by Henry Porter
Rosenharte leaned forward and asked: ‘In ’75, how did you explain her disappearance? One moment she was working for the Commission, the next she was in Nato handing over secrets to a gardener. It doesn’t seem a very natural progression.’
‘After the suicide, we had to work very hard,’ said Harland. ‘When Annalise Schering went off the radar screen we put it about that she had suffered some personal loss and a suspected breakdown. A few months went by and she eventually resigned from the Commission to take the job at Nato. She was, as you know, a fairly solitary person and had few friends. Her mother was dead by then and she had no other family. The Belgian authorities were helpful because at that time Brussels was full of Stasi Romeos trying to bed every bloody secretary in town. What worked for us was that the only East German agent who knew her was you. There had not been time for them to do the usual background checks and place other agents around her. That all happened later, when she went to Nato, where - incidentally - it was explained that her collapse had been brought about by a thyroid imbalance and an unsuitable affair. You were that unsuitable affair. She told her new controller that she had lost her heart to you, but that you drank too much and were therefore a security risk. They were impressed by her sense of mission and the self-sacrifice entailed in dropping you.’ He stopped and looked Rosenharte in the eye. ‘It was all very neat . . . though . . . I do appreciate it was painful for you.’
‘Indeed,’ said Rosenharte, not letting them see his anger. Just after he had left Annalise’s apartment on that dreary evening, he was picked by the Belgian police. Two days of interrogation followed, at the end of which they told him he was to be charged for the murder of Annalise Schering. They said he had faked her suicide by forcing her to take an overdose of sleeping pills and then cutting her wrists as she lay asleep. Evidence of her blood was found in the bedroom, which they said supported the theory that she had been placed in the bath after she was drugged and had become unconscious. It would be difficult to contest in court, particularly as they’d show that Rosenharte was a Stasi agent who’d been trying to make Annalise Schering work for East Germany. He was reminded by a senior police officer that Belgium had not yet abolished the death penalty and that at the very least he would face a minimum of twenty years in jail. Then two British spies and a Belgian intelligence officer came to the police station cell and put a proposition to him. He would be released without charge, as long as he remained in Brussels and filed regular reports of his contact with Annalise. Thereafter they would provide the pretext for his return to East Germany. If for one moment they suspected that he had told the truth to the Stasi they would release tapes proving his cooperation with the West, including pictures of his taking what appeared to be an envelope containing money. He had no choice. For the first three months of 1975 he maintained the fiction of his affair with Annalise in his messages to the East, all recorded on the mid-section of a conventional Frank Sinatra music cassette and then sent to an address in Berlin.
He looked at Harland squinting through the smoke of his cigarette. ‘I have always wondered what your side said about me to the Stasi through the substitute Annalise. They would have nothing to do with me when I got back to Normannenstrasse.’
Harland coughed awkwardly. ‘I’m afraid there may have been some allegations of a sexual nature, it being well understood by us at the time that the Stasi had a horror of that kind of deviance in its own ranks. But of course I was not directly involved.’
Rosenharte had always suspected this but again decided to keep his anger to himself. ‘When did the arrangement with the replacement finish?’
‘When the woman became pregnant by her real husband. We couldn’t have her meeting her controller with a bump. He’d want too many explanations. The thing had come to a natural end. Security measures were increased in Nato headquarters, with several people being investigated and questioned. When the gardener was arrested, Annalise sent word to the Stasi that she risked being exposed and could not continue. Soon afterwards it was put about that she had left to marry a Canadian businessman. End of story.’
‘When was this?’
‘Late spring, 1985.’
‘And in all that time, you like to think that they did not take photographs of her? What if they took pictures last night? All they have to do is compare the two.’
‘We hope they did.’ Harland looked at Griswald and grinned. ‘She worked for us in Nato. She was the second Annalise. She came out of retirement for this job. As far as they’re concerned, it is Annalise. That’s why I believe you’ll be safe for long as it’s necessary. Then we will get you out.’
Rosenharte got up, walked to the window and looked down into the street, which was now beginning to fill with people. It was Sunday 10 September and church bells were tolling across the city. He was suddenly taken by the colour and animation of Italian life again. Bar umbrellas were being erected, flowers watered and pavements being swept outside one or two stores by trim, fastidious women. Immediately below them was a fruit stall where baskets of produce were laid in a perfectly balanced pattern. It seemed to him that no decision was made about the centre of Trieste without someone first asking what effect it would have on the appearance of the city. He watched a few people making their way to early morning mass and brought to mind a black and white film written by Billy Wilder, Menschen am Sonntag - People on Sunday. Konnie had found a rare print and shown it to him on a projector that kept breaking down. While he fiddled with the machine, he gave a commentary on the film, a brilliant discourse on the way the little masterpiece from the time of Weimar captured the unknowability of each person. ‘Cinema doesn’t have to be explicit,’ he had said. ‘It can let a mystery hang in the air and each person makes of it what he or she will, according to their character.’ Dear, brave Konnie. He had to get him out soon.
‘So,’ said Harland, trying to gain his attention.
Rosenharte turned.
