As I walk home, I feel a mixture of grief for Hans but also hope for the future. I keep trying to imagine how long the tunnel is and what it will be like crawling through it. When I reach our building I check the post box in the entrance hall. I haven’t heard from Harry for a while. I’m excited when I see a white envelope just visible in the slot at the top.
I open the post box and take out the envelope. It’s from Harry all right. I’d recognise that handwriting anywhere by now. I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I don’t hear the footsteps until they are right behind me. I turn with a start to find Frau Lange close by. She is peering with undisguised interest at the envelope in my hand. I clutch it to my chest so she can’t see the handwriting on it.
“Guten Tag, Frau Lange,” I say. My voice sounds strained.
She makes a pretence of peering into her own post box.
“Guten Tag,” she says as she walks past me, still staring at the letter in my trembling hand.
Dieter
By the afternoon, Andreas and Rolf are going great guns at the tunnel face. Werner calls me and Claudia over for an update meeting.
“It’s nearly time to start digging up to the surface,” says Werner. “The horizontal tunnel is now almost one hundred and ten metres long. If we dig for another couple of metres, then dig upwards at a thirty degree angle we should emerge in the basement of number seventeen Schönholzer Strasse.”
Werner seems confident, but I just hope his maths is right. The last thing we need after all this digging is to miss our target. I think back to geometry lessons in school where the worst that could happen, if you miscalculated an angle, was a cross in red ink. There were never any life and death consequences. If we get this wrong we could find ourselves tunnelling up under the feet of an East German border guard.
“Rolf is doing a great job,” says Claudia. “We wouldn’t have made such good progress today without him.”
Although it pains me to admit it, Rolf does appear to have been a godsend to the team. He shifted a tonne of earth this morning and is handy at shoring up the sides and roof as he goes. He spent the lunch break telling us about his girlfriend in East Berlin and how much he misses her. I thought he might be tired after the hours he put in this morning, but he was keener than anyone to get back to work.
After months of digging, every pair of trousers I have with me is ripped so I think, with Rolf on board, this is a good opportunity to go back to Kreuzberg and pick up some more clothes. I tell Werner and Claudia I won’t be long, then I slip out and head back to the apartment I used to share with Bernd and where I left most of my stuff.
It feels strange being back in Kreuzberg after months of being holed up in the bakery and most of that time underground in a narrow tunnel. The streets are bustling with people going about their daily business but I find myself wondering what’s going on under their feet. I’m sure we can’t be the only people digging a tunnel.
I reach the apartment and let myself in. It must be Bernd’s day off because he’s in the kitchen making breakfast. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. He’s still in his pyjamas.
“Hey, Dieter,” he says, looking up from a table strewn with unwashed plates and dishes. “How are things?”
“Great, thanks,” I say, wondering how I could have shared an apartment with such a slob. “And you? Still busy at the hotel?”
He nods his head. “Same as ever. Herr Pohl is still trying to recruit more staff to replace the ones we lost from East Berlin. Want a coffee?”
I look at the pile of unwashed mugs by the sink. “No thanks. I just came to pick up a few things.” I head towards my old room.
Bernd follows me and stands in the doorway munching on a bread roll whilst I rummage in my wardrobe, pulling out old pairs of jeans.
Bernd mumbles something but his mouth is so full of bread I can’t understand what he’s saying.
“What was that?” I ask.
“I said, did your old school friend track you down?”
“What old school friend?”
Bernd is already chewing another mouthful and I have to wait for him to finish before he can speak.
“This guy came calling the other day,” says Bernd. “Said he was an old school friend of yours.”
I stop what I’m doing and look at Bernd. “How did he know to come here?”
“He got the address of this place from Herr Pohl at the hotel.”
I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. I don’t like the sound of this. “Did he say what his name was?”
Bernd frowns. “I can’t remember.”
“Come on,” I say, “you must have some idea.”
