After half an hour – at least he assumed it was half an hour, it could have been ten minutes – he started to imagine people whispering to him, or the walls moving a little, throbbing in the harsh light of the fluorescent strip in the ceiling.
Alex fretted. His stomach shrank to a tight little knot. Eventually they came to get him. ‘Break any of the prison rules and you go back in there for a week. Try to hit one of us and it’s a month,’ said the guard.
They issued him with a prison uniform with 254 stencilled on the back. It was slightly too big for him, felt scratchy and smelled of stale sweat. Then they marched him off without a word, before he could even turn back the sleeves.
The next stop was the prison barber and Alex began to struggle and shouted when he realised what was coming. So they threw him into a solitary cell. This one was worse than the one he had just been in. Rubber-padded, complete sound insulation, no chair, no bed, pitch black, with the all-pervasive tang of disinfectant. After an hour Alex thought he could hear someone or something breathing in the cell and he had to fight really hard to keep his panic at bay. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he told himself. ‘This is just a cell. There was nothing else here when you came in and there’s nothing come in since. Breathe deeply. Keep calm. Don’t let them win. This is a prison. It’s not a horror film.’
When his breathing returned to normal, he began to feel an extraordinary tiredness. The events of the last couple of days caught up with him. He lay down on the hard cold floor and drifted into dreamless sleep.
Alex was disconcerted to wake up and discover he was still there and there was no difference between having his eyes open and having them closed. A cold draught was coming from somewhere. At least the cell had some ventilation. That was good because there was an awful stench of rubber there.
Alex needed to pee. He remembered seeing the outline of a bucket in the corner before the door slammed and he reached for it on his hands and knees, carefully feeling his way in the darkness. When his fingers made contact with cold tin, he peed as carefully as he could and put the bucket in the far corner – somewhere where he was unlikely to knock it over.
Now he was beginning to feel uneasy. He had no idea how long they had kept him in there. An hour – all morning?
There was a rattle and the door swung open. The light blinded him and he instinctively cringed, expecting to be hit.
‘Out,’ barked a guard. There were two of them. Young men in their twenties. They looked on him with cold, hard faces, grabbed him either side and frogmarched him away.
‘What’s happening?’ said Alex. ‘Where am I going?’
‘Prisoner 254, no talking,’ said one, gripping Alex’s arm so tightly he could feel it going numb.
Alex shut up. He was in quite enough trouble already.
They took him to the barber and left him on his own. The barber was big enough to take care of himself. Alex expected him to be just as curt, but he surprised him by being nice. Well, not nice exactly, but like a kindly parent who was explaining to a naughty child why they had been punished. Alex began to feel tearful.
‘Prison rules,’ explained the barber. ‘“No prisoner shall be permitted to wear hair longer than accepted military length,”’ he rattled off, in the slightly mocking way people use to quote official regulations they don’t really agree with.
‘If you’re an enemy of the State, we should try to change you,’ he said and ruffled Alex’s hair. ‘You’re here to be reformed, not just punished. So first we will try to make you look like a defender of the State. After all, in a couple of years’ time you will be expected to join our armed forces and protect your country.’
Alex didn’t know what to make of this. The man was gentle with him and had a slightly camp manner – like one of those TV presenters on variety programmes that all the old ladies loved. He noticed his own hair gathering in wispy clumps around his feet and fought back his tears.
‘Chin up, lad,’ said the barber. Then he leaned closer, pressed something into Alex’s hand and whispered, ‘Couple of sweets for later. Give one of them to someone you like the look of. It’s useful to have a friend in here.’
Fortunately there were no mirrors in the prison so Alex did not have to worry about what he looked like. And when he was marched back to the ordinary cells no one looked at him twice. Actually, Alex admitted to himself, having his hair cut was a blessing. Now the other prisoners would not know at once that he had just arrived.
Except they would. The ones who had been here for a while had a pale, pasty look about them – like white bread left out in the sun that was starting to curl at the edges. Alex was too brown – too healthy-looking.
Before they got to his cell a bell went and the other boys hurried down to the canteen to eat.
‘Go with them,’ said the guard. ‘We’ll sort you out afterwards.’
Alex watched the others and copied them exactly. He grabbed a tray and picked up a spoon and lined up in the queue for the serving counter. There were no knives or forks here. It was too easy to imagine them being used as a weapon. Alex looked at his spoon and thought you could still do a good job poking someone’s eye out with the handle.
He felt a jabbing in his back. He turned round to see a wiry, ratty-looking boy about his age and size. ‘You look like a soft egg,’ the boy said in a low voice. ‘Ripe for a beating.’
There were two others with this boy, both grinning and snickering. Alex wondered what he was supposed to do. Did you ignore these taunts or did you react immediately? If he hit him, he’d be in serious trouble again.
‘Shut up, Maier,’ shouted a prison guard. ‘If I catch you talking in the canteen queue again, you’re off to solitary.’
‘Yes, sir,’ barked the ratty boy and stood to attention. It was difficult to know whether he was mocking the guard or genuinely frightened of him.
