Traitor

by Jonathan de Shalit

  7

  STASI HEADQUARTERS, EAST BERLIN, 1983

  Gunther—christened with the name Werner, but referred to by his ops name by almost everyone in the Stasi who knew him—burst into the bureau of the director of the Stasi’s foreign espionage division, the Main Directorate for Reconnaissance. He hung up his wet jacket in the entrance hall, warmed his hands with undeniable glee over the noisy radiator, winked at Hannelore, the young office clerk who was sitting behind her desk in the corner like a frightened rabbit, and planted a loud kiss on the cheek of Marlene, the head secretary, mumbling softly as he did so, “You smell so good, Marlene. Lucky I don’t work at headquarters; you’d drive me crazy and I’d have to set aside all matters of state just to be by your side all the time.” Marlene blushed and lightly slapped his hand. “You’re all mouth and no trousers, Werner,” she said. “You’re a big-time talker and a small-time playboy. Fortunately for you, you’re good at what you do. Otherwise your big mouth and the Western mannerisms you’ve adopted would land you a job in the filing department at best, if not a posting to northern Siberia. And there, as you well know, the winters are very long,” she added for emphasis, a stern look on her face. “Enough, enough with the tough attitude,” Gunther said with a smile, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Hannelore, who had shrunk back in her chair but whose big eyes remained fixed on him with obvious wonderment. “If only I had a chance with you, I’d do anything . . .” he said, allowing his words to fade out, like someone who knows there’s no point—because Marlene had never married and, since the age of twenty, had dedicated her life to serving the state and the party. For almost thirty-eight years already, the organization, as immense and intimidating as it was, had been the recipient of her real admiration and loyalty, and her love, if anything close to love actually remained in her dry and withered soul at all, was undoubtedly reserved for Markus, the legendary head of the foreign espionage division. And Markus, who just then stepped out of his office, his face aglow, wrapped Gunther in a tight embrace. “Sir!” Gunther said; and Markus kissed him on both cheeks, announcing to the room, with Hannelore drinking everything in through her gray eyes and Marlene busying herself again with the pile of cardboard folders on her desk, “I love this man like a brother!”

  8

  Markus and Gunther sat down on two time-worn and faded armchairs in the corner of Markus’s office, a constant source of surprise in terms of its modest dimensions and rudimentary office furniture. Steaming cups of tea stood on the low table alongside them, and each man held a small glass of clear and viscous schnapps in his hand. It was a meeting of two masters. When it came to understanding the human psyche, man’s weaknesses and desires, they were artists second to none. Gunther, the long-serving field operative, was blessed with a natural talent he had nurtured and polished through the years on end he had spent identifying, recruiting, and handling agents. Markus, who had started out in fact as a political theorist and was fast-tracked into the high-ranking position he currently occupied at the absurd age of just twenty-four, was blessed with a gift from God. He embodied a rare mixture of sensitivity and cruelty, of compassion hardened by icy determination. As profound as it was intuitive, his understanding of the shadowy world of the agents—spies who betray their countries and peoples—was based less on personal experience and more on a unique ability to get a clear reading of the agents’ psyches from the gut feelings and reports of his people. He could always pinpoint the drive behind a particular individual’s willingness to sell his soul and loyalty—money, love, or recognition, and sometimes also a desire for vengeance or simply the thrill of adventure. Both Markus and Gunther were senior officers in the secret service of East Germany, which was and still remained not only an ally but also a faithful servant of the Soviet Union. Both bore military ranks, with Markus a general and Gunther a colonel. But they donned their festive dress uniforms, adorned with gold aiguillettes and military decorations, only on a handful of occasions during the year, mostly to party events they were required to attend. Despite their shared hatred of formalities and superfluous pomp and circumstance, they identified fiercely with their country. They both knew that the mighty and historic triumph over fascism could only have been achieved thanks to the endless sacrifice, bravery, and daring of the communist faithful. Despite their gripes from time to time about the party’s bureaucracy, about its conservative approach and random brutality, they hadn’t forgotten the tremendous accomplishments, the huge progress that had been made, and primarily the immense strength of spirit that had instilled the socialist ideology in the masses, in the common people, who were the very salt of the earth. Above all, however, they loved their profession, which they viewed both as a calling and as a form of complex artistry. They loved the never-ending war of minds with their enemies in the West, dealing constantly with the army of agents they had amassed at their side and with the objects in their secret crosshairs. And thus, at ease and with a sense of camaraderie based on long years of work and true friendship, the two discussed the Israeli walk-in who had knocked on the Americans’ door and could be ripe for the picking—if they so desired.