‘You know,’ continued the American, ‘you guys are screwed in the East. The economy is in meltdown, the young people are all leaving, nothing works, the factories are forty years behind the West. Everything’s up the Swanee.’
‘The Swanee?’
‘Kaput. Alles ist kaput.’
‘Is the West any better? Until last year you had a President who only made decisions when he had consulted his wife’s astrologer. We read about these things in the East, you know. And what about last year, when every economy in the West nearly failed because of the greed of investors on Wall Street?’
‘You can’t compare that with what’s going in your country,’ returned the American amiably. ‘Literally nothing works in East Germany. There’s no food, the transport system is shit, the manufacturing base is thirty years out of date. Every time someone has a new idea it goes before a dozen committees before it can be implemented. And when things break down all the effort is put into investigating possible sabotage rather than fixing the problem. Sabotage is the alibi of every dud factory manager. But the Party bosses care not one jot about this because they have all the comfort and luxury goods they need. Way off in the hidden compounds, the Party hierarchy have every luxury and all the best medical treatment. We know what’s going on, Rosenharte. Nothing works unless you’re a Party boss.’
‘Some things do,’ said Rosenharte slowly, conceding to himself the accuracy of the American’s picture. ‘Everyone is in work; they are provided for; they are guaranteed a place to live and their children are well educated - even most Western experts agree on that.’
‘Yes, but what a corrupt version of paternalism that is,’ he said, truly warming to his theme. ‘The Communist Party - the Socialist Unity Party, as you call it - expects a man to stifle all his ambition, all his views and tastes. The Party decides everything for him, from cradle to grave. And if he doesn’t go along with it, he’s put in jail. That’s hardly a healthy society.’
‘You’re right about many things in the GDR,’ said Rosenharte. ‘But you must never underestimate the
Stasi. It is a state within a state. And that state has never been healthier. Nothing happens in the GDR without the Stasi knowing about it.’ He paused. ‘Three months ago, my brother’s elder son was interrogated by an officer because of an essay he wrote for his school. The teacher had passed it to them because it contained “unpatriotic and anti-social tendencies”. You know what this essay was about? The migration of birds! A ten-year-old cannot write about a bird flying over our national border without the Stasi seeing it as a threat. I repeat, do not underestimate them. Now, tell me what you want me to do. Where must I go in Leipzig? How do I communicate with you?’
‘Are you a religious man, Dr Rosenharte?’ asked Harland.
‘No.’
‘Well, we need you to be converted to the cause of Christian brotherhood and peace. It is in this context that Annalise has offered to help East Germany. As she explained in the letters she sent you in the summer, she wants to help rectify the technological imbalance between West and East. That much the Stasi know, though of course you don’t because you haven’t seen those letters. It’s the old argument about preserving peace by equalizing military power. You must put some time into thinking about this before you go back. Flesh out a story in your own words.’
Rosenharte made a mental note to do so and realized in the same moment that he would have to hone the old skills of deception and providing impromptu but convincing explanations. ‘I have very little time now. I must give my paper to the conference and make contact with my side before that.’
‘There’ll be time for everything,’ said Harland. ‘First we need to discuss how you’re going to meet Kafka.’
Harland and Griswald said goodbye to Rosenharte at the hotel, having drilled him in the procedures to be followed for contacting the West and for making himself known to Kafka in Leipzig. They waited for an hour before leaving by the service entrance and making their way to the conference centre. After the first lecture started they slipped in and joined Prelli in the projection box at the back of the lecture hall. Prelli pointed out the two Stasi agents that had been hurriedly planted in the audience. Harland watched as Jessie entered and took a seat two rows from the front. Rosenharte turned and nodded discreetly to her, at which a man on the aisle leaned forward and showed interest.
At three, Rosenharte rose and walked to the podium. An effusive Italian academic introduced him as the premier authority on early seventeenth-century drawings in East Germany and added that from the work published in the West - sadly still so limited - it was clear that as a thinker Rosenharte was breaking new ground. His work at the Gemäldegalerie in Dresden, said the man, proved that the dialogue between art historians would continue to exist whatever the differences between states. Rosenharte replied with a bow, the lights dimmed and he began speaking without notes and in English.
Harland now saw an entirely different man from the wary individual he had been dealing with. He spoke fluently and addressed his audience with the charm of a politician. Five minutes into the lecture, Rosenharte pressed a button on the slide projector and on the screen there appeared a drawing in rust-coloured chalk of a cripple boy. He stared at it for a moment, then silently ran the pointing stick around the distortion of the boy’s back, hunched shoulders and empty, elfin face.
‘Ten years after this was made by the young Annibale Carracci, some words were written by William Shakespeare: “Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, deformed, unfinished, sent before my time into this breathing world scarce half made up.”’ He paused. ‘Beautiful words. And a beautiful drawing to describe deformity, wouldn’t you say? But this sketch before you is also revolutionary in its compassion, a work that breaks free of the controlling taste of the patrons of the time. In his own hand the artist has written beside the boy’s head, “No so se Dio m’aiuta” - I don’t know if God will help me. And so the artist, like a photo-journalist today, witnesses the injustice of the young boy’s condition, and provides a challenge to God and therefore to the religious authorities. Why? Why are people born like this? Why do men shrink from them and dogs bark at them in the street? These are the questions of a revolutionary conscience and I maintain a socialist conscience. Carracci calls God and the Church to account.’