The wait in the queue was interminable. All the while they whispered ‘soft egg’ and ‘creep’ at Alex. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore them. The food looked awful. Some sort of gristly pinkish mince with vegetables that had been boiled to a pulp. He spotted a single chair at the end of a table and went to sit down. The other boys there totally ignored him – which was preferable.
Despite the vileness of the food Alex was hungry and he ate quickly. After he’d drunk his third glass of water he began to worry about where he was going next. A bell went – so loud and piercing it made his ears hurt – and the boys all got up and placed their trays and plates in racks. Alex made sure he kept well away from the ones who had taunted him in the queue. Please, please, he implored a nebulous deity, don’t put me in a cell with them.
They filed out back to the holding room and one of the guards caught Alex by the arm and dragged him out of the human stream. ‘Wait here,’ he said.
As he stood at the side, one of the ratty boy’s friends could not resist a final insult. ‘Creep,’ he said as he passed, punching Alex on the arm, just as the guard returned.
The guard dragged the boy out. ‘You are going to solitary,’ Alex heard him say.
He felt sick. Now they would have even more reason to persecute him.
The prisoners marched to their cell doors and waited outside, leaving Alex to stand there alone. He was feeling very conspicuous and could sense them all looking at him.
A guard called them to attention and there was a headcount and roll-call.
When the guard called out ‘Fiedler’, another guard called ‘Detention’.
That must be the boy’s name. The one who had hit him. Alex was alarmed to hear a mutinous murmur from the other boys. He could not make out what it meant. Were they sorry for Fiedler or glad he would be out of the way for a while?
A guard came and took Alex down a long marble corridor with a highly polished floor. ‘In here, 254,’ said the guard and ushered him into a cell. Alex took a deep breath and entered.
Chapter 18
Alex’s heart was thumping hard in his chest. He was trying his best to h
ide his fear. As the door swung open he peered in. There were two bunk beds, a chair and table, and a portable toilet. That was why the whole place smelled so bad. The cells all had their own portable toilets. So far he could not see anyone else in there.
‘Hartmann, say Guten Tag to your cellmate,’ said the guard.
A young man lying on the top bunk sat up, then jumped down.
‘You must be Alex,’ he said, as he shook his hand.
Alex couldn’t believe his luck.
‘I’m Eugen Hartmann.’
The guard slammed the door and locked it.
‘That’s it until supper,’ said Eugen. ‘It gets very boring. I’ll give you a tour of the facilities. Here we have the bookshelf . . .’
He pointed to three dusty, moth-eaten old books. Alex scanned the titles: Creating Young Comrades; Nikolai Ostrovsky’s How the Steel Was Tempered; and Scientific Socialism, Victor of History. There were also several ragged copies of the Sputnik youth magazine.
‘Not an inspired choice, but they’re the best I could find,’ said Eugen. ‘You’ll read anything after you’ve been stuck here for a week.’
‘How long have you been here?’ asked Alex.
‘Just over a week,’ said Eugen.
Alex wondered if he should ask why Eugen was in here.
‘They put me here for selling black market records,’ said Eugen.
‘Cool,’ said Alex. He liked him already.
‘I don’t know how long I’m going to stay here. They’ve forbidden me to mix with the others. Say I’m a bad influence. They must think you’re corrupt enough already for it not to matter!’
Alex was so relieved to meet someone who seemed OK. He reached into his pocket and offered him a sweet.
Eugen smiled and popped it in his mouth.
‘I don’t really know why they put me in here. Being awkward, I think,’ swaggered Alex. ‘And listening to the wrong music.’
‘They must have thought we’d have a lot to talk about,’ said Eugen with a laugh.
They did too – long into the afternoon. Most of it was about their favourite rock groups and who played the best guitar. Eugen was a Hendrix fan and looked down his nose at Led Zeppelin. ‘They stole all their best tunes from the old blues guys,’ he said. ‘ “The Lemon Song” – that’s “Killing Floor” by Howlin’ Wolf. “Whole Lotta Love” – that’s “You Need Love” by Willie Dixon.’
Alex didn’t know enough about it to argue, but he had heard one or two of ‘the old blues guys’ and Led Zeppelin sounded nothing like them.
Eugen was good company – Alex had been lucky. The only thing he hated about being in that cell with Eugen was that there was a single portable toilet in the corner. He felt embarrassed when he needed to take a crap.
‘It’s just like kindergarten,’ said Eugen, ‘but with just one potty.’
Alex laughed as he remembered his kindergarten days. They used to make them all sit on their potties at the same time. It was something about encouraging them to be good citizens. No one was allowed off until all of them had finished.
‘Still – at least we have a proper portable toilet,’ said Eugen. ‘Some cells just have a bucket.’
‘Do you ever think about getting out of here?’ said Eugen quietly.
‘What, you mean digging a tunnel or throwing a grappling hook over the wall?’ Alex laughed. ‘Maybe we could smuggle ourselves out in the laundry basket!’
Eugen smiled. ‘No, I meant getting out of the DDR. Don’t you get sick of it?’
