I turned back to my book, wondering what type of dog Merkur thought I might be.
35
Inter-zonal train
Over an hour had passed since Merkur gave me his spiel about the dogs; we’d left Bad Kleinen behind, were nearly at the border. There I’d take my leave of Merkur and make my way back to Berlin. Write that report, forget about Merkur and his dog stories, let Anna disappear into the gaps between the files. Return to a life behind a desk.
But even if my book had interested me, I doubt I could have concentrated—I still had questions. I put the book down.
“You said you went to Heiligendamm as a child?”
Merkur didn’t answer, the window had his attention again. Outside it was as light as it was likely to get. Another dull day, heavy clouds moving inland on an arctic wind.
“Did I? You must have misheard, I said when Arnold was a child.”
“That makes a bit more sense. You see, I’ve spoken to a few people, found out a little of the history of Heiligendamm. Until 1939 it was an exclusive resort for rich people, not the kind of place a worker’s family would go for a holiday.”
Merkur was no longer gazing out of the window, he was looking at me. Not staring—his face was politely pointed in my direction, as if we were having an everyday conversation in his local bar.
“So you were what, seven years old in 1939? A child,” I continued, keeping my tone conversational, even nodding a little, as if a little puzzled by what I was saying. “The last time anyone went to Heiligendamm for a holiday was in 1939. After that came the war, then liberation and rebuilding the country. The next time anyone had a holiday at Heiligendamm was spring 1950. By then you were eighteen and married. No longer a child.”
I fished out a nail, offered the pack to Merkur, but he waved them away. Cigarettes are a boon to an interrogator—you can regulate the flow of conversation with a cigarette. It was time for a short break, give Merkur a chance to think about what I’d just said, and playing around with a pack of cigarettes is the best excuse I’ve come across.
“I’m glad we cleared that misunderstanding up, that it was your son you took on holiday, it was his holiday you spent on the coast. I wonder whether you had a nice time? You and the wife and little Arnold? Going by the look on your face the other day, I’d say you have fond memories of the place. Miles away, you were. Remembering summer days at the beach.”
Merkur was no longer playing along. He leaned his head against the headrest, eyes half closed.
“But of course, you left the GDR before Arnold was born—he was born and grew up in the West.” Another puff or two on the nail, blow smoke in Merkur’s direction. “For the sake of argument—just out of interest—let’s say the authorities allowed you and Mrs Seiffert and little Master Arnold into the country. A nice wee holiday by the sea. Let’s pretend, just for a moment, that it happened.”
I stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray fastened to the wall of the compartment, all the while staring at Merkur. He had shifted position slightly, head back, eyes half shut. But there was no nervous tic, no tapping of foot or finger.
“You see, Herr Seiffert,” I made a meal of pronouncing his name, stretching the double-F and rolling the R. “After 1950, there were three classes of families invited to spend their holidays at Heiligendamm. Number 1: workers at the Ministry for Culture of the German Democratic Republic.” I held my index finger up, not that Merkur was looking. “Number 2: workers at the Culture Ministry of that fraternal socialist state, the Czechoslovakian Socialist Republic.” Another finger held up. “And finally, little kids from our very own, home-grown minority group: the Sorbs. Are you a Sorb? Grew up in the Spreewald did you? Or maybe in the Lusatian hills? Because you don’t have the right accent for either of those places. Quite impressive—not a trace of an accent left.”
I knocked the lid of the ashtray. It gave a satisfying crack as it snapped shut.
“What do I call you, then? Because I know you’re not Werner Seiffert.”
It was obvious I wasn’t going to get an answer out of Merkur, I was just letting off steam before some valve in my head blew.
Even if I was right and Merkur wasn’t the father of Source Bruno, he wouldn’t admit to it now. Another ten minutes and we’d be at Border Crossing Point Herrnburg. I’d leave the train, he’d show the Passport Control Unit his West German passport and his cancelled visa and forty minutes after it rolled into the station, the train would start up again, pick up speed as it passed floodlamps, fences and watchtowers and just a few kilometres later, enter Lübeck station, over in the West. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut for less than an hour and he’d be safely home.
Convinced that Merkur wasn’t going to say another word, I turned back to my book. But my ward had other ideas.
“You’re right—I’m not Werner Seiffert. Arnold wasn’t my son, he worked for me. I was his superior.”
I stared at that same sentence in the book while my brain caught up with my ears. It was one thing to work out that I wasn’t dealing with a working class postman from Osnabrück, but I hadn’t conceived of the possibility that I was sharing a compartment with a senior officer in a West German police agency.
Book still open on my lap, I checked my watch. Ten minutes before we reached Herrnburg. Ten minutes to decide what to do with the class enemy sitting opposite. Do I give him a pat on the back and send him on his way to the West, pretend this conversation never happened? Or keep hold of him until I received further orders from Major Kühn?
Problem was, it was Saturday morning. Kühn and all the other brass would be at their weekend Datschen, playing happy families with their wives and kids—it could take me until Monday morning to get hold of anyone willing to retroactively authorise the detention of Merkur.