Over the next forty minutes he developed the theme of artistic conscience. When he reached the end he opened his hands to the audience. ‘No,’ he said. ‘God does not help this man. But we must. That was Carracci’s message.’ With a tip of the head he thanked them for their attention.
The hall burst into spontaneous applause.
‘It’s the same lecture he gave in Leipzig. It’s why he was chosen by Kafka.’
‘He was chosen by Kafka!’ said Griswald.
Harland nodded. ‘And now I understand why.’
Griswald, no slouch when it came to reading the subtext, puckered his brow. ‘What are you talking about, Harland? What haven’t you told me?’
‘Just that. Rosenharte gave that lecture in the early summer in Leipzig. It seems that Kafka - whoever that is - liked the look of him. You see the lecture can be read two ways. If you are an unimaginative commie it appears to comply to the usual Marxist theories about the suppression of the masses and the rise of capitalism et cetera, et cetera. It can also be seen as an argument against persecution by the state and the stifling of free expression.’ ‘A bird who can sing several tunes at once,’ said Griswald. ‘Hey, look, Jessie’s on the move.’
She had left her chair and was on the edge of a group of admiring academics gathered round Rosenharte, waving her arms comically over the heads of the others. Rosenharte got up to greet her. They kissed and she gave him a light congratulatory hug. Then she broke free and tapped her wristwatch to say that she had to leave. As she went she blew him a kiss. Harland spotted the small padded envelope that she had slipped into his hand.
‘The ball’s in play and our man’s on his way,’ said Harland, noting the two Stasi agents hurrying down the central aisle to be near Rosenharte.
‘So there goes our agent. Sent before his time, scarce half made up,’ said Griswald.
5
A House in the Forest
The lights of fireflies were pulsing on the fringes of the airfield near Ljubljana, Slovenia when the Stasi convoy pulled up beside an old Antonov 26 which stood with its props gently revolving in the warm night air. Rosenharte watched them fleetingly before the party clambered up a retractable stairway and dispersed through the aircraft. It smelled of fuel and tired upholstery.
Biermeier appeared in the cockpit door looking self-satisfied, walked up the aisle nodding to his men and sat down heavily next to Rosenharte.
‘Which airport are we flying into?’ asked Rosenharte.
‘It’s enough for you to know that you’re returning to your homeland,’ he replied.
‘I hope there’s something to drink. Anything will do - a beer or some water.’
Biermeier gave him a long-suffering look and barked the order to one of the Stasi officers who had accompanied them from Trieste, then turned to Rosenharte. ‘So, you got the first delivery from your friend. That is good. But what interests me is the dead man. Who was he?’
‘I told Heise. I don’t know - some drunk who had a heart attack.’
Biermeier nodded and frowned at the same time. Rosenharte examined his profile with interest. His runaway chin and sloping forehead meant that his face ran to a bulbous point at his nose. He had several moles on his neck, which evidently presented problems when he was shaving, and a little red rash had appeared at the top of his cheeks. He was unprepossessing and oafish, yet he was far from stupid. He gave the impression of a man with a large character who’d consciously forced his personality into the Stasi norms of merciless reliability.
‘We’ll have to look into it further. You must understand that this seems very suspicious. We know he was following you in Trieste.’
Rosenharte shrugged. ‘Look, I don’t know who the hell he was. I didn’t want to go to Trieste in the first place.
Schwarzmeer forced me. Frankly, I don’t want anything to do with this business.’
‘You have no choice. Now tell me what was in that package she gave you.’
‘I have no idea. You have the package.’
‘But she must have told you what was in it. She must have made a hint or two.’
Rosenharte recoiled from his garlic breath. ‘I know nothing except that it concerns Nato defence programs. Why don’t you open it for yourself?’
‘She must have told you more.’
‘Is this an official debrief, or should I wait until I see General Schwarzmeer?’
‘This is my operation - I have security clearance.’
‘As I understand it, this operation concerns the gravest issues of national security. Open the package but don’t compromise me. I’ve done my job.’ He turned away and looked out on the flashing light at the end of the wing. Eventually Biermeier gave up on him and moved to be with the other members of his team. An unexplained delay kept them there for an hour before the engines started up and the plane rumbled down the tarmac, causing the fittings of the interior to squeak and the lockers to crash open. Once they were airborne, Rosenharte moved to the port side of the cabin to look out over the Alps with a certain boyish glee, as they took a course that skirted Austria and flew north-east towards Hungary and Czechoslovakia. The landscape was pretty well illuminated by the half moon and he could just make out the ridges along the tops of the mountains. He thought of walking the valleys below with his brother, a thing they had promised they would do once Konnie’s health improved. He always insisted it was simply a matter of time but two years had passed without him being able to raise the energy. He needed treatment in the West and that was what Rosenharte was going to get for him.