All at once Alex realised Eugen might not be quite who he thought he was. People who had only just met didn’t talk to each other like this. So he considered his reply very carefully. ‘I don’t know. When I think of all the things I’d like to do . . . then yes I do. But when I think about the other stuff – my family and friends, how badly they treat you at work in the West, how they don’t look after their old people, how expensive everything is, all that selfishness and backstabbing, I think it’s better to be here.’
Eugen smiled. ‘That’s just what they want you to think. I’d go tomorrow if they let me.’
‘All these rules and restrictions,’ said Alex. ‘That’s what drives me mad. And this.’ He gestured around the cell indignantly. ‘I can’t believe I’m an enemy of the State.’
He was talking louder the more exasperated he got. Eugen shushed him.
Alex wondered how long they were going to keep him in prison. He was called out for his evening meal and when he returned Eugen was no longer there. He had left a small note under Alex’s pillow. ‘Being transferred. Keep rockin’, E.’
Alex kept expecting another cellmate to arrive but no one did and he spent the night on his own. He wondered who else had been in this cell and how close to despair and suicide they might have been. He remembered the little lecture he had received when he arrived. ‘You will be deprived of your belt and shoelaces. But should you attempt to take your own life in any other way while you are in custody, this will be regarded as an attempt to avoid punishment and you will be treated accordingly.’
He was also weighed down with anxiety. Who would be joining him in here next? What would Geli and his mum and dad be thinking? And what were they doing to Sophie?
The report was sitting on Erich Kohl’s desk when he arrived at work early the next morning.
Alex Ostermann 254
Observation statement
Hohenschönhausen
Subject shows incorrect and delusional aspirations and embryonic delinquency with pronounced negative-decadent tendencies, but is not a potential class enemy or likely imperialist espionage operative. Feelings towards DDR and Federal Republic are fluid and malleable.
Recommend further preventative harassment and continued day to day monitoring as may still be vulnerable to hostile and negative influences and oppositional thinking but further contained supervision is unnecessary. With correct course of action subject can still be regarded as potential comrade. May also be possible in near future to inveigle subject into own monitoring collaboration as he is well placed to report on other asocials within his circle. More information needed on likely reliabilty/unreliabilty as potential unofficial collaborator.
Kohl added his own additional information to the file:
Sophie Kirsch
Accomplice to Ostermann in potential adversarial asocial activity. Previous exemplary record as model socialist youth suggests subject might be suitable assistant to preventative action. Suggest coercive or persuasive approach, depending on degree of false-consciousness exhibited.
Report on reliability of Ostermann parents and other family members
Parents have unimpeachable record as supporters of DDR and SED. Both m and f have been Party members since 1965. No question of negative influence and necessity of subject’s removal to politically reliable foster family.
Only possible negative influence is sister Angela, aka Geli. Past record of association with negative-decadents (now terminated), but work in photography course shows potential harmful tendencies and reluctance to stay within boundaries of socialist realism.
Kohl scribbled a note for the department secretary to telex back to Hohenschönhausen and shouted out for her to come into his office and fetch it. He watched her leave the room with her haughty nose in the air. She had responded with complete indifference to his earlier flirtations. So now Kohl amused himself with little acts of humiliation.
He regarded the report with some scepticism. Comrade Minister Mielke had told them they had a duty to the State to ‘creep under the skin’ of such potential class traitors and imperialist collaborators and ‘look into their hearts so that we can reliably know who they are and where they stand’. Kohl knew exactly where Alex Ostermann stood. He was a straightforward negative-decadent – his fantasies revolved around playing a guitar in front of an adoring audience, not bringing down the enemies of the DDR. For a moment his impatience got the better of him.
Then he started to think more log
ically. He had a duty to the State to reclaim the socialist soul of Alex Ostermann. Maybe he was worrying too much about that cock-up with the Red Army Faction, but he couldn’t afford to give them any reason to doubt his own commitment.
Chapter 19
Alex had the strangest dream. He followed Eugen down a road close to Treptower Park. Eugen did not know Alex was right behind him and had stopped at every bicycle he found and let down the tyres. Alex started to tell people in the street what he was doing but they all ignored him.
When he woke at dawn, Alex immediately went through everything he could remember about his conversations with Eugen. Had he said too much? Had he said anything they didn’t know about him already? Eugen had asked several leading questions. Even then, Alex had started to feel a little uneasy about his cellmate. Now, looking back, everything was too convenient: Eugen saying he was not allowed to mix with the prison population, his ‘transfer’ after an afternoon in the cell.
Alex decided he had been wise to hold his tongue – especially about his desire to get out of the country. He tried to read Scientific Socialism, Victor of History, to keep his mind from spinning round and round.
He had only just got back to sleep, it seemed, when the wake-up bell sounded. Alex dressed and washed rapidly, to be ready for the summons for breakfast, and wondered anxiously what the day held in store. But before the breakfast bell rang there was a commotion at the door and three guards came in.
‘Prisoner 254,’ said one with sergeant stripes on his arm. ‘You are to come with us.’
They handcuffed him tight behind his back and then two of the guards marched him down the corridor. They took him up two flights of stairs and then down two more and out through a courtyard into a section of the prison he had not seen before.
Sektion 20 Page 10