Brandenburg

by Henry Porter

  ‘Well, I’ve come,’ he said.

  ‘I know. I can see.’

  ‘That’s what you wanted. You sent me a postcard. I would have come sooner, but I’ve had flu and was laid up in Berlin.’

  ‘You must have given it to me. I was in bed for two days.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Is it difficult now? I can always go and find somewhere to eat and come back.’ He grinned, hoping to defuse the tension.

  ‘At this time on a Sunday you won’t find anywhere open.’ She stepped back and looked him up and down. ‘You’ve lost weight. And you have some nice new clothes.’

  He nodded. ‘They were very impressed with the information.’

  She put her hand to her lips. ‘Not now. There are people here. I will introduce you as Peter. You’re a teacher. We’ll talk after they have left.’

  Rosenharte followed her into a neat sitting room which looked like a set for a 1930s film - framed photographs on the wall, two porcelain figurines, a pair of tall brass lamps and a worn-looking walnut veneer desk. Around the sofas and chairs were throws and cushions that established a colour scheme of cream and green flecked with orange. It was all very comfortable. Rosenharte liked the place and felt it displayed an elegance he would not have associated with Ulrike’s rather worthy activities at the church.

  He nodded to the three men who were sitting round a table with cups of tea and a full ashtray in front of them. God, how he knew this scene - the endless circular discussion, the respectful earnestness, the lack of joy or wit. That was another thing the Party was responsible for. People had become so damned boring.

  She introduced him as a friend from Dresden. They nodded. One, an intense sort with a wispy brown beard but no moustache, looked doubtful. ‘Perhaps we should—’ he began, but was cut off by Ulrike.

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I can vouch for him.’

  Rosenharte nodded and placed his rucksack on the ground.

  A younger man wearing a shapeless green jacket buttoned up to the neck removed a pipe from his mouth. ‘But, friends, we have reached the stage when the movement is so large that we should say the same things in public as we do in private.’

  ‘That’s not quite the case,’ said the bearded man, ‘but I agree with the spirit of what you’re saying. Our aim is to take the private deliberations of each individual conscience to the forum of public discourse, yet we must remain conscious of the dangers. There’s still a long way to go.’

  ‘How long?’ asked the younger man.

  ‘Weeks, months, years. I don’t know. But if we continue with this strict policy of peaceful protest, we deprive them of the reason to suppress our demonstrations with violence. What we have to do now is turn the soldiers and policemen that bar our way, and appeal to each man’s conscience. That should be our aim tomorrow - to speak with these people and bring them over to our point of view.’

  The third man, a stout fellow with a mass of untamed grey hair and popping eyes, leaned back in his chair smiling and shaking his head. ‘You don’t understand, Carl. We have reached the critical moment now. We will either be broken this week or we will be made. There were just a few thousand last Monday; we need many more this week to show that we’ve got momentum. We know that the Stasi are among us. Let’s face it, the Stasi may even have a representative around this table. What no one can argue with are the masses. If the people come out tomorrow and demonstrate peacefully, then they will have to find a way of responding.’

  Ulrike turned from the table to where Rosenharte sat on the couch. ‘We’ve learned they are planning to fill the pews of the Nikolaikirche with Party members and their own people. So we all have to get there early. I hope you will come with us?’

  He nodded.

  They talked on for an hour, speculating on the unknowable and arguing over the fine points that separated the democracy movements. Carl and the young man drifted off and they were left with the fellow with wild hair who put out his hand to Rosenharte. ‘Rainer Frankel. It’s good to meet you.’

  ‘Rainer is my ex,’ said Ulrike.

  ‘Husband?’ asked Rosenharte awkwardly.

  Frankel chuckled. ‘No, I didn’t get that far.’

  ‘And how is Katarina?’ Ulrike asked him.

  ‘Well, but we don’t get much sleep.’

  She winked at Rosenharte. ‘He married one of his students and they have just had the baby boy that Rainer always wanted.’

  Rainer nodded good-naturedly. ‘Well, I must be getting along.’ He kissed her on both cheeks and let his hands rest on her shoulders. ‘Be careful tomorrow, Uly. And take something for that infection! You don’t look well. Look after her, Peter.’

  She saw him out and then returned to Rosenharte with an enquiring look. ‘You look as if you need something to eat.’

  He nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Let’s have some wine. Rainer brought me a bottle as a late birthday present, and some bratwurst too. I’ll make us dinner.’ She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and they went into a small, draughty kitchen that was papered with a montage of postcards, recipes and pictures from magazines. Rosenharte opened the bottle of wine, a thick purplish red, and watched her with pleasure. He liked her new hairstyle, which was shorter, with the hair pushed back into a fine, electrified brush. It made her face younger and more dramatic.

  ‘Is it safe to speak here?’

  ‘Yes, Rainer checked the place before our meeting tonight. We meet in a different place each time, and it is Rainer’s duty to de-bug the venue beforehand.’

  ‘They will infiltrate your group, you must know that.’

  ‘They already have. We know who it is. He wasn’t here tonight.’

  ‘Does he find any bugs?’