  Insofar as Israel itself was concerned, the attitude of the East German leadership was one of indifference, as if there was no connection between the activities of the Palestinian organizations East Germany was funding and the state against which they were fighting. As a result, the East German intelligence services showed very little interest in information about Israel, and an Israeli walk-in wasn’t going to make any impression at all on the Stasi itself or the party leaders in Berlin. But both Gunther and Markus knew—the one based on a gut feeling, the other with absolute certainty—that a high-ranking asset in Israel would certainly spark a great deal of interest among the big brothers at the Lubyanka, KGB headquarters in Moscow. Because as far as Moscow was concerned, Israel was already an entirely different story. In all the power struggles waged between the KGB and the Stasi, it was plain to see which of the two organizations was the bigger, the stronger, the more senior. On a professional level, nevertheless, the two organizations were in competition—not openly perhaps, but certainly not entirely hidden. On several occasions, the Stasi’s foreign division had reaped success where the KGB had failed. The East Germans were at a distinct advantage, of course, with respect to West Germany. The shared national identity, the common language, family members living on both sides of the border, a single history and shared crimes from the time of the war—these were all factors that gave the Stasi the upper hand in West Germany in the continuing arm-wrestling contest between the organizations. When Markus showed up at KGB headquarters in Lubyanka Square, his character and capabilities weren’t the only things that spoke for him. He, personally, was viewed as a man whose opinions and advice were worthy of attention. But the agents his organization had successfully recruited and who were often handled in keeping with instructions from Moscow were his primary assets.

  The question that was troubling Markus and Gunther was whether the young and cynical Israeli could indeed become a senior asset at some point in the future. In the company of Markus, Gunther felt at last as if he no longer needed to step lightly. There were moments even when he allowed himself to be Werner and not Gunther, the legendary field operative and recruiter of agents. Settled back now in the shabby armchair, his tie loose and the top button of his shirt open, Gunther spoke candidly:

  “Truthfully, after all, Markus, we don’t know. How could we possibly know where this guy will be ten to fifteen years from now? Anyone offering a definitive and decisive opinion on the matter would be guilty of deception, and not mere deception, but deception of the worst kind—self-deception. Tell me, can I really know if this guy is going to go the distance in the world of politics, which is nothing more than a quagmire of endless manipulations and unbridled lust for power . . . ?”

  Markus cleared his throat and a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes.

  “I’m talking, of course, about politics in the West,” Gunthe
r said with a smile, utterly devoid of the need to justify himself to Markus, but conscious nevertheless of his big mouth and his, and everyone’s, constant need to cover their asses in the event they ran into someone whose sense of humor and tolerance weren’t at their best.

  “How can we be sure,” he continued, “that his abilities and talents and drive won’t be redirected toward, let’s say, the business world, leaving us with a fantastic agent—a real-estate mogul or wealthy lawyer or investment house CEO—but with zero intelligence?”

  “Tell me,” Markus said, interrupting Gunther, “what’s happened to your professionalism, your hunter’s patience? Where’s this doubt coming from? After all, once we get in on the act, we also have the ability to influence the manner in which things move forward. We shape the reality with our own hands, and we don’t make do with simply gathering intelligence about it. This guy has placed himself in our hands, even if he believes he’s in the hands of the Americans. We know, after all, how to manage such operations—very slowly, patiently, thoughtfully. We’ll get him accustomed to his ties with us, to the sense of adventure, to the thrill of secrecy, to the money filling his pockets slowly but surely, to the gradual and moderate climb in his standard of living. Just like a frog in a pot gets used to water that’s boiled slowly. The frog will allow itself to be cooked alive without even considering the option of jumping out of the boiling water,” said Markus, who was known for his descriptive imagery. “Little by little, you’ll mold this material,” he added in a low and warm voice, “and believe me, it’s still soft. Shape it in your image. Or in the image of whomever you send to him. He’ll want to please you; he’ll want you to be proud of him; you’ll be the father he doesn’t have; you’ll be the person he thinks about at night; and he won’t want to disappoint you. For you, he’ll work his way into positions we view as significant, he’ll forge ties with people who interest us. And even if he’s drawn into the world of business, we’ll make sure he snakes his way in and out of public roles, as close to the plate as possible. And you and I will be with him, or behind the scenes, all the time; we’ll feel him; and without his even knowing it, we’ll get under his skin and through to his very soul,” Markus said, taking the trouble to dryly add for the sake of required Marxist correctness, “the nonexistence of which is unquestionable.”

