by Henry Porter
‘No Konnie, you’re not going to die. I have done a deal to see you. I’m doing all I can to bring you home. They know you’re too ill to cause any trouble. They understand that.’ As he spoke, Rosenharte took in the shell of his twin. Since his first imprisonment, Konrad had looked five or six years older than Rosenharte. His hair had thinned and, owing to the loss of several teeth, his cheeks were a little sunken. But up until that summer they were still unmistakably identical twins. They stood at the same height and were within a few pounds of each other’s weight.
Nothing could have prepared Rosenharte for the sight of his brother in that room. He had lost twenty to thirty pounds; his eyes had retreated into his skull; the veins stood out on his hands and neck; his forearms were like an old man’s. The slightest action, as when he brushed his cheek with the back of his bony hand, caused what remained of his vitality to drain.
‘What deal have you done, Rudi?’ He smiled - that old sceptical smile that he used to tease Rosenharte when he was being dogmatic or pompous. ‘What deal can you do with these people?’ His eyes moved to Zank, who was standing behind Rosenharte, and then to the doctor. ‘You can’t deal with them, because all they want is to finish me off. That is their only objective.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Zank. ‘You may not speculate on the motives of this institution. You may not utter defamations against the state.’
Konrad shrugged like a drunk and bowed his head. ‘I’m sick, Rudi. I know that. Maybe I don’t have long.’
Rosenharte shook his head desperately. ‘I’ll get you out of here and find you proper treatment, Konnie. Else and the boys will be free by this time tomorrow.’
Konrad’s eyes rose to meet his, a look of hope gleaming through the pain. ‘How did . . .?
‘Don’t tire yourself, dear brother.’ Before Zank or Streffer could intervene, he moved forward, grasped Konrad’s shoulder and looked down into his expression.
‘Unhand the prisoner. Step away now,’ Streffer commanded.
Rosenharte did as he was told. ‘I am rendering certain services that are important to the state.’ He glanced at Zank. ‘Look, they know Else is a loyal citizen; they understand the boys deserve to be with their mother at home. This will happen. I’m telling you this will happen!’ He looked at Zank again, but got no response.
‘That’s good, Rudi; you’ve done well.’ He smiled again. Rosenharte noted that even now he enjoyed the warmth of his brother’s approval. It had always been like that. However much he had achieved, Konnie’s praise was the only thing that mattered, and that was because Konnie’s standards were high. He knew what they were both capable of, knew when Rosenharte was coasting. It had always been Konnie that kept them up to the mark, whether in cross-country skiing competitions or mastering a new subject at school. Now, as his brother suffered for his beliefs, it made Rosenharte feel shallow and inadequate. In his Überwinterung - his hibernation - he had shirked his moral and intellectual responsibilities, and instead retreated to an inner sphere, taking his pleasures when he could, with women and drink and the exquisite proximity to the work of great artists. He had let the banners and the slogans, the repression and coercion, wash over him, convinced that he was following a higher calling and leading the only authentic life he could. But he was wrong. Konnie’s protest may have been subtle and puzzling, but at least he had remained true to himself.
They looked at each other for a moment. The presence of Streffer and Zank was no obstacle to their ability to communicate. Konrad understood what his brother was thinking, saw the fear and guilt in his eyes and assuaged it with a humorous wink. These messages passed so quickly that they barely noted or articulated them. Just a few minutes into the meeting, they were in each other’s minds - back on the old wooden jetty near the Rosenharte farm, looking at their identical reflections in the water of the lake and watching sticklebacks glide between the weeds.
‘We’ll have a picnic on the jetty yet,’ said Rosenharte. ‘Next summer we’ll take the boys and Else there and show them how to catch trout. And when you’re feeling stronger, we’ll do some hiking. Just you and me, like old times. Maybe a little cross-country skiing.’
‘Yes,’ said Konrad. ‘We shall certainly do that.’
Zank moved to the door and Streffer averted his gaze to the window.
‘I will get you out of here, Konnie. Just hold on for me.’
