Stasi Winter

by David Young

  But now, finally, he had.

  What was left for him in the Republic? Karin knew about his past at the barn, and what he did – and had forever regretted – as a member of the Hitler Youth. For a time, on this inquiry it had looked like the old relationship was there, but he knew it could never be repaired.

  His wife Koletta and the kids had given up on him long ago, thanks to his own philandering.

  He’d prepared the ground. Wearing extra layers all the time. Far too many, so that he was always sweating like a pig. Karin had assumed he’d turned to fat, that he was out of condition. He could see the way she looked at him – wondering how she’d ever fancied him. Because he knew, in his heart, that once she had. It was all a ploy – so that when he had to hide the white bed sheet under his clothes, the ultimate camouflage accessory on the ice, it wouldn’t look out of the ordinary. He’d simply put on weight. That was all there was to it.

  But as he ran, the words of that fucking interferer Irma Behrendt echoed in his head with each stride.

  ‘What about Major Müller? What will happen to her? Surely you have to help her?’

  He couldn’t. She could only help herself by radioing for help. He knew she would never dream of escaping to the West.

  He tried to run faster as the melting ice splashed in a slushy mess round his legs, but that fucking radio in his backpack was weighing him down.

  And then it struck him.

  The radio.

  He slowed to a halt in horror.

  Karin couldn’t radio for help.

  The only radio they had was strapped to his back.

  61

  Müller had given up. As the cold racked her body, she knew she was shaking as much from the emotion as from the freezing water soaking her knees and boots. She was in a praying position, and she was praying. Not for a miracle. She knew that wasn’t going to happen. Just her own little prayers asking God – if he or she existed – to look after her family.

  She thought of each of them in turn – picturing their faces, remembering their funny ways. How Johannes had been so thrilled with Jäger’s Sandmännchen cosmonaut gift – but how, in the end, that day he and Jannika had sat in the sandpit sharing their Christmas toys. It had been lovely to see. And Helga. That woman had been through so much. Lost her only daughter – Müller’s teenage mother – soon after the war, lost her only love in the war, but then – amazingly – granddaughter and mother had been reunited. Müller knew it had brought them both joy. She even spared a thought for her adoptive mother in Oberhof, Rosamund, and her adoptive brother, Roland and sister, Sara. Sara had looked so fulfilled with her new husband when the Berlin side of the family had visited for the wedding that summer.

  She thought of her natural father, and the fact that – for all his faults – Jäger had managed to arrange that visit to the Soviet base in the far east, where she’d met him for the first time. How ironic that it would also be the last time.

  There was one last thought. Of her former partner, Werner Tilsner, and how he’d changed from a roguish but attractive chancer, into a disillusioned, out-of-shape, middle-aged man. Perhaps she’d been too hard on him. Perhaps her rejection of him because of his Nazi past was what had finally driven him to defect to the West.

  She tried to shut her thoughts down, and accept her fate. It was as though she’d been injected with the same drug as Monika Richter at the start of all this.

  She took comfort in what had been said about dying from hypothermia. If you had to choose, it was one of the more pleasant ways to go.

  She tried to let herself drift off into an ice-induced sleep.

  She knew that any further attempts to resist were futile.

  Müller knew she’d crossed the line from consciousness to a dreamlike state when a vision of Tilsner started to appear through the mist.

  It wasn’t the new, spongy, gone-to-seed old-man Tilsner.

  This was how he used to be. Slim, trim, powerful. Running quickly across the ice.

  Then he was panting by her side.

  Pulling off his rucksack.

  Forcing her to hold it in her lap to keep it away from the fast-melting ice.

  He slapped her across the face.

  ‘Stay awake, Karin. For God’s sake. Just fucking stay awake.’

  Through the haze of semi-consciousness she saw him setting up the radio.

  Heard him frantically trying to get through.

  Then she heard another voice she dimly recognised.

  Jäger’s!

  It seemed to jolt her awake, as did what he was saying.