  ‘All the time. A week ago he discovered two in a colleague’s apartment: in a table lamp and an electrical plug.’

  ‘The younger man, who was he?’

  ‘That’s Hendrik. Hendrik Deubel. He’s just finished a three-month stint in jail. Do you know why?’ She turned to him, wagging a wooden spoon in her hand. ‘Because he carried a picture of Mikhail Gorbachev at the protest against those elections that were fixed by the Party in Berlin back in the spring. He was going to leave the GDR, but we persuaded him to stay and fight.’

  Rosenharte stared at her hard. ‘That’s exactly the kind of person who ends up working for them.’

  ‘I know Hendrik isn’t. Trust me. I know what I’m doing. I know how to survive here. You’ll have to be led by me sometimes, Rudi.’

  He told her about seeing Konrad in prison as she fried up some potato and onions.

  ‘I know people who’ve been in there. They’re never the same. It destroys a basic faith in humanity and makes them see life in a new way. It’s irreversible.’

  They ate in the sitting room, opposite each other with three candles between them. Rosenharte talked about his contacts with the Stasi: Mielke, Zank, Schwarzmeer, Fleischhauer and Biermeier were all defined for her with scientific precision as though he was identifying separate members of a species. Then he came to the point. ‘The result of all this is that I must give your name to the British and Russians.’

  Her eyes flared. ‘No, not my name, Rudi. You give them some other name. Not mine.’

  ‘The British and the CIA are taking your information seriously, which means that they have to know where it’s coming from. They will only help me to free Konrad if they have your name.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘But without knowing the source, they cannot assess the intelligence.’

  ‘You mean they say they don’t know whether to believe it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There were things I told them in July and August that they can check on, things that no one could make up. So they don’t need to know my name, because they already know what I’m saying is true.’

  ‘Then why did you reveal your identity to me?’

  ‘Because I trust your ability to survive, Rudi, though I see that you’re in a v
ery difficult position with your brother.’

  ‘Which you put me in.’

  She flinched. ‘I didn’t know that you had a brother until just before you made contact. That’s true.’

  ‘The moment I started receiving those letters from the British, they arrested Konrad and locked up his family. I’m sorry to lay this at your feet, but there’s no other conclusion to be made. You have to help me out. If I give them a fake name, they will know soon enough. They already have people here who will start checking.’

  She thought about this for a while then asked him for a cigarette.

  ‘I thought you didn’t smoke.’

  She ignored him and puffed the smoke amateurishly from the side of her mouth. He smiled, but she ignored him. ‘If I let you give them my name I will have to leave Leipzig. I need to stay here. This is where our struggle is. This is where we will fight Honecker and the Stasi. Rainer’s right: this is our moment. This is where the struggle between good and evil is taking place.’

  ‘But there is another contest between good and evil and that is the modern one between terrorism and the free society that you yearn to build here. You acknowledge this yourself because you were responsible for telling the West about Abu Jamal.’ She stubbed out the cigarette, shaking her head. ‘And what happens if they start shooting? I was in Normannenstrasse last week. I looked into the eyes of the beast. Mielke will do anything to keep his power. The Party won’t hesitate to follow the Chinese.’

  ‘They can’t do it in the middle of Europe.’

  ‘We might as well be in Albania for all the contact we have with the West. Where are the foreign camera crews? Mielke can do what he likes.’

  She stared at her wine for a while. Minutes passed. Rosenharte got up and stretched, then sat down again and studied her. On the surface she was like so many single women trapped in the country’s grinding bureaucracy, apparently finding their only fulfilment in a church that everyone knew was full of informers. But deep down she was brave and cunning and original. He admired the way she kept herself so hidden.

  ‘The British have a theory that you’re the person assigned to look after the Arab. Is that true?’

  ‘Partly, yes.’ She paused. ‘But I have a collaborator. If I allow you to use my name, I will endanger that person too.’

  ‘But you’re the person who has most contact with Abu Jamal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who gave you that assignment?’

  ‘No one. He picked me. We had some contact two or three years ago. I told you, I speak Arabic and I know some of the places he goes to in the Middle East. I can talk to him. He likes me.’

  ‘And finds you attractive.’

  ‘Naturally, that was part of it. But he’s a very sick man now. His kidney problems may have been cured, but there’s nothing that can be done for his liver - he has cirrhosis from drinking. I believe these attacks he’s planning are his goodbye. The last throw of the dice.’

  ‘When is he due here?’

  ‘After the anniversary. They don’t want him anywhere near the GDR when all the other leaders are here. He will be here from Tuesday - the tenth of October.’

  ‘In the villa?’

  ‘Maybe. I will know by the end of next week.’ She sprang from her chair to scoop up the dishes and plates. ‘Let’s go for a walk. I need some air.’

  ‘I’d better find somewhere to stay,’ he said, looking at his watch then his rucksack.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot. You’re staying here.’

  She shrugged on a blue duffel-coat and from the pocket took a black woolly hat which she pulled down tightly over her ears.