‘Good,’ said Konnie. ‘That’s good. I’ll do my best.’
Streffer opened the door. ‘The interview is terminated. The prisoner is too weak.’
Before Rosenharte could say anything more, he had been guided out of the door by Zank. In the passage he shouted out: ‘Hold on, Konnie. Just hold on!’
Outside, Zank escorted him to the main gate, where they found Biermeier waiting with a car. As they reached him, Rosenharte suddenly turned and gripped Zank’s shoulder at the collarbone. For a moment he thought he would kill him. ‘You’d better make sure that my brother receives the proper treatment, because I am holding you personally responsible for his wellbeing.’ Zank shook himself free. ‘Remember Zank,’ he hissed, ‘you can never be sure of the cards you’re dealt in life.’
He didn’t know what he had meant, other than that the system from which Zank drew his power was no longer an eternal monolithic certainty. Zank’s features hardened and a chilly, sadistic mediocrity was momentarily revealed. Maybe he understood better than his masters that times were dangerous for the Party and the Stasi. He was, after all, still a young man, and he knew as well as any member of his generation that the subterranean forces might one day prove too strong for the Party apparatus. Zank glanced at Biermeier with a look of contempt - either for Biermeier or Rosenharte, it was not clear - spun on his heels and walked off in the direction of the administration block.
Biermeier let Rosenharte watch him go and in that moment, Rosenharte knew of his own deep conversion. If ever there was a ‘hostile negative element’, it was him. He would oppose these people, their prisons and their muffled brutality with everything in his power. Something had happened in that room, when he saw the husk of his twin’s once proud physique and bearing: Konrad’s defiance had passed to him and in the process metabolized into something potentially far more violent. He looked up at the rippled cloud coming in from the north and composed himself.
‘Come on,’ said Biermeier quietly. ‘Let’s get in the car. We’ve got work to do.’ Then, as he opened the door, he added, ‘This place gives me the creeps.’
Ten minutes passed before Rosenharte absorbed that remark and turned to look at Biermeier with interest.
14
A Picnic
Rosenharte crossed the Berlin Wall for the first time in his life two hours later. It took about half an hour, while the border police on the eastern side looked over his credentials and exit visa. Then he followed the trickle of old people who were allowed to visit relatives in the West, through the Death Zone carved across Berlin, which they couldn’t see because of the high boards either side of the road. He carried a case and a copy of Neues Deutschland tucked under his right arm, as instructed by Annalise in the intercepted letter. In his wallet were 600 German Marks, for which he had signed several forms at Normannenstrasse and had undertaken to give a complete account of his expenditure on his return to East Berlin.
He reached the point where three traffic lanes converged at the western part of the Berlin Wall on Zimmerstrasse, then walked over the white line painted across Friedrichstrasse, noting a sign that declared, ‘You are entering the American sector. Carrying weapons off-duty is forbidden. Obey traffic rules.’ A few yards on, he came to a modest hut in the middle of the road, and showed his passport and waited while an American major examined it. The officer looked down at him intently and checked his face against the photo again. ‘Welcome to Checkpoint Charlie, Dr Rosenharte; I understand you speak English. Is that correct?’
Rosenharte nodded.
‘I’ve been told to tell you that the arrangement at t
he Cafe Adler stands: your friend will be waiting there as you expected, but she is going to ask for a meeting with your side as soon as possible. Do you understand? She won’t have time to explain. You’re just going to have to take the lead from her.’
Rosenharte nodded. The officer made a final check against a clipboard, and without looking up said: ‘And by the way sir, several of your people have been through at other crossing points and are in the cafe now. Mr Harland and Mr Griswald say everything’s under control. Everything’s gonna be fine, just so long as you let things happen. Okay?’ He handed back the passport. ‘Have a good day, sir.’