The Westler seemed to understand my difficulty, after all, it wasn’t that hard to work out. But this man knew which buttons to press, and he pressed them now:
“Do you want to know why I’ve been asking about Gisela Bauer? Because the night Arnold died, her whole group was arrested—she was the only one to get away.”
36
GÜST Herrnburg
I swallowed Merkur’s bait, how could I not? How else would I find out what he knew about Sanderling?
Unlocking the compartment door, I looked along the train corridor until I spotted Lütten and gestured for him to come closer.
“Change of plan, we’re taking the subject off the train. You look after him while I deal with PKE.”
When the train squealed to a halt at Herrnburg station, and the Pass and Control Unit took up position, I opened the carriage door.
Ignoring the shouts to get back on the train, I waved my clapperboard at the small knot of armed operatives that had appeared around me. They calmed down when they saw what I had in my hand, but still hung about, practising how to look menacing while fingering the straps of their machine pistols.
“Detain this person, these other men are with me.” I waited for the nearest NCO to salute, then: “And I wish to speak to your CO.”
The NCO turned to run along the platform to the office where the Head of PKE must have been hanging out. He came back at the double, saluted again and requested I follow.
“Stay with the subject, make sure he’s comfortable,” I instructed Lütten, then followed the Uffzi along the platform as the train doors slammed open and the Passport Control Unit and customs climbed aboard.
Herrnburg is a nowhere town with a station to match, the kind of place no self-respecting train would bother stopping at if it weren’t for the border just beyond the end of the platform. Points, signals and extra tracks had been added over the years, along with all the observation bridges, watchtowers, walls, fences and lights that are usual on our Western frontier.
The NCO ushered me into the presence of a major. I saluted, informed him I was from Berlin and that I had detained a passenger and would be taking him back to the capital. The officer nodded absently and continued shuffl
ing the paperwork for the train around his desk.
“Request the use of your phone, Comrade Major?”
Another vague nod from the officer, I lifted the receiver and dialled the number for ZAIG at Berlin Centre.
“Unterleutnant Reim, phoning from the office of the Head of PKE, Border Crossing Point Herrnburg,” I told the duty NCO at the other end of the line. “Message for head of Section II begins: subject detained pursuant new operational information. Request further orders. Contact via District Rostock, Department II. Ends.”
I stood to attention and thanked the major, but he wasn’t looking.
“Make sure to take down the comrade’s details, those of the detainee, too,” he told the Unteroffizier, who was still by the door.
We left the office, boots crumping through compacted snow. On the train I could see PKE and customs move from compartment to compartment, a brief salute to the passengers inside, then the brusque demand for papers.
The NCO took me to a door in the station building. A corporal behind a desk, in the corner, a pot-bellied stove that belched out smoke and heat in equal measure, and a private standing in front of a closed door. Lütten and his man filled the remaining space in the small office.
“Is the detainee in there?” I asked the corporal, who had stood up to acknowledge my presence.
“Comrade Second Lieutenant,” said the sergeant behind me, “if you’ll permit?”
I handed him my clapperboard, and he took it to the table, copied out my name, rank and ID card number before asking the corporal if he had the detainee’s paperwork. He made a note of Merkur’s details, and I didn’t bother telling them that they were false, that we weren’t dealing with Werner Seiffert but an unidentified officer of the West German security organs.
Formalities over, I had a question for my colleagues: “When’s the next train out of here?”
“The train for Wismar is due to depart from the other platform, Comrade Unterleutnant.”
37
GÜST Herrnburg
Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinski, the first Chekist, was clearly in whatever place Bolsheviks go after they’ve ended their material revolution—and he was looking down on our efforts that day. Either that, or the planners at the Deutsche Reichsbahn had broken the habit of a lifetime and timetabled a connection that worked for the passengers.
I didn’t have anything against Herrnburg, nor against the languid Head of the Passport Control Unit there, but I was pleased that we didn’t have to wait long for our train. Right now I had enough logistical problems to solve without spending half a day on a freezing platform that wasn’t only within sight of the border, but also within reach of a telephone that connected to Berlin Centre.
But first things first—get the subject and the rest of our party on that train out of Herrnburg. It was a stopping train, with an open-plan saloon layout, so I remained with Merkur at the back of the last carriage until Lütten and the heavyweight had scared off the other passengers. The final pair, an old married couple, put on a big show of having to move, in the end the goon carried their bags into the next carriage while they leaned on their walking sticks and grumbled.
Once we had the carriage to ourselves, I told Merkur to sit in one of the middle seats and locked the connecting door. But before I could take my own seat and relax, I had to deal with Lütten—I didn’t owe him an explanation for my actions, but he seemed to expect one. And I wasn’t going to tell him what my plans were because I didn’t have any, leastways, not yet.
So I took him to the end of the carriage, out of sight of the others and did my best to pacify him: “It’s the weekend, it’ll take them a while to get hold of my superior officer,” I explained. “Until I receive further orders, our primary task is to remove the subject from the security zone along the border. After that, we’ll need to find a suitable place for his detention.” Lütten nodded along, as if he had any say in the matter.