Bernd stares at the ceiling. “Hmmm, I think he said Robert…or Rudolf…or, no wait a minute, it was Rolf. Yes that’s it, Rolf. He said you were at school together in Prenzlauer Berg. He was so disappointed when I said you weren’t here that I told him where to find you.”
“You what?”
“What’s the matter? I thought you’d be pleased. I…”
“You fucking idiot!”
I throw the jeans aside, push past Bernd and hurry out of the apartment. Then I run towards the nearest U-bahn station. Rolf isn’t someone who wants to get his girlfriend out of East Berlin. He’s a spy.
Sabine
I take the envelope to my bedroom and open it with trembling hands. Frau Lange always unnerves me. Inside the envelope is a folded piece of paper which I take out and read. It’s a short note which looks as if it was scribbled down in a hurry. It gives the name of a café, Gasthof zur schwarzen Katze, The Black Cat, in Ruppiner Strasse where everyone is to meet on the evening of the escape. The date of the escape is still to be confirmed, but, says the letter, it won’t be long now. Then, if everything goes according to plan, we’ll be free: free from Stasi surveillance, free from the risk of being locked up on suspicion of being an Enemy of the State, free to travel anywhere in the world. I can hardly imagine what that will be like.
I must inform my list of contacts of the meeting point and tell them to get ready.
I no longer have my notebook in which to hide the letter. In any case, I know I mustn’t keep the letter longer than necessary. I commit the name and location of the café to memory and then throw the letter into the Kachelofen. I can’t afford to take any more chances, not now the tunnel is almost finished.
Dieter
The tunnel is almost finished and now this has happened! What a fucking disaster. My only hope is that Andreas is still working Rolf hard at the tunnel face. If Rolf has been allowed to take a break then he could have informed the whole of the East German Politburo of our plans by now.
I sprint up Bernauer Strasse feeling as if my lungs are about to burst. When I reach the bakery I nearly go down to the cellar but change my mind and run up the stairs to the kitchen. The black, leather holdall is still by the table where Rolf left it. I yank open the zip and start pulling out items of clothing. Rolf has certainly come prepared to stay a long time – there are dozens of pairs of socks and underwear. Then at the bottom of the bag my hand touches something different. It’s a leather book. I pull it out and recognise it immediately. It’s Sabine’s notebook. I turn to the page where she wrote down the number of the Hotel Zoo and find that the number has been circled in red ink. In the margin an unfamiliar hand has written, traitor’s brother. That’s how Rolf tracked me down to the hotel and then Herr Pohl, still worrying about his staff shortages no doubt, didn’t think twice about giving Rolf my address in Kreuzberg. Bernd, of course, is an idiot.
I throw the book aside and head to the cellar. Werner, Andreas and Rolf are climbing out of the vertical shaft just as I open the cellar door. Claudia is standing at the foot of the stairs with a full bucket of rubble in each hand.
“You did a good shift there,” says Andreas, slapping Rolf on the back.
“Oh, don’t mention it,” says Rolf, all cheery smiles. Then he turns to Werner and asks, almost casually, “When is the escape planned
for?”
Before Werner has a chance to answer I hurtle down the cellar stairs, almost knocking Claudia over, and punch Rolf as hard as I can in the face.
Rolf staggers backwards, blood pouring from his nose. Claudia screams. The back of my hand stings.
“Dieter!” shouts Werner. “Have you lost your mind?”
Claudia drops the buckets and runs over to Rolf, always keen to help the wounded.
“Leave him!” I shout. “He’s a spy.”
Everyone looks at me in stunned silence. “What are you talking about?” asks Claudia. “He was working really hard this morning.” She pulls a bunch of tissues from her pocket and starts dabbing Rolf’s nose.
“He’s not who he says he is,” I say, nursing my knuckles which are smeared with blood. “He’s going to betray us to the Stasi.”
“That’s nonsense,” says Rolf, getting to his feet. “Look, I understand you’re nervous about letting new people in at this stage in the project. It must be a tense time for you, being so close to finishing and all that. I forgive you. Let’s shake hands on it.” He holds out a hand covered in dirt from the tunnel.