Rosenharte walked round the back of the hut pleased that the Americans were involved. He entered the Adler by the side entrance, just under the letter C of Cafe. To his left hung a rack of newspapers, each fixed to a rod, and a small counter, where a cashier stood talking to two waitresses, one of whom lazily looked him up and down. The cafe was full, but Annalise’s stand-in had a table to herself by the window on Zimmerstrasse so that she could see when he crossed. She lowered a newspaper and waved. Rosenharte glanced around the tables as he walked over, furiously kick-starting the pleasure in his face and thinking that he must find out this woman’s real name. She rose from the chair and hooked her arm round his neck, looked at him with myopic joy and kissed him most tenderly. ‘It’s just marvellous to see you,’ she whispered. ‘We have a lot of company in here. It’s all going to be okay.’ He smiled back at her. She was so damned good at this that all sorts of automatic responses stirred in him.
‘It’s good to see you,’ he said. She saw his look, noted the emphasis. Now they were communicating, as they needed to.
She drew back from him and placed the back of her hand against his cheek. ‘You’re tired, Rudi. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’ He nuzzled her. ‘They’ve just let me see my brother. It’s not good news; he’s very sick.’
She nodded, her eyes registering concern, and then stepped away. ‘But you have other admirers here,’ she said, flashing a look at the waitress. ‘Well, I want them to know you’re all mine.’ She gave him another playful kiss, then signalled for another beer and they sat down. ‘You want something to eat?’ Rosenharte shook his head, noticing that she used the construction you want, rather than do you want, just the sort of idiom that someone who had lived the other side of the Atlantic would pick up. She was formidable, this woman. Very cool, very self-possessed. He liked what she was wearing, too - jeans and a dark-brown suede jacket.
‘We have a problem,’ she said, lowering her voice and her head at the same time. ‘It’s dangerous for me to be here in Berlin. I was spotted at the airport last night. A man I knew a long time ago in Brussels, an American who is something in the military. Well, that’s what he says.’
Rosenharte said nothing. He had no idea what she was talking about but understood it was for the benefit of the Stasi.
She glanced left and right. ‘I want to talk to your side directly. I have to make new arrangements.’
He nodded, crossed his hands on the table and looked at the case on the chair next to him. He had packed it in Dresden on the off-chance that he would have to stay over in Leipzig. It had been taken away from him at Leipzig station by Biermeier, then one of his men had handed it back just before he crossed the Wall, saying his clothes had been laundered. There were one or two slight differences in its appearance - the handle had been tampered with, and the plastic trim around the edge of the case seemed new. He had immediately guessed that it had been fitted with a microphone and a transmitter. He waggled his thumb in its direction. She gave him an imperceptible nod.
‘I’m sure they would like to talk to you,’ he said quietly, ‘but we should go somewhere more discreet. I will have to make a call.’
She leaned forward and rested her hand on his. ‘You know I’ve never been to the Tiergarten. They have boats on the canal there, don’t they? We could take a trip, or have a picnic. The weather’s not too bad; at least it’s not raining.’
Rosenharte glanced out of the window at the grey sky and said yes, that would be a splendid idea. Then his eye caught their reflection in the glass ceiling of the Adler and he was struck by how natural they looked. They had managed to close the distance that had been so marked in Trieste.
‘I need to get some cigarettes,’ he said.
She beamed. ‘As a matter of fact I bought you some duty free. Marlboro, right?’ She dug into a shoulder bag and produced a carton of two hundred.
‘Thank God,’ said Rosenharte. ‘I was going a little crazy.’ He tore open a pack and lit up.
‘You know, Rudi, your English seems to get better and better. Your accent is so good. Soon you’ll sound like an Oxford professor.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, feeling the rush of nicotine. ‘Look, why don’t we go to the park and eat in one of the restaurants? It would be more convenient.’
‘No, let’s buy some food and make a picnic. It’ll be easier to talk.’
A few minutes later they left the Adler and stood outside waiting for a cab to come. She put her arm in his and squeezed his bicep with her other hand. A few tourists were taking pictures and looking across into the East with binoculars. Rosenharte stared at Checkpoint Charlie and realized that this little hut made a point: it didn’t recognize the white line painted across Friedrichstrasse as a border. ‘Why Charlie?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Who was Charlie?’
