Berlin Centre

by Max Hertzberg

  “You look a little lost? May I see your papers?” he continued in his graciously superior way.

  And that was my problem. Sure, I had papers: I had a forged West German Ausweis and a counterfeit West German driving licence and a sheaf of other official-looking pieces of paper in my jacket pockets. All were pretty realistic, all were in the made-up name of Benjamin Dorn.

  What Benjamin Dorn didn’t have was a visa for entry into the GDR, nor a stamp to confirm he’d reported to the local police station immediately on arrival, as all citizens of non-socialist countries are obliged to do when they visit us.

  Benjamin Dorn was in trouble.

  Funnily enough, my training never included anything on the subject of what a Stasi operative should do when copped in the homeland without valid identification. Usually, we’ve got papers for every occasion, under normal circumstances, I’d whip out some high-status ID card and I’d put this policeman in his place.

  Not today.

  I was still scratching my head—did I mention I was a bit tired?—when the policeman decided it was time to get shirty with me. “Your papers!”

  It was all in the tone of voice. The way he’d said it—arrogant, authoritative—that was familiar. I can do that. In fact, that’s what I’m best at.

  I leaned forwards and injected so much contempt into my voice that I nearly had to sit down afterwards. “Second Lieutenant Reim of the MfS, based at Berlin Centre. Take me to the nearest police station immediately.”

  It did the trick. I got another salute and a respectful Follow me, Comrade, and he led the way, marching along as if he were at the head of his own personal platoon of the Feliks Dzierzynski Guards.

  He didn’t take me to a cop-shop, but to a bare and windowless room on the ground floor of the cultural centre.

  “Gorndorf ABV facility,” he announced proudly, standing at the door of the office used for receiving local citizens when they wanted to gossip about neighbours and workmates.

  It was poky, barely enough room for the empty desk and a couple of ancient chairs. But I’m not fussy, there was a phone and a door I could shut, I didn’t need much else.

  Ordering the beat officer to wait outside and make sure I wasn’t interrupted (always a good move: give petty officials a task and they’ll stay out of your way), I checked the dialling code from here to Berlin and picked up the receiver.

  “Officer of the Day, ZAIG,” said the voice at the end of the line.

  “Second Lieutenant Reim here. Urgent for Comrade Major Kühn, Section II—I’ll wait.”

  And wait I did. And while I hung around, receiver pressed to my ear, I began to have doubts about phoning Kühn. Too much time for thinking, never a good thing. My head was reminding me that superior officers rarely, if ever, appreciated being disturbed, and that’s why, when the connection snapped and died, I wasn’t annoyed, but actually a bit relieved.

  I was about to replace the receiver when it crackled into life again, and the voice of Comrade Ehrlich, Major Kühn’s secretary, came down the line.

  With some reluctance she put me through to the major, but not without first making me wait a further five minutes.

  “Kühn speaking.” Finally, there he was.

  I filled him in on the situation, that I’d returned to the East and was in a conspirational building near Gorndorf in Saalfeld with an unnamed first lieutenant who was keen to debrief me.

  “Sit tight, say nothing,” the major said. “Give Comrade Ehrlich the address.” And with another click and a buzz, I was transferred back to the secretary.

  Assuming sit tight meant I should return to the hunting lodge, I left the policeman’s cubby hole and informed him that his assistance was no longer required. I made the mistake of offering a handshake and he blew up with pride, his face turning red with the excitement of having the opportunity to help the Ministry. Finally managing to extricate my hand, I left him stalking around the housing estate, looking for children to intimidate and moped-drivers to check the paperwork of.

  By the time I got to the bottom of the lane that led to the lodge, I realized I’d have to give up any thoughts of creeping back in through the bathroom window. Actually I was having second thoughts about the whole returning to the lodge and sitting tight idea—the sentry post at the gates, previously unmanned, now housed not one, but two goons who were developing a serious interest in my approach.

  It was when they left their little cabin and spread out to meet me on different trajectories that my second thoughts solidified into action. But I didn’t get far, less than a hundred metres down the lane a Lada appeared, and another couple of goons jumped out, blocking my escape route.

  37

  Hunting Lodge, Saalfeld

  Once they were sure they had the right man, they hustled me indoors, a goon in front, a goon behind and one on either side of me—they really didn’t want to take any chances.

  I kept my mouth shut, and at least they were polite enough not to give me any of that tough-talk bullshit that heavies are liable to.

  We got to my room and they shoved me in, the door shut and locked from the outside. Looked like I was going to be sitting tight, after all.

  I was doing the maths in my head: if Major Kühn was as good as his word and was already pulling the necessary levers then someone from the Ministry’s district administration in Gera could be here within a couple of hours. Orders brought directly from Berlin Centre would need about twice that time.

  But if Kühn was sitting in his comfy office, smoking a Cuban cigar and pondering the best course of action, deciding how to gain an advantage over whichever department was holding me, then I wouldn’t hear from him until tomorrow at the earliest.

  I did the maths, then added it all up once again but still came to the same answer. Best case, I’d be out of here by this evening.