“You’re lying,” I say. “Otherwise, how do you explain that you have my sister’s notebook in your bag upstairs and you tracked me down by going to the hotel and then to my old apartment?”
“Is this true?” asks Werner.
Rolf doesn’t answer but makes a run towards the steps.
“Catch him,” I shout. “Don’t let him out or he’ll betray us.”
Andreas is on him like a rocket propelled grenade. He grabs hold of Rolf’s legs and brings him crashing down on the cellar floor but Rolf kicks him in the groin and Andreas rolls over, squealing. Rolf makes it to the steps but Claudia grabs one of the loaded buckets she was carrying earlier.
She runs after him. “Take that!” she cries, swinging the heavy bucket into Rolf’s back. He falls forward onto the steps.
“Grab him!” I shout to Werner. We each take hold of an arm and pin him down flat. Even though there are two of us holding him down, it’s like trying to wrestle a crocodile. I’m worried that he’ll break free of our grasp when Andreas hobbles over and whacks him on the back of the head with a sledgehammer. Rolf is out cold.
For a moment we are all too stunned to speak.
Rolf starts to groan and tries to move. I place my right foot on his back to prevent him getting up.
“What are we going to do with him?” asks Claudia.
I realise with some trepidation that the others are waiting for me to speak. At this precise moment I have become the one in charge.
“We’re going to have to lock him up,” I say. “Until we’ve got our friends and family out of East Berlin. We won’t treat him badly, but we can’t afford to let him go. Not now, when we’re so close.”
Sabine
I decide to visit everyone that very afternoon. I take the U-bahn to Cottbusser Platz and then walk the short distance to Marion Weber’s block of flats where I drop a note into her post box. Then I travel to Pankow-Heinersdorf where I find Ingrid at home reading a story to her niece and nephew. She looks relieved to see me again.
In the evening I go to the Theater am Schiffbauerdamm where I slip, unnoticed, into the stage entrance and take a note directly to Manfred Heilmann in his dressing room. He is now appearing in a production of Brecht’s Caucasian Chalk Circle, another play that satisfies the aesthetic and dramatic criteria of the Communist Party. He offers me a couple of tickets for tomorrow night but I decline his kind offer.
I take the S-bahn back to Schönhauser Allee. I’m looking forward to spending the evening at home with Brigitta and Mother. As I walk down Stargarder Strasse I become aware of the sound of a car engine behind me. I don’t look back but increase my pace a little. The engine gets louder, the car is accelerating. I’m almost at the entrance to our building when a pale green Wartburg pulls up in front of me, its front wheel rising up onto the pavement. Two men jump out. I recognise them immediately.
~~~~
Chapter 8 - Prisoner
Sabine
There’s nowhere for me to hide. I’m less than ten metres from the door to my building, but I can’t reach it.
Herr Stein and his driver are walking towards me, Herr Stein tall and upright, the driver short and stocky. Herr Stein is smiling to himself. He knows he’s got me.
“Guten Tag, Fräulein Neumann,” says Herr Stein. “We have a few questions we need to ask you.”
“What about?” I say trying to sound defiant but just sounding scared.
“If you could step this way.” During this exchange with Herr Stein the driver has come up beside me and taken hold of my arm. He’s gripping it so tightly it hurts.
I fall silent, knowing that arguing won’t help. The driver steers me towards the car. Herr Stein opens the rear door and the driver pushes me inside so that I fall onto the back seat. The door slams. The two men jump into the front and the driver starts the engine. As we pull away from the curb I turn my head to look back at the building. Frau Lange is standing in the doorway, arms folded, watching.
I slump back in the seat and stare at my hands which are trembling. I ball my hands into fists to stop them shaking, the fingernails digging hard into my palms. I can’t believe what’s just happened. This is a disaster. The tunnel will be ready in a matter of days and here I am, arrested in broad daylight, being driven away. The only witness to my predicament is Frau Lange and I don’t expect her to make a friendly call on Mother and Brigitta and pass on the news.