  “You know,” Gunther said, still clinging to his skepticism, “that handling an agent under the guise of an American is no light task at all, and a major operation. I’ll take charge of the handling to begin with, but further down the line we’re going to need to make use of our most valued tools, individuals who’ve been stationed in the United States for years, as Americans for all intents and purposes, awaiting our signal. We’ve invested so much in them. Using them for a project that is just now getting started and whose development and outcome we truly cannot foretell is a big risk.”

  “My dear Werner,” Markus responded, addressing Gunther by his real name, “if you’re still living under the impression that we’re on the brink of a Third World War in which we’re going to deploy guerrilla forces to launch assaults on the American enemy’s home front, then something really has gone wrong with you. Don’t be the last disciple of propaganda that no one else believes any longer. We’ve built up assets. We’ve invested years of work in them. And for what? To never actually use them? Is it our ultimate goal to have them forget they are East Germans, to have them think they are Americans off the Mayflower, there to plant and water flower beds in their picturesque towns in Vermont or Idaho? Werner,” Markus said, leaning toward him in a gesture of affinity and affection, “I have faith in your experience and gut feelings, and I have faith, too, in your agent at the American embassy in Rome. You’re the old lions in this dirty game, this wonderful and dirty game,” he added contemplatively. “If the two of you feel this guy has something to offer, I’m with you on it. And if our good friends at the Lubyanka want him, we’ll do the work for them. Earning Brownie points in Moscow can’t do us—you or me—any harm at all. You never know,” he added in earnest, “you never know when we may need them.”

  9

  DRESDEN, SEPTEMBER 2012

  The cold had taken up permanent residence in Marlene Schmidt’s bones. Her layers of clothing were of no help, and the same could be said for the piping-hot heating system in the small public housing apartment in which she lived on the outskirts of the city. At the age of eighty-seven, with terminal bone marrow cancer nesting in her body, feeling warm and comfortable wasn’t an option for her that gloomy winter. The coming spring, and the summer to follow, with the apple trees in full bloom and the magnificent flotilla of white swans on the river, wouldn’t be hers to see again. Her days on earth were drawing to a close, thus dryly said her sharp mind, and she felt no sadness or sorrow about her dwindling life, only a bitter sense of disgruntlement, like a mild heartburn that rises up from the stomach to the throat. So many years of service and loyalty down the drain, service and loyalty to a country and an organization that were the essence of her life, that were supposed to survive for all eternity and to create—yes, despite everything—a new and more just world.

  Marlene lived on the fifth floor of an enormous public housing project, seemingly infinite, put together with concrete and asbestos, one of the many built in keeping with the finest traditions of Stalinist architecture in Moscow and Leningrad, in Irkutsk and Tashkent, in Warsaw and Budapest, in East Berlin and Dresden, and in dozens, if not hundreds, of other cities throughout the Soviet Empire and its allies. Immense structures, eyesores, starkly uniform and utterly devoid of charm, but homes that were certainly habitable, that offered shelter, and in which one could live a complete and full life. Marlene loved her apartment, and she still recalled the intense excitement and deep sense of gratitude she had felt when the Workers’ Welfare Association had informed her that finally, after so many years of such dedicated service, she was entitled to an apartment. It wasn’t something to be taken for granted, certainly not in the case of a woman on her own, an unmarried woman, going on forty. Moreover, they had given her a state-of-the-art apartment, forty-five square meters that were hers alone, with a modern kitchenette and a small bedroom and a guest room and her own bathroom, just for her. For the first time, she could enjoy the luxuries offered by privacy and didn’t have to cram herself into a common bathroom at the far end of the long hall with all the neighbors. True, the apartment hadn’t been an act of kindness, not at all. It was given to her on merit, in recognition of her devoted and unconditional loyalty to the German Democratic Republic’s security services, which she had joined immediately following the war. After twelve years as a cipher clerk at the Regional Command Headquarters in Dresden, she was transferred in January 1957 to the Special Ops Archives, where she had worked for many long years, endlessly dedicated and loyal, arriving every day at five minutes to eight and leaving after dark, twelve to fourteen hours later, her eyes burning, her body spent, filled with a sweet and comforting sense of satisfaction.