  I stared at my watch for a bit, looked out the window for a while, and with nothing else to do, I went to sleep.

  I woke to the sound of a Wartburg engine and, transferring myself from bed to window before I’d even had a chance to rub my eyes, I was in time to see the flunky get out of the car and go to the front door. That brought the total to five men in the building, not including myself and First Lieutenant Jobsworth downstairs.

  I smoked my last Western cigarette and, not seeing what I could do about the worsening odds, made the decision to continue trusting that Kühn was still interested in both me and my mission.

  The next time I woke, it was because of a key scratching in the lock. The flunky came in, stood at attention just inside the room and informed me that the first lieutenant requested I pack my things and get myself ready to ship out.

  I lay back on the bed and crossed my feet.

  “You got a cigarette?” I asked, as casually as I knew how.

  It’s not like I was expecting him to smile and pull a packet of f6 from his pocket, but I wasn’t in the mood to start packing.

  Flunky remained at attention, watching me out of the corner of his eye and plucking at the seam of his trousers.

  “Tell me something: I saw you carrying a dispatch bag when you returned from Gera; did it, by any chance, happen to contain orders from Berlin?”

  Instead of answering, the Flunky repeated his message, the one about me needing to get ready for a move to a more secret and secure location.

  “Tell the Comrade First Lieutenant that I’ll pack my toothbrush once he’s told me where he’s moving me and under what authority he is doing so.” I put my head back on the pillow and did my best to ignore my visitor.

  It was a relief when he gave up and left—the draught from the open door was giving me a stiff neck.

  The next visit wasn’t so friendly, but I was prepared. After disappointing the flunky I’d searched the room, looking for something I could use to defend myself with. Since I could find none of the usual weapons, I’d no choice but to break the leg off the wooden chair.

  They tried to surprise me, but I was waiting for them. I may have
been dozing, but I had the chair leg in my right hand, and I had one ear open—listening out for the squeak of loose floorboards on the corridor outside. When the squeal came, I swung my feet off the bed and shook my head to clear the sleep out of it.

  By the time the lock scraped open and the handle turned, I was in position. I did my favourite trick—it’s surprisingly effective—I waited for the first person to come through the door, leaving enough space for the second to start coming in. You don’t need me to tell you what I did with the chair leg, and you probably won’t want to hear about how I used the edge of the door as a fulcrum to lever the second man’s arm until it cracked.

  The third bloke now had two bodies to climb over, one shouting in pain, the other prostate and just generally lying in the way. There was a fourth goon, I could hear him shouting in the corridor, out of sight. Four of them against little old me, and there wasn’t much they could do. They couldn’t both fit through the door at the same time, not without trampling their friend who was griping on the floor about his broken arm, and that made it hard for them to rush me.

  I stood there, legs bent to lower my centre of gravity, swinging the chair leg and looking menacing. Nothing much about this situation was going to change soon, not unless one of the goons got round to remembering their guns.

  Judging by the narrowness of their brows, that might take a while.

  38

  Hunting Lodge, Saalfeld

  There was only so long I could keep the Thuringian stand-off going. I had two angry goons ready to thrash me, and two injured on the floor by my feet. The first one was beginning to show signs of waking up, the other was still groaning and calling for his mama. Sooner or later, he’d realise his arm was broken, not his legs, and he’d wander off, leaving space for the others to come at me. I didn’t enjoy seeing his ugly coupon but I still preferred him on the floor, where I could keep an eye on him.

  I took another swipe at the two goons in the doorway, the chair leg didn’t connect with either of them, but that wasn’t the point. I just didn’t want them getting any clever ideas.

  Except we’d been in this holding pattern for so long that they were starting to get ideas. One of them stepped forward, leaned over the body of his screaming colleague and flicked his truncheon at me. He wasn’t trying to hit me, just wanted me to keep my distance—same tactic I’d been using. His baton was longer than my chair leg so he had the tactical advantage. If I wanted to avoid being hit, there was little I could do except fall back a pace or two every time he came at me.

  He kept waving his truncheon, forcing me back until his buddy could get close enough to pull the heavy with the broken arm out of the way. The wails of pain were nearly as distracting as the truncheon swishing past my ears but the way through the door was now clear. The guy I’d hit over the head was still lying there, unfortunately he was far enough inside the room that he wasn’t blocking the doorway.

  The goon coming at me wasn’t as stupid as I’d thought he was—he anticipated the same move as before, the one where I slammed the door in his face, which is why he braced his boot against the bottom of the door, preventing me from swinging it into him. But stretching out to block the door wasn’t his wisest move, it put him off balance and when I gave him a hard shove in the chest with the end of the chair leg he windmilled backwards into his colleague’s arms.

  I hooted as I slammed the door shut, then grabbed the broken chair and jammed it under the handle. That’d keep them out of the way for a couple of minutes.

  I crossed the narrow room in two strides and pulled open the window. I’d already checked this out, it wasn’t the best escape route ever, but it was the only one I had.

  I ignored the way the door was shivering under the impact of blows and shouts from the other side and threw one leg over the window sill. Gripping the frame and bringing my other leg over the ledge, I did exactly what you shouldn’t do in situations like this.