‘Oh come on,’ she said, ‘I thought everyone knew that. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie. This is crossing C.’
They hailed a beige Mercedes cab that was turning to go back down Friedrichstrasse, away from the border. The driver got out and, without asking, took Rosenharte’s bag and put it in the boot.
The moment the car moved off, she snuggled up to Rosenharte and began to feel his chest. ‘Are you wired?’ she mouthed.
‘No, but I think the suitcase is.’
‘Yes, I thought that was what you meant. It won’t pick up anything in the boot.’
Rosenharte darted a look at the driver.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, ‘he’s one of us.’ She leaned forward. ‘Is the radio on, Tudor?’ The man nodded. ‘Bobby, can you hear me?’ she asked.
‘Yes, go ahead,’ came Robert Harland’s voice over the cab radio.
‘We’re going to get some food and then make for the Tiergarten for a picnic. Got any suggestions where?’
‘They won’t like it - it’s too open.’
‘They’ll have to put up with it.’
There was a pause.
‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘Ahead of you,’ he replied. ‘Tudor, drop them to the north of the Neuer See in the Tiergarten. You two can cross to the south by one of the bridges. There’s plenty of cover there. We’ll have Griswald’s people all around. How are you going to make sure they know to approach you there?’
‘They already know. The suitcase has a microphone,’ said Rosenharte.
‘Fine,’ said Harland. ‘But it’s important you keep on demonstrating that you are relative innocents in this business.’
‘I have a number,’ said Rosenharte. ‘A number to call in an emergency.’
‘Right,’ said Harland, ‘so, when Annalise stops to get the food, you find a phone and make that call and tell them she wants to talk. Now, tell me what you’ve got for us, Dr Rosenharte.’
Rosenharte lit another cigarette. ‘I’ve made contact with Kafka and I have important information. But now you must keep your side of the bargain. My brother’s family will be released by this afternoon. I want to hear your proposals for freeing my brother from the hospital wing of the Hohenschönhausen. He’s very sick.’
‘But you want to get Else and the children out of the GDR first, is that right?’
‘Yes. I was allowed to see Konrad for a few minutes this morning.’ He stopped, looked out of the window and prepared to say the thing that he’d barely articulated to himself. ‘If he doesn’t receive the proper medical treatment
soon, it’s going to be too late. I think he will die.’
‘We’ll start working on that right away. But you have to realize that this is a very tall order, Dr Rosenharte. We can get his family out, but your brother is a different matter entirely. We’ll work on this, but now we need to concentrate on the few hours ahead of us. Is that okay?’
Rosenharte said yes, reluctantly.
‘Right, basically Jessie . . . I mean Annalise is going to make a proposal to them and she will hand over certain items today. You will take the more important material back with you tonight or tomorrow. She’s got to do a lot of bullshitting. All you have to do is stay on your toes and we will get through this. Is there anything else we need to discuss?’
Rosenharte noted Harland’s slip. So her name was Jessie. He mouthed ‘Hello Jessie’ to her. She smiled.
‘What’re you going to do if they make a move?’ she asked, a knot in her brow appearing. ‘You saw them at the airport last night. Their intentions were obvious.’
‘We’re going to be there. All the roads from that immediate area in the park will be watched.’
‘But I don’t have a wire. How are you going to know if we’re in trouble?’
‘We’ll have one forward observation post who will never lose sight of you. They’re not going to do anything in such a public place.’
‘I’m glad you’re so confident,’ she said, rubbing at a spot on her suede jacket.
‘Look, you make the delivery and tell them the rest of it’s somewhere else.’
She didn’t look convinced.
‘One other thing,’ said Harland. ‘What about the Arab gentleman? Have you got anything more for us, Rosenharte?’
‘This is for later,’ he said firmly. ‘But I can tell you that the material you have given to my side caused the Minister for State Security to interview me last night. So they are interested. I think they believe in this.’