  ‘We can’t send out a helicopter. They’re all grounded. It’s too misty.’

  And then Tilsner pulled her own trick, and she almost burst out laughing in delirium.

  ‘Just fucking send one, Jäger. Otherwise my last call on this thing will be to a Western news agency, and Karin and I will tell them everything about what you and I got up to in that small town north of Magdeburg at the end of the Second World War.’

  She didn’t know if Jäger would respond to the threat.

  But it gladdened her heart that Tilsner was here with her – even if it was their final few minutes alive.

  She didn’t want to die alone.

  62

  We stagger up the beach, still not quite believing we’ve done it.

  Before we try and find civilisation – to claim our BRD passports and the handful of Deutschmarks the authorities will give us to start our new lives – we turn back and peer in to the mist.

  ‘Do you think she will be all right?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replies Holger. ‘When we find a phone box, or a house, we can put in an anonymous call to the police or ambulance. They can help her. Hopefully there’s still time.’

  It’s sensible advice.

  I look into his eyes.

  ‘We did it, Holger. We made it. We were the ones who would have given up, but we have been the lucky ones. Poor Joachim. Poor Dieter.’

  He must see my eyes glistening because he pulls me into a hug. ‘I’m sorry about your boyfriend. My friend.’

  But I shake my head. That’s not why I’m crying. ‘They’re not tears of sadness, Holger. They’re tears of joy. This is a day I thought I’d never see.’

  He looks at me, hesitating. I’m the one who has to initiate things. I put my hand gently round the back of his neck, pull his head towards me, and then we’re kissing.

  It’s a kiss I never want to end.

  *

  We make that phone call, as we promised ourselves. We’ve no idea if it’s done any good. The next day, once we’ve been processed, we head down by train to his uncle’s in Munich.

  When we’re changing trains in Hamburg, I decide to buy a newspaper, just for fun – to see what the news is like when it’s not about workers’ co-operatives beating their targets yet again, increasing production by some unfeasible percentage, or Honecker meeting with communist leaders from other parts of the world.

  I thought I saw a familiar face at Lübeck station, where we caught the first train. This time I see the man again, on the other side of the newspaper kiosk, so he must have been on our train. He’s the spitting image of Major Müller’s former husband, Gottfried – my old Maths teacher at the Jugendwerkhof. Different, trendier hairstyle, more à la mode spectacles, but otherwise his face is a doppelgänger of Herr Müller’s. If his ex-wife hadn’t told me he’d died, then I might have gone up to him and said hello. But I realise what it is. Guilt at leaving Major Müller behind on the ice. I’m transferring that onto this man – seeing things that aren’t there. Bringing her former husband back for her, even though – for all I know – she could have become fish food herself.

  When we’re settled on the train, I get chance to read the paper. It’s then that I see the story.

  TWO VOPOS SAVED FROM ICE IN DARING RESCUE

  Lübeck, 2.1.79

  In an unusual joint operation, emergency services from the Bundesrepublik and the DDR ha
ve rescued two Volkspolizei detectives who had become stranded on fast-melting ice in the Bay of Lübeck.

  The officers had been – according to the DDR authorities – engaged in a clandestine operation to arrest a number of ‘criminals’ attempting to flee across the ice of the frozen Ostsee.

  Helicopters from both side of the state border were involved in the rescue.

  One of the officers is a 32-year-old woman who was suffering from mild hypothermia. She has been airlifted to Charité Hospital in East Berlin where she is expected to make a full recovery. The other officer, a 48-year-old male, was found in good condition, but was also taken to Charité for precautionary checks.

  An East German spokesman declined to comment on reports quoting the Bundesrepublik emergency services which claimed the rescue took place well within West German territorial waters, less than a kilometre from the coast at Grömitz.

  The spokesman would not speculate on the fate of the so-called criminals, nor elaborate on what crimes they were suspected of committing.

  Reports quoting local residents in Grömitz claimed a young man and woman, thought to be in their early twenties, were seen emerging from the fog on the ice and climbing up the shore to safety.