The best way to calm a nervous subject or operative is to give them a task: “Comrade Lütten, we need a konspirative Wohnung. Do you have access to such a safe house?”
Lütten turned his mind to dealing with his new duty and I lit a cigarette while his brain shifted into gear. The train was already slowing for the next stop, and I watched with satisfaction as Lütten’s goon positioned himself by the doors at the centre of the carriage to prevent any passengers boarding.
“Bad Doberan,” Lütten announced once we’d got moving again. “There’s a number of KWs in that town, they don’t get much use. I can call ahead and check when we change at Bad Kleinen.”
Bad Doberan sounded good to me—close to Rostock, but not in the city itself, far enough from both Merkur’s stomping grounds around Warnemünde and the Ministry’s District Administration.
Nevertheless, I wanted to limit the number of people who knew we still had hold of Merkur. Even the discreet booking of a safe house without mention of the subject might spark interest at the county office—if our breed is good at anything, it’s officiousness and inquisitiveness.
“Don’t phone ahead, we’ll take our chances. Do you know where they keep the keys?”
Lütten nodded, but he was already thinking again. “What about transport? The four of us can’t traipse around Doberan, looking for an available KW.”
The Rostocker had a point. “OK, phone when we change trains at Bad Kleinen, ask for a vehicle to be left at the station. But don’t mention that we need a KW or that we’re detaining a subject.”
A Moskvitch stood outside Bad Doberan station, the keys waiting for us on the front tire. We got Merkur into the back seat without arousing too much interest from the locals—a couple of babushkas on the platform had themselves a good stare at the strangers, but they soon went back to comparing the contents of their shopping bags.
With everyone arranged—Merkur in the back, sandwiched between the goon and myself, Lütten driving—we set off, reaching our first destination within a couple of minutes: Schillerstrasse.
Lütten slowly drove past the large villa: no vehicle on the drive, garage doors closed. The curtains were open, the rooms beyond unlit—if anyone had been home on a dreich day like today, there would have been a light burning in at least one of the windows.
“Prager, take a closer look while we drive around the block. If the place is empty, get the key and open up the garage.”
The goon let himself out and walked up the path to the front door as we drove off, wheels slipping in pockets of ice on the cobbled road. By the time we’d done a few left turns and were passing the villa again, the garage stood open. Lütten steered us in and Prager closed the doors behind us.
Another door led from the garage to the main house. I went first, taking in the shadowy corridors and rooms, the chipped and gouged marquetry on the stained wood panelling. Art Nouveau chandeliers hung from the ceilings, branches twisted and dusty, bulbs missing.
We put Merkur in an upstairs room with barred windows and a heavy door. He had been entirely passive during the journey from Herrnburg, smoking cigarettes from his silver case and remaining silent unless directly addressed. Now he spoke up:
“I should like to eat something, I had to go without breakfast this morning.”
He wasn’t the only one who could do with some food, but it was Saturday afternoon and the shops had already shut. We’d all have to make do with whatever we could find in the kitchen.
Lütten sent the goon Prager back to Rostock but agreed to stay with us at the house in Schillerstrasse. He spent half an hour coaxing the coal powered central heating into life while I raided the kitchen cupboards. Dusty boxes of Tempo dried peas, Kuko parboiled rice and a few packets of instant soup were the most edible findings, and I started work on something I hoped could pass for a meal, or at least put some bulk in our bellies.
“What’s this?” Merkur lifted a spoonful of reddish gloop, allowing lumps of rehydrated pea to dribble back into his bowl.
By way of seasoning, we had the choice between a jar of
tomato ketchup from which I’d scraped a skin of mould, and a bottle of Bino sauce. Merkur read the labels carefully, his face betraying not only his scepticism, but his hunger. He put both the ketchup and the Bino back on the table and lifted the spoon again. This time it made it as far as his mouth.
The pair of us sat in the dining room, accompanied by the ticking and the gurgle of the ancient heating as it creaked into life. For a while, Lütten had observed my attempts at cooking then decided to leave, putting his faith in his ability to forage some edibles in this small county town.
“Anything to drink?” my charge asked hopefully once he’d swallowed his first mouthful.
“There’s some instant rosehip tea in the cupboard.” But our situation wasn’t quite as bad as all that—an investigation of the cellars revealed a couple of wooden crates of Rostocker beer. I brought one of the dusty crates up to the kitchen and Merkur rinsed out a couple of glasses.
“Prosit!” we clinked glasses and turned back to the soup.
“I’ve had worse,” Merkur said after he’d finished. He patted his belly and poured more beer into his glass. I waited for some qualification, some remark about rations during military service or the hunger winter of 1947, but nothing came. As insults go, it was mild.
“What say you and I have that conversation?” he asked after another sip of beer.
I lit a cigarette and leaned back in my chair. Protocol was clear, I should make further efforts to contact my superior, and failing that, hand Merkur over to IX, either the Main Department in Berlin, or the local boys in Rostock. They were responsible for the remand and interrogation of detainees, they were the ones Merkur should be having a conversation with.
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