  Still today, as an elderly and ill woman, she maintained her small apartment in pristine condition. The clean and tidy residence reflected her character—meticulous, stringent, loyal. Resting on the dark wooden dresser in the guest room were small souvenirs from numerous places around the world. No, she, personally, had never left Germany, aside from just once. To this day, her heart skipped a beat each time she recalled the thrill of that trip to Moscow, where in a secret ceremony she had received a special token of appreciation for her contribution and devotion. The small souvenirs were from her boys, her sweet and wonderful boys from the Special Ops Division of the Main Directorate for Reconnaissance. “Markus’s boys,” as she called them, never forgot Marlene, working there for them in a small office on the basement floor of the regional headquarters. Markus had been the one to insist, from the very beginning, that the division’s archives be based in the small kingdom he had established for himself in Dresden, and not at central headquarters in Berlin. He didn’t want everything concent
rated in one location; he didn’t like the idea of having all the intelligence at the disposal of every novice political commissar with a cushy job in Berlin. And his boys, who risked their lives in the covert war they waged against the enemies of the state and party in every corner of the world, always knew there was someone loving and loyal to safeguard their secrets, their daring operations, as well as the agents they managed to recruit and handle for the sake of the revolution. They had brought her a small Eiffel Tower from Paris and a chubby Buddha from China and a frightening wooden mask from Mozambique, and she watched over those small mementos, those symbols of love, with a joyful heart and eyes that sometimes filled with tears. And in the dresser itself, she kept several bottles of selected alcoholic beverages. She wasn’t much of a drinker, and even less so a hostess, but she had a number of bottles of whisky from Scotland and also a few bottles of vodka, not only from Moscow but also from Helsinki and Stockholm, along with a bottle of Grand Marnier from France. The strong, sweet liqueur was her favorite of all; and from time to time, when the loneliness turned particularly acute, she would pour herself a small glass, taking comfort in the pleasant fire that spread down her throat.

  Many years after starting out at the Special Ops Archives—more than twenty years down the line, to be precise—Markus summoned her to Berlin. “Marlene,” he had said to her at the time, “I want you by my side. The post of head secretary is opening up, and I need someone with whom I can be totally at ease and relaxed. Someone I can trust one thousand percent. Not some high-and-mighty young Humboldt University graduate who has been parachuted in by someone from the Politburo.” And Markus had offered an ironic description of the potential candidate—an ambitious young woman whom one politician or other was keeping on the side; after arranging a nice small apartment for her, he was now going to land her a prestigious job, too. And in return, Markus said in a tone that to her sounded wearily and angrily disdainful, “She will have to report back on the bureau’s activity and also do a few more things for him that you and I don’t even want to think about. No. I need a loyal warrior devoted only to me and the revolution. And not in that order, of course. But someone whose head is filled by nothing but work and who is driven by nothing other than the success of our operations and our ability to screw our adversaries in the West over and over again. Excuse me for speaking in such a manner, Marlene,” he had said to her back then, seemingly embarrassed. “But you know that when it comes to our operations, I can get very passionate.” Marlene kept her compliments to herself, and for a period of almost four years, she went to work for the division chief in his bureau. She didn’t vacate her lovely apartment in Dresden. She’d sleep during the week on a narrow camp bed in a small room behind the bureau, and she’d take the Deutsche Reichsbahn’s regional train on weekends back to Dresden, where she’d wrap herself in the quiet of the sleepy city and straighten up her already spotlessly clean apartment. If the weather was warm enough, she’d sit for hours on the bank of the river, watching the endless stream of life it carried—barges, waterfowl, fallen branches, small boats with young lovers.