  I looked down.

  And I froze.

  I didn’t freeze because of vertigo or anything like that. I stopped because I could see a Skoda coming up the drive.

  Just what I needed—more goons wanting to join the fun.

  The car stopped by the door and, instead of a handful of mindless thugs from the Ministry, it was Holger who stepped out of the beige Skoda. He was wearing his grey, everyday MfS uniform, complete with medal ribbons, and he stood there straightening the seams of his trousers and shooting his cuffs.

  “Holger! Get your arse up here!”

  I didn’t see how Holger reacted to the sight of me hanging out of the window. Before he’d had much of a chance to enjoy the view, the goons had broken down the door and I had the pleasure of joining their unconscious colleague on the floor.

  39

  Briesen

  When I came to, I was lying on the back seat of a car going down a motorway. I could tell we were on the motorway because of the rhythmic tock-tock of the wheels as we drove over the expansion joints of the concrete surface. If I wanted to know more than that, I’d have to open my eyes and sit up.

  I gave it a go, but it turned out to be a bad idea and I sank back down. My head felt like a T-72 panzer had driven over it.

  I tried again. More slowly this time. I got my eyes open far enough to see the back of Holger’s head, he was in the driving seat directly in front of me.

  Reassured, I close my eyes and concentrated on not puking.

  The second time I woke up, it felt like somebody had taken my head off for reconditioning and not bothered screwing it back on properly. It was dark, so opening my eyes no longer meant exposing them to the grey winter sun, although I had to make sure not to look at the glow of headlamps from oncoming vehicles.

  “What’s the score?” I mumbled over the rattling wheels.

  “There you are. Was wondering when you’d join us again.” Holger was being jolly. I’d never liked it and right now I liked it less than usual. What I did like was the packet of cigarettes and the matchbox he held out for me, his arm bent back so I could reach the offering between the front seats.

  “Tone it down a notch, will you?” I took a cigarette and lit it, ignoring the nausea caused by the movement. “And give it me, words of one syllable or less.”

  “You’ve been out of it for a while.”

  He was telling me things I’d already worked out, and since thinking and listening made my head swell, I wished he’d just get to the point.

  “I got there just in time, they were really laying into you. Why do you always have to piss people off so much?”

  “Something about being locked up. Brings back bad memories,” I answered, trying to sit up in the back seat. I got there in the end, wound the window down and flicked the cigarette out into the night. It had just made me feel worse. I wound the window back up, decided the whole experiment had been a mistake and lay back down again.

  “Take it easy, Reim. We’ll be there soon.”

  Be there soon turned out to be three more hours of motorway and another ten or fifteen minutes nosing through solid woodland, down a track made of the same kind of perforated concrete slabs used for patrol roads along the western border. We were driving slowly, but still we had to stop to allow me to vomit, and after that I walked, unable to face the idea of getting back in the juddering car. Holger drove behind me, the Skoda’s headlamps lit the way.

  On the whole, the walking did me good, I didn’t feel so nauseous any more, although the cold air settled around my head like a clamp.

  We rounded a corner to find our way barred by a soldier standing in front of a red and white boom. He was wearing winter field uniform, the white piping on his epaulettes indicating motor rifle troops. All very interesting, but I was in no state to guess whether he really was army, or one of ours in disguise.

  I stood there, looking at him, and he stood there looking at me, his Kaschi slung over his shoulder. Of the two of us, he was definitely the most unsure—I didn’t have any energy to waste on that kind of th
ing.

  He remembered his role the moment Holger got out of the car, coming to attention at the sight of my friend’s grey uniform jacket.

  Holger flicked his clapperboard at the sentry and got back in as the boom rose, allowing us to continue through the chain link perimeter fence and around another sharp curve.

  The next gate was set into a high wall, part of which was made up by the backs of low buildings. A lonely light acted as beacon, pulling us in towards the second checkpoint. Holger dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled the clapperboard again.

  Once past the second sentry, he parked the car in a courtyard made up on three sides by single-storey outhouses and accommodation blocks, on the far side stood an old forestry building. I’d never been here, but it looked familiar—as if I’d seen pictures of it, or someone had once described it to me. I waited by the car door, and when Holger got out I leant in to whisper:

  “Is this Building 74?”

  “This is where they held Bruno, yes.”

  40

  Building 74

  Sick bay

  If it had been up to me, I would have gone straight to bed but they made me report to the sick bay first. The guy in the white coat with the stethoscope around his neck did the whole thing with torches in the eyes, checks behind the ears and asking pointlessly searching questions. I wasn’t so out of it that I couldn’t read the notes he made: concussion, post-traumatic amnesia, subconjunctival haemorrhage, fractured ribs and all the other things I could have told him myself if he’d bothered to ask.

  In the end he did what they always do: gave me a bottle of paracetamol and told me to come back the next day. I took three of the red and white capsules before I got off the examination couch, then made it to the door under my own steam. Doc was too busy writing up his notes to say goodbye or wish me a speedy recovery, but I knew not to expect any niceties.