  It’s not known if these were the suspects being hunted by the East German police.

  Police sources in Lübeck said no DDR refugees matching the description of the young couple had been registered in reception centres. A spokesman said the couple seen by residents were most likely Bundesrepublik citizens who had gone for a walk on the ice.

  ‘We would remind people that venturing out onto the frozen sea or rivers is extremely hazardous at any time, but especially after today’s thaw,’ the spokesman said. ‘Doing so puts yourself and the emergency services at risk.’

  63

  The fog still hadn’t completely cleared when the Volkspolizei Kamov emerged out of the gloom. Müller by now knew she was only semi-conscious – the cold freezing her to the core. And the rotors of the helicopter as it hovered above the ice – the pilot judging it too risky to attempt a landing – threw up a violent whirlwind which made her yet colder.

  The winchman and Tilsner helped her onto the stretcher, then she was winched aboard. Dimly aware of the pilot shouting – saying he couldn’t hold his position for much longer – she saw the winch and stretcher being lowered again.

  By the time Tilsner and the winchman were hauled back inside, holding on to the winch at the same time, the pilot was already moving away.

  And then Müller knew they were safe. They were both safe. Tilsner had given up his dream of defecting to come back and save her. And she was on her way to the Hauptstadt – for a tearful reunion with Jannika, Johannes and Helga.

  Dieter and Joachim hadn’t been so lucky, but they’d brought it on themselves.

  Irma and Holger? They had almost certainly reached the West to start their new lives. There was no co-operation agreement between the two Germanies to bring them back and put them on trial – they had, literally, walked free. Müller, of course, should have regarded that as a failure.

  She didn’t.

  She was delighted that Irma Behrendt had finally realised her long-held dream.

  *

  When Helga brought Jannika and Johannes in to the ward to visit her, she couldn’t help breaking into huge, heaving sobs, the tears running down her face.

  As she held Johannes, that set him off crying too until Helga had to lift him up to try to calm him. She could see the effort it took her grandmother – she was getting too old, and Johannes too big, to be doing it any more.

  Jannika was more inquisitive. ‘Mutti crying. Mutti naughty, been bad?’

  Müller started laughing through her tears, confusing her daughter even more. Perhaps they would discipline her – after all, she and Tilsner had only completed fifty per cent of the task Jäger had allotted them. But she didn’t want to worry Jannika. ‘Don’t be silly. Sometimes you can cry tears of happiness, that’s all Mutti’s doing. Mutti’s so pleased to see you, and Johannes, and Helga. I thought I would nev—’

  ‘Don’t say it, Karin,’ warned Helga. ‘I wouldn’t think of it, if I were you. You’re back here in Berlin, you’re going to be fine. Let’s look to the future.’

  *

  The disciplinary hearing was held two weeks later. As they waited outside the hearing room sitting side by side, she was surprised that Tilsner was wearing full uniform too. She looked at his feet. He’d even polished his shoes.

  Her deputy patted his stomach. ‘Look, firm as a board. Even when I sit down, no rolls of fat. Not bad for an old git pushing fifty. That’s all I’ve been doing, going to the police sports club, keeping fit. Did you prefer the cuddlier version?’

  She couldn’t help laughing, despite the seriousness of the situation. They could both be kicked out of the force – she had no idea what she’d do if that happened. There would be no hope of getting a job training future police officers if she herself were in disgrace. ‘Don’t even joke about it,’ she warned him. ‘Why did you come back to rescue me, anyway? You must have been just metres from the coast.’

  He leant down to whisper in her ear. ‘Shh! I was. Why did I come back for you? That’s obvious, isn’t it? You know I can’t resist you.’

  She mouthed an obscenity at him and pushed him away.

  *

  They were lined up, sitting behind a desk, looking self-satisfied, with their well-rounded stomachs. They’d probably stuffed themselves with a meal at a fancy restaurant, the verdict already decided.