  They walked for about fifteen minutes through the deserted suburbs to the Voelkerschlachtdenkmal - the Battle of Nations memorial marking the defeat of Napoleon at Leipzig - and passed in silence by the oblong reservoir that mirrors the memorial in the daytime. Rosenharte had never seen it before, and was surprised by its scale. In photographs it resembled the stump of an old tree, but now standing directly beneath its vitrified black mass, the memorial reminded him of the core of an extinct volcano.

  ‘It was built in 1913,’ Ulrike said, ‘a year before the First World War, to commemorate the victory of a century before against Napoleon. There’s a kind of dire eloquence about it, don’t you think? They had death on their minds, those people. All the disasters of twentieth-century German history are written in this stone.’ She stopped and looked at him. Her eyes were watering in the cold. ‘Is this your Germany, Rudi?’

  ‘No.’ He looked into the shadow of her face. ‘This is not my Germany, nor my brother’s.’

  ‘Are you sure this fatalism has not become part of your soul?’

  He could feel her gaze in the dark waiting for his response. ‘What a question. I think I’ll need time to think about it.’

  ‘People know one way or the other. Tell me which way it is with you.’

  ‘No, I’m not prepared to give a glib answer just to please you.’ He paused and looked up at the monument. ‘You’d find it difficult if I started asking you searching questions about your religion.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said, suddenly taking off down the steps. ‘Ask me anything you like.’

  ‘When did you become a believer?’

  She stopped and called back, ‘When I realized I always had been.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that it was always in me, but that I didn’t know it.’

  ‘You make it sound like diabetes.’

  ‘That’s beneath you,’ she said. ‘It’s simple. I always believed, but didn’t exactly know what I believed in. Then last year I started going to church because of the peace movement and I began to feel better - happier, more coherent. But it is no big thing.’

  ‘In some ways I envy you,’ he said.

  They walked back to the house through mounds of damp leaves in untroubled silence. There she gave him mint tea and showed him to a bed that lay behind a thick green curtain in the passageway between the sitting room and her bedroom. At either end of the narrow iron bed were bookshelves crammed with paperbacks in Arabic, French and German. He glanced over their titles, hardly able to keep his eyes open. Within a minute or two of her leaving he had washed, undressed and was falling asleep to the sound of branches scratching at a window somewhere.

  He woke at four to find Ulrike had curled into the contours of his body with one leg lying over his, apparently asleep. Her hair touched his cheek and he smelt her quiet, soft scent. For an hour or so he remained awake, feeling her breath on his neck. At some stage she got under the covers and cuddled up to him, but only for a short time. Then, without warning, she hopped from the bed. As her feet touched the ground, tiny snakes of static swarmed inside her nylon shift so that her entire body was revealed in silhouette beneath the material. For a split second before the lights died, her chin and neck were illuminated by the glow. She giggled, then bent down and kissed him on the forehead before leaving for her own bed.

  20

  The Nikolaikirche

  Lone middle-aged men arriving early at the Nikolaikirche, dressed better than the average citizen, were treated wearily by the two young helpers at the main entrance. ‘Welcome,’ said one with a sparse little beard and a gift for quick appraisal. ‘First time? Yes . . . good. We’re pleased to have you with us. Sit anywhere you like.’

  Rosenharte went to the upper of two galleries that surrounded the church and chose a place in the front row so he would have a clear view of the congregation and the altar where the service would be conducted. He leaned over the edge and looked down on the men scattered around the pews, all of them studiously ignoring each other, then buried himself in a copy of the prayer book and read contentedly, recalling his long hours in a small Catholic church beside Marie Theresa.

  By five the church was filling. A woman with a shopping bag and a harassed air bustled past him, explaining that there would be a rush at any moment because a crowd from Dresden had just been allo
wed to leave the station. The Vopos were herding them like cattle through Karl-Marx-Platz. Some had already been arrested and taken away. As he listened, his gaze skated across the church, noting the youth of the congregation and the hope on people’s faces. A gentle, nervous hubbub rose from the main body of the church, then someone switched on a light, which played across the surface of the six fluted columns and the plaster palm fronds that sprouted from their capitals.

  In his mind he ran over the brief conversation he’d had with Harland early that morning on a phone in the institute where Ulrike worked. Harland told him that he planned to move Konrad’s family to the Czech border early on Wednesday.

  ‘I’ll meet your representative at the place we agreed before,’ Rosenharte said.

  ‘Can you give us the name?’ Harland asked.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Rosenharte without a qualm. ‘Everything is in order. I have a new means of taking delivery of the Berlin package next week.’

  Harland seemed to understand what this meant and he had hung up without saying any more.

  A few moments before the service began, he saw Ulrike appear with two young men and pick her way through the people sitting cross-legged in the main aisle to a place at the front.

  Then the pastor, a man named Christian Führer, walked to the altar table and a hush fell on the congregation. He introduced himself and explained that the service took the form of prayers, followed by an open discussion on matters that were relevant to the themes of peace and freedom. At this, the Party hacks - easily distinguished by their age and more conservative dress - shifted in the pews and stared about sullenly.

  Someone began to read from St Matthew: ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven . . . Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.’