch behind him – wondering at that moment how she’d ever fancied her deputy. Either he’d put on too many layers to guard against the cold, or he’d been following Jonas Schmidt’s example in scoffing too many sausages. Her view was the latter. He’d let himself go to seed now that his ex-wife Koletta had cut him free.

  A welcoming party of other People’s Police officers was waiting. She recognised Oberst Drescher from the island’s headquarters at Bergen auf Rügen. The officer had the same surname as her former student detective turned rival murder squad head, Elke – but as far as she knew they weren’t related. Their last meeting had seen the colonel sending Müller back to Berlin in disgrace, and as he shook her hand, he failed to disguise his distaste.

  ‘Comrade Major Müller,’ he said. ‘Welcome again to our island. I’m afraid you’re unlikely to find it as comfortable as last time.’ Then he turned to her deputy. ‘Hauptmann Tilsner. Still part of the same team, then?’ There was a knowing tone in his voice now, as though he might have been made aware of Tilsner’s other role – supplying information to the Ministry for State Security, the Stasi. ‘Anyway, let’s not dawdle out here in the cold.’ He pointed to a waiting army truck or personnel carrier, equipped with caterpillar treads to drive through the snow and ice, its engine roaring almost as loudly as the helicopter behind them. Müller wiped the snow away from her face to take a closer look. There was a man in a heavy overcoat and hat standing beside it. ‘That’s Hauptmann Günther Hummel, head of our murder squad here. Though the information he’s gleaned so far points to this death being natural. So, I’m slightly surprised the Hauptstadt has deemed it necessary to send you two—’

  ‘Three,’ corrected Müller, nodding towards Schmidt, as she tried to make her mouth work in the bitter cold air. Both she and Drescher were enveloped in cloudlets of condensing breath. ‘I think you met our forensic scientist, Comrade Kriminaltechniker Schmidt last time we were here.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Drescher with a thin smile. ‘Anyway, I had business in Prora so I thought I would welcome you. But for now, I’ll leave you in Comrade Hummel’s capable hands.’

  *

  Müller found herself thawing out slightly once they were inside the truck and underway. It rode high on the carriageway, at what she felt was an alarming speed, considering the number of Trabant and Wartburg cars that had been abandoned in drifts at the roadside.

  ‘Everything’s almost ground to a halt,’ explained Hummel, who unlike his superior seemed genuinely pleased to see Müller and her team. He gave off the air of an excited overgrown schoolboy, delighted to be the centre of attention for once. ‘These things are the only way to get around. Most of them are tied up delivering supplies. As you can see, normal vehicles are just getting stuck in the snow.’

  ‘Aren’t you annoyed that we’ve come to trample on your patch?’ asked Tilsner.

  Hummel shrugged his rounded shoulders. ‘Why should I be? Although I have to admit, I think it’s a wasted visit. Everything points to natural causes. But I can let the pathologist explain all that.’

  ‘And do we know who it is who’s dead?’ asked Müller.

  ‘No. That’s the only strange thing. No identity papers, no money, nothing.’

  ‘Yet she’d been to the shops buying provisions?’ It didn’t make sense to Müller. Neither, in truth, did Reiniger’s decision to send them here. Unless it had been a ruse to lure her back to work.

  ‘That’s what we assume from the shopping bag she was carrying.’

  ‘Perhaps she’d bought the stuff on credit,’ offered Schmidt.

  Hummel shrugged. ‘Possibly. But then there still should have been a record of the transaction. Yet there is no receipt, nothing. And none of the shopkeepers remember seeing her.’

  ‘What was she wearing?’ asked Tilsner. There was a slightly bored note in his voice, as though he wasn’t interested in the answer. He seemed more intent on thawing out his hands. He’d removed them from his damp gloves, and was rubbing them together vigorously, a bit like a Pioneer might with two sticks to try to spark a campfire to life.

  ‘Well, that’s an interesting question. You’ll see the photos at the mortuary. Let’s just say she wasn’t really dressed for the weather. No wonder she froze to death.’

  They lapsed into silence. Müller didn’t feel like engaging Tilsner in conversation, instead turning her attention to the catastrophic scenes outside the vehicle’s windows. As the previous night’s television news reports had described, the drifts at the side of the road were at times almost as high as houses. Every now and then, under the banks of white she could make out the shape of an abandoned car. Presumably the occupants had got out of them safely – as far as she
knew, the body they were travelling to see was the only fatality. She couldn’t believe there wouldn’t be others. But it didn’t answer the question why they’d been sent from Berlin or, indeed, why she’d been specially brought back to head the inquiry. Someone obviously knew more. They just hadn’t shared that information yet. Why? Müller shivered. Not from the cold – it was warm enough huddled in the back of this People’s Army personnel carrier. It was more like an unseen and unwanted hand had caressed the back of her neck.

  The hand of an organisation that liked to keep things secret.

  The hand – she was sure – of the Stasi.

  *

  ‘I don’t know why you’re taking such an interest in this one,’ said the senior pathologist, as the woman’s body was wheeled from the cooler of the mortuary. ‘I’ve already given my opinion – she died from, in effect, natural causes. In other words, exposure to the cold. I detected swelling to the nose, ears and hands as well as capillary damage – the classic signs of frost erythema.’

  Müller was trying to hold her breath to keep out the chemical smells she associated with death. Yet she knew she had to ask questions of the man, who’d introduced himself as Dr Wilhelm Siegel. With his black horn-rimmed spectacles and puffy face, he looked like the myriad of apparatchiks in the Republic. He acted like one too. As though there was no room for discussion or disagreement.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Siegel. And we haven’t, as yet, managed to identify the body.’

  ‘You’d have to ask your lot about that. The People’s Police in Bergen, I mean. Anyway, this is her.’

  He drew away a sheet that had been covering the dead woman’s face.

  Müller had to stifle a gasp. She looked round the room for Tilsner. His face told the same story. Yes, there was discolouration to some of her extremities. But she was still instantly recognisable to Müller – and clearly to her deputy too. It was Monika Richter, who the Berlin detectives had last encountered when she was the deputy director of Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost – the hated reform school where the teenage children had been housed in the graveyard girl case from nearly four years ago. Surely someone here would have recognised her? The local Stasi at the very least. Yet the authorities seemed to be sticking to their story that she was as yet unidentified. Why? Müller mouthed a silent ‘shush’ to Tilsner, out of sight of the others. If the authorities wanted to pretend they didn’t know who the woman was, then Müller would go along with that for the time being and see where it led them. What she did know was that if the pathologist was wrong – and if this wasn’t an accidental, natural death – then there would have been a long queue of people wanting to do the hateful woman harm. What Irma Behrendt had told Müller was enough evidence of that.