I stare, stupefied, out of the window as first Dimitroffstrasse, then Frankfurter Allee blur past. This time I know where they are taking me – back to Stasi HQ at Normannenstrasse.
The car pulls up outside the familiar complex of buildings which I had hoped never to see again. Herr Stein takes me inside and leads me to an interrogation room.
“Sit down,” he says, indicating the chair in front of the desk.
I feel the anger rising up inside me. I want to pick up the cheap wooden chair and hurl it at the wall.
“Sit!” repeats Herr Stein.
There is no cloth on the chair this time. There’s no need for it. They have already captured my scent should they need to track me down with a sniffer dog. I sit.
I stiffen at the sound of short, sharp footsteps in the corridor. Frau Biedermeier appears. She is even more heavily made up than last time, her eyebrows arching to ever greater heights, her lips a more vicious shade of red. I would have preferred anyone but her. The last time I was here I annoyed her by not agreeing to become an informer for the Stasi. She is not paid to forget things like that.
Frau Biedermeier takes her place at the desk, opposite me. I can hear the blood pumping in my ears. She presses the record button on the tape recorder, then fires her first statement. It’s not a question.
“Fräulein Neumann, you are associated with a West Berlin terrorist organisation.”
A what? I’m tempted to say she must have the wrong person, but I can see from the look on her face she is deadly serious. She stares at me waiting for a response.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Frau Biedermeier is not impressed. “Come on, you can do better than that. You know how long these things take if you don’t co-operate. Does the name Harry Hofmann mean anything to you?”
Oh God, I think, don’t tell me she knows about Harry. I must deny all knowledge of him.
“Well?” she says. “Do you know Harry Hofmann?”
“No.”
“Have you ever met this man?”
“No”
“Have you ever received letters from this man?”
“No.”
“What if I told you that Harry has been arrested?”
“I don’t know who he is.” My head is in a whirl. Harry arrested? Surely not? But if it’s true, what is happening to the tunnel project? I only received his last letter this morning. Frau Lange saw me taki
ng it from our post box. Did she also see him putting it there? Did she contact the Stasi? It’s possible. The thought makes me go cold. Frau Biedermeier has asked me another question but I didn’t hear it.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “What was that?” I must try to concentrate harder or she’ll realise I’m worried about something. She repeats her question.
“Have you ever tried to escape from the German Democratic Republic?”
“Of course not.” It’s a bare-faced lie but I do my best to brazen it out, forcing myself to look her straight in the eye. She looks away first, looking at her list of questions and I experience a tiny victory.
“Where is your brother, Dieter?” My moment of victory vanishes. What do I tell her? I decide she probably already knows where Dieter is so there is no point in lying.
“He’s in West Berlin.”
“Exactly.” She looks pleased with herself. “And he is working with Harry Hofmann.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to bluff my way out. I feel as if she is drawing me into a trap and I have to tread very carefully at each step otherwise she’ll eat me alive.
“What can you tell us about a tunnel that is being built from West Berlin into the capital of the German Democratic Republic?”
My heart skips a beat. She knows about the tunnel. If they really have captured Harry as she claims, has he talked? Has he cracked under pressure and told them everything? He always seemed so strong and resourceful, I find it hard to believe that he would have told them anything, but who knows what trials they have put him through? I have no option but to carry on with my statements of denial.
“I don’t know anything about a tunnel.”
She glances at her list of questions. “You listen to Fascist radio which denigrates the socialist society of the German Democratic Republic.” I was expecting her to pursue the tunnel question, so her statement about the radio takes me by surprise. I think she means the RIAS channel, Radio in the American Sector, which we listen to. Only Frau Lange could have informed them of this. Unless – and my stomach churns at the thought – they’ve secretly bugged the apartment and have been listening in to all our private conversations. Beads of perspiration break out on my upper lip and my palms feel clammy. She prompts me to confirm her statement about our radio listening habits.
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