  Müller tried to defend their actions. Irma and Holger, she insisted, had slipped away while she and Tilsner were pinned down under fire from the other criminals. She argued it was Dieter who’d killed the Soviet seaman. He who constructed the home-made bomb, assisted by Joachim. They were the ones who’d got their just deserts.

  Tilsner – too – tried to sing her praises. She’d put her life on the line to defend the Republic. He insisted they should be giving Major Müller a medal, rather than going through ‘this disciplinary charade’.

  There was one important absentee who Müller had expected to be there – even though he wasn’t part of the People’s Police. Jäger. She thought he might have given evidence against them. Or perhaps, because of what she knew about his past, he might have been prepared to put a good word in. In the back of her mind, though, she knew the reason for his absence. He’d probably had to face the same process as this, except with the Ministry for State Security.

  She idly wondered, what happens to a Stasi officer when he falls from grace?

  Then Oberst Reiniger, who’d looked uncomfortable throughout, forever trying to loosen his shirt collar, pronounced the verdict.

  The Serious Crimes Department was being disbanded.

  Müller and Tilsner were being demoted a rank – she back to Hauptmann, him to Oberleutnant, with concomitant reductions in salary. They would be reassigned to a murder squad when positions became available, and they would not necessarily be working together in the future. Those new positions could be anywhere in the Republic. It was at the lesser end of the scale Müller had been expecting.

  There was one corollary of this that would upset her, though, and there was no point leaving any doubt about it.

  ‘What happens about my police major’s accommodation in Strausberger Platz, Comrade Oberst?’ She wondered if he’d taken pity on her, managed to swing some sort of deal that would allow her to stay in the beautiful apartment overlooking Karl-Marx-Allee.

  ‘I did warn you, Comrade Hauptmann.’ She gave a start, thinking he was addressing Tilsner at first. Then she remembered – that was her new rank, his old rank. It would take some time to get used to. ‘That apartment can only be occupied by someone of the rank of major and above. You are being given three months’ notice to quit, with immediate effect.’

  64

  March 1979

  Kleinwalsertal, Austria

  I had no idea that mountains could be so be
autiful. That air could taste and smell so fresh, so life-affirming. I stop at the top of the run and try to reel off the names of the peaks, glittering like icy stars under the strong March sun. The Walmendingerhorn, the Hoher Ifen, and towering above them all at more than two thousand five hundred metres, the Widderstein. If it could – by magic – be transplanted here, the Brocken would be a little hill of no consequence.

  Already, after less than two months on skis, I’m confident on all the runs – better even than Holger. I’ve got a day off today, while he’s working at the Kanzelwand Bergstation then meeting me for lunch. On one side of the mountain, the West German Allgäu Alps above Oberstdorf – on the other, the Austrian Vorarlberg. For the moment, that’s where we’ve settled – in Kleinwalsertal, a tiny enclave that’s politically part of Austria, but only accessible from the Bundesrepublik.

  For us it’s the best of both worlds. When we first got to Munich, at first of course it was totally exhilarating. The chance to buy anything you wanted in the shops. No banned records, no banned books. The trouble was, we didn’t have enough money to buy lots of the things we wanted, and it started to get a bit overwhelming. The constant drive to make money, to have more material things than your neighbours. It wasn’t as bad as it was made out by Karl-Eduard von Schnitzler’s rants on Der schwarze Kanal, but it was still a bit unsettling despite the joy of finally being free.

  However, as soon as we got to Kleinwalsertal, we felt at home. The locals like to take as much of the West Germans’ money as possible. In Munich, Holger and I had started to miss the sense of community in the Republic, despite all the shit we’d had to suffer.

  Here he comes now, trying to show off his parallel turns. He skids to a halt above me, carving his edges into the snow and showering me with ice. For a second, as the freezing crystals hit my face, I’m back on the Ostsee. I think of Dieter – the first time I think of him in weeks. You might consider me callous, opportunistic, to jump into the bed of a dead man’s friend. But I’ve told you before, you’ve not experienced all the hell I have. Would you